I first thought of the view of the Conciergerie as a background for my website and posted it with this idea. Then Elena Maria Vidal of Tea at Trianon and other readers, on and off the blog, suggested using it as a header. I tried it, and it worked! As Elena remarks, it fits my first novel, since the heroine of Mistress of the Revolution is jailed there, and the second one, since Roch Miquel, my protagonist in For the King works at the Préfecture de Police, then located at the back of the building (towards the center of picture, to the right of the single round tower).

It is an iconic view of Paris, and it conveys the urban feeling I am seeking. It had changed very little between the Revolution and the time of the painting (1858) and amazingly enough, since then. Only the ramshackle Préfecture has been demolished to make way for a more stately building. Look at this modern view:

The medieval origin of the building is obvious from the architecture of the towers. Indeed in the Middle Ages, this was the royal palace, the Palais de la Cité, after the island of the same name in the middle of the Seine River. It was home to King Louis IX, later Saint-Louis, who had the jewel-like Sainte-Chapelle built within its grounds.

It was also the seat of his grandson King Philippe IV le Bel, who put an end to the worldly (but not literary) existence of the Friar Templars. We owe Philippe the magnificent Salle des Gens d'Armes (Hall of the Men in Arms), one of the most impressive examples of lay Gothic architecture still in existence (left.)

But in the course of the 14th century, French Kings abandoned the Palace of the Cité, which, though no longer a royal residence, retained administrative functions, such as the Treasury. It became the seat of the Parliament of Paris, the highest court of justice in and around Paris until the Revolution.

The Parliament was abolished in short order, and the Revolutionary Tribunal settled in its former courtrooms. Thus it was convenient to transfer prisoners whose trial before the Tribunal was imminent to La Conciergerie beneath.

Men and women were housed separately, and those who could afford it were offered individual cells with modest furniture and the option of ordering catered meals. The rest of the prisoners made do with the dismal prison fare and the pailleux (collective cells with straw on the floor). In particular the Hall of the Men in Arms became a huge cage holding over a hundred male prisoners.

Women were housed around a yard with a fountain (visible on this picture to the right, behind the gates) where they could do a bit of toilette and wash any spare clothes. The women's cells were left open during the day, allowing them the use of the yard, and communication through a gated corridor with the men's quarters. All people could do was hold hands through the bars, but, as I note in Mistress, romances were brisk in this grim setting.

Marie-Antoinette herself spent the last months of her life at La Conciergerie. She was isolated from the other inmates, but the most amazing thing is that an escape attempt almost succeeded, and she was caught only after she had already left the prison, and was walking out of the courthouse. Security procedures were then severely tightened and she was kept to a cell with a high window opening onto the floor of the Women's Yard, under constant surveillance.

Likewise all the revolutionary leaders who ended on the guillotine transited through La Conciergerie: Danton, Desmoulins, Hébert, Chaumette, Robespierre, Couthon, Saint-Just, Coffinhal and other Jacobins.

Today La Conciergerie is open to the public. The Hall of the Men in Arms has lost nothing of its medieval splendor, the Women's Yard has barely changed since the French Revolution, and one can still follow the steps of the prisoners on their way to the guillotine. We don't know which cells precisely housed Marie-Antoinette, but a memorial chapel was built during the Restoration.

The rest of the former royal palace is now the Palais de Justice, the main courthouse of Paris, housing the Superior Court, Court of Appeal and Supreme Court. One can (I should say must) also visit, through a different entrance, Louis IX's Sainte-Chapelle. A place where history comes to life...

        

First things first: I owe all of you who offered suggestions, via comment or email, in response to my call for help on website redesign many, many thanks. It is easy to run away with one's ideas, something for which an open, constructive conversation provides a wonderful cure. Based on your advice, I will now go to work with my designer on this all important project. But this is only a small part of the promotion of For the King.

As you probably know, many traditional media have cut down on their book review sections (sad, it was always the first section I read in my Sunday paper). Fortunately for writers and readers alike, literary bloggers have stepped in. We now have many more outlets, run, often without any expectation of profit, by people who are passionate about books. This means that the traditional "brick-and-mortar" book tour is becoming a thing of the past, and that much of the work of book promotion is shifting towards blog tours and online reviews.

And this is where I am right now, not touring yet, because For the King will not be published until July, but beginning to organize my blog tour. Fellow writers will know precisely what I mean. Robin Maxwell just wrote an article in the Huffington Post on this topic: Publishing Revolution: Historical Fiction Evolves in Digital Age.

This is definitely turning into a catch-all post, but why not? I received my copies of the German edition of Mistress of the Revolution, titled Die Braut des Jakobiners, The Jacobin's Bride. Why the change in title? It simply sounded better in German, and I was told the term Jacobin was very evocative of the French Revolution for the German public. In any case, I do like the cover. A beautiful Liotard, La belle lectrice (The Fair Reader). One of these days we will have to come back to Liotard, a gifted 18th century Swiss pastellist with an amazing sense of color.

And speaking of foreign rights, Artemis, a Turkish publisher with a growing list of English-speaking authors, has purchased the rights to both Mistress of the Revolution and For the King. Either one would have made me happy, but this two-book deal is still better. I am anxious to see those covers...

Finally, you may have noticed changes in the design of this blog. No, your eyes are not deceiving you. My old template was discontinued by GoDaddy, which made this switch unavoidable. This is actually my first post under this template. It has some drawbacks, in particular it is less customizable. I also believe the post titles stand out less, but the general feel may be cleaner, less cluttered. What do you think? 

        

It is time for me to update my website, catherinedelors.com for the July release of my new novel, For the King. For the content I will include, as I had done for Mistress of the Revolution, an excerpt, a bibliography, a Q&A session and a book club section. That's the easy part. Now, about the design?

I love the deep red background wallpaper I had chosen for Mistress, which you can also see on this blog, but it clashes with the cover of For the King, which its shimmering turquoise gown. Also, as much as I like the visuals of this cover, it doesn't scream "historical thriller." So why not use the wallpaper of the redesigned website to convey an urban noir feel?

Easier said (or written) than done. So I went to the sites of authors of historical thrillers I enjoy. I visited the site of Louis Bayard, author of The Black Tower, also set in Paris, very close in time to my own For the King. Plain black background. You can't get more noir than that, can you? It is simple and striking, but Louis has a lot of red in the rest of the page design to liven it up. And again red won't go with my cover. I don't think this kind of background would work for me.

So I moved on to the site of David Liss, author of Conspiracy of Paper and other acclaimed novels in the Benjamin Weaver series. Historical thrillers/mysteries all right, and though his 17th century London is not my 1800 Paris, it is close enough to give me ideas. It turns out that the colors of Mr. Liss's background (brown and old gold) fit the cover of For the King AND convey the somber mood I would like to impart. Do you agree?

Now, dear readers, I need your help. Should I, like David Liss, use brown without any pattern (except for the goldish squiggly on top, which I like) or should I go for a figurative background? A few suggestions: an 18th century printed or handwritten document? an image of the Rue Nicaise attack, the starting point of the novel? an image of Paris at the time, like this view of the Conciergerie?

Any other ideas? I am listening...

        

I had long wanted to post on this extremely interesting figure, who makes a cameo appearance in my first novel, Mistress of the Revolution. Then a discussion began at Ellen's Eighteenth Century Worlds on the topic of Grace Elliott and her Journal of my life during the French Revolution. Ellen kindly summarized the discussions in a post at Reveries under the sign of Austen.

Lady Elliott is often remembered both as the author of the Journal, and as the mistress of the Prince of Wales, later Prince Regent and King George IV. She even registered her daughter at birth as the Prince's illegitimate child. The latter did not dare deny officially his paternity, though he was not utterly convinced (neither was public opinion, for that matter).

Grace later moved to France in the 1780s as the mistress of the Duc d'Orléans, future Philippe Egalité, who later voted for the execution of his cousin Louis XVI. Thus she was a direct witness to many major events of the Revolution. She was already quite familiar with the country, as she had been educated there in a convent school.

Ellen mentions a biography of Grace Elliott by Jo Manning, titled My Lady Scandalous: The Amazing Life and Outrageous Times of Grace Dalrymple Elliott, Royal Courtesan. I haven't read it, but I did read Lady Elliott's Journal. The context of its writing is interesting: Lady Elliott was recounting (with substantial embellishments and omissions, as we will discuss later) her adventures in revolutionary France to the English royal family in 1801. Then she wrote down those narratives upon the request of King George III, who must have found them interesting and entertaining. Which they no doubt are. They were apparently not meant for publication. The style of the Journal is consistent with a quickly jotted down verbal narrative, without much writerly self-editing.

Grace tailored the story of her life to fit her audience. Some things in the Journal are obvious lies (such as Marie-Antoinette trusting and befriending her, the mistress and confidante of her arch-enemy the Duc d'Orléans) though some do ring true (her arrests, for instance). Some of the prison scenes were not lived by Grace herself, but were transposed from the experiences of two of her friends. So this is a hybrid between a memoir and fiction.

I suspect Lady Elliott's politics during the Revolution were in fact much closer to those of the Duc d'Orléans, which is to say radical, than she cared to admit to her royal listeners across the Channel a decade later. She was also careful to leave out the fact that she was a British spy, though one can guess at it from the Journal, for instance when her correspondence with Fox is discovered and leads to her arrest and subsequent release.

The text of Grace's Journal was further "arranged" by her granddaughter when it was ultimately published in England in 1859. As early as 1861 it was translated in French, with multiple following French editions. Fresh from our group reading of the Memoir of Jane Austen, by her nephew James Edward Austen Leigh, I suspect a Victorian bowdlerization of the life and writings of a Georgian ancestor. 

Grace Elliott's life during the French Revolution was also the topic of a remarkable film, released in the US under the title The Lady and the Duke, by the recently deceased and deeply regretted French director Eric Rohmer. This film shows Grace as far more than a royal courtesan, which is as it should be, though in my opinion it takes her Journal too much at face value. It remains one of the best renditions of the French Revolution on screen, and deserves its own post at a later time.



Note: Both portraits reproduced here are by Thomas Gainborough, both were painted around 1778, and both are now in New York City, the full-length one at the Met, the one just above at the Frick Collection.

        

Linda B. Congratulations!

Everyone else, I will have other giveaways soon. Stay tuned...

        

For decades I read and reread Jane Austen's novels and yet refused to touch any biographies or scholarly analysis of her works. Why? I guess I wanted to preserve an unmitigated access to her. She was to remain my Jane Austen. How wrong I was!

I have come full circle and joined online lists. I have read much lately about Jane Austen, though a tiny fraction of what has been published about her (reviews to follow soon).

Now I know that some day I too will write a book about her. It won't be a "sequel", any more than I would dare write a sequel to Shakespeare's or Flaubert's works. But it will be a homage of some kind, a token of my admiration and affection.  

Among the biographies, the earliest was that, published in 1870, by James Edward Austen-Leigh, the son of Jane Austen's eldest brother James. It is widely available online and was written by someone who was Jane's nephew and knew her personally. At the same time, it very much bowdlerizes her to conform to Victorian standards, sweeps embarrassing truths under the carpet and sometimes fiddles with her letters. It is an indispensable, if flawed, source.

We had a group read of the Memoir at McGill University's Austen-L, Janeites, Women Writers Across the Ages and sometimes Eighteenth Century Worlds. Ellen, owner of the last two lists, has put together a beautifully illustrated post recapping the discussions. Enjoy!

The illustration is the mysterious portrait of Jane Austen with her back turned, by her elder sister Cassandra.

        

As usual on this blog, I will strive to recount this dramatic event through the testimony of eyewitnesses.

Let us simply remember that, following the storming of the royal palace of the Tuileries on the 10th of August 1792, Louis XVI and his family (Marie-Antoinette, their two children, Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte and Louis-Charles, and his sister Madame Elisabeth) were jailed in the medieval tower of the Temple.

Then, in December of 1792, the trial of the deposed King had commenced before the National Convention, the newly elected legislative body. The votes were tallied, counted and recounted for days, and it seemed that, though the guilty verdict on the counts of treason was a foregone conclusion, the King might receive a stay of the death sentence. Yet in the end by an extremely narrow margin (some say one single ballot) the Convention voted in favor of the immediate execution of Louis XVI. What happened next?

First we will listen to Madame Royale, the King's daughter, then fourteen:

About seven in the evening [of the 20th] we learned of the sentence by the newspapermen, who came shouting it under our windows: a decree of the Convention allowed us to see the King. We ran to his apartment, and found him much altered; he wept for us, not for fear of death; he related his trial to my mother, apologizing for the wretches who had condemned him; he told her that it was proposed to attempt to save him by appealing to the people, but that he would not consent, lest it should excite unrest in the country. He then gave my brother some religious advice, and desired him, above all, to forgive those who caused his death and he gave him his blessing, as well as to me. My mother was very desirous that the whole family should pass the night with my father; but he opposed this, observing to her how much he needed a few hours of repose and quiet. She asked at least to be allowed to see him next morning, to which he consented.

Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte's account may seem cold, but it is typical of her terse, unsentimental style of narration. In fact, the young girl was devoted to her father and utterly devastated, as the account of Jean-Baptiste Cléry, the King's valet at the Temple, makes clear:

The commissioner who was sent to fetch the royal family was absent a quarter of an hour; during which time the King went back to his cabinet, returning several times to the entrance-door, with signs of the deepest emotion. At half-past eight the door opened; the Queen appeared first, holding her son by the hand; then Madame Royale and Madame Elisabeth; they ran to the arms of the King.

A gloomy silence reigned for several minutes, interrupted only by sobs. The Queen made a movement to draw the King into his room. "No," he said "let us go into the dining-room, I may see you only there." They went there, and I closed the door, which was made of glass, behind them.

The King sat down, the Queen on his left, Madame Elisabeth on his right, Madame Royale nearly opposite to him, and the little prince between his knees. All were bending towards him and held him half-embraced. This scene of sorrow lasted seven quarters of an hour, during which it was impossible to hear anything; we could see only that after each sentence of the King the sobs of the princesses redoubled, lasting some minutes; then the King would resume what he was saying. It was easy to judge from their motions that the King himself was the first to tell them of his condemnation.

At a quarter past ten the King rose first; they all followed him; I opened the door; the Queen held the King by the right arm; Their Majesties each gave a hand to the Dauphin; Madame Royale on the left clasped the King's body; Madame Elisabeth, on the same side but a little behind the rest, had caught the left arm of her brother. They made a few steps towards the entrance, uttering the most sorrowful moans.

"I assure you," said the King, "that I will see you tomorrow at eight o'clock."
"You promise?" they all cried.
"Yes, I promise."
"Why not at seven o'clock?" said the Queen.
"Well, then, yes, at seven o'clock," replied the King. "Adieu–"



He uttered that "adieu" in so expressive a manner that the sobs redoubled. Madame Royale fell fainting at the King's feet, which she clasped; I raised her and helped Madame Elisabeth to hold her. The King, wishing to put an end to this heart-breaking scene, gave them all a most tender embrace, and then had the strength to tear himself from their arms.

"Adieu–adieu," he said, and re-entered his chamber.

The princesses went up to theirs. I wished to go too to carry Madame Royale; the municipal guards stopped me on the second stair and forced me to go back. Though the two doors were shut, we continued to hear the sobs and moans of the princesses on the staircase.

The King rejoined his confessor [the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont, whose account we shall follow later] in the tourelle. Half an hour later he came out and I served the supper. The King ate little, but with appetite. After supper, His Majesty having returned to his cabinet in the tourelle, his confessor came out an instant later and asked the commissioners to take him to the council-room. This was for the purpose of obtaining the sacerdotal robes, and other things necessary to say mass on the following morning. Monsieur de Firmont obtained with difficulty the granting of this request. It was to the Church of the Capuchins in the Marais, near the Soubise Mansion, which had lately been turned into a parish church, that they sent for the items required for divine service.

Returning from the council-room, Monsieur de Firmont went back to the King. They both re-entered the tourelle, where they remained until half an hour after midnight. Then I undressed the King, and as I was about to roll his hair, he said to me, "It is not necessary." When I closed the curtains after he was in bed, he said, "Cléry, wake me at five o'clock." He was hardly in bed before a deep sleep took possession of his senses; he slept until five o'clock without waking.

Monsieur de Firmont, whom His Majesty had urged to take a little rest, threw himself on my bed, and I passed the night on a chair in the King's room, praying God to preserve both his strength and his courage. I heard five o'clock strike on the city clocks and I lit the fire. At the noise I made, the King awoke and said, opening his curtain, "Is it five o'clock?"
"Sire, it has struck five on several of the city clocks, but not here."

The fire being lighted I went to his bedside.
"I have slept well," he said; "I needed it, for yesterday tired me very much. Where is Monsieur de Firmont?"
"On my bed."
"And you, where did you sleep?"
"In this chair."
"I am sorry," said the King.
"Ah Sire!" I exclaimed, "how can I think of myself at such a moment?"

He held out his hand to me and pressed mine with affection. I dressed the King and did his hair; while dressing, he took from his watch a seal, put it in the pocket of his waistcoat, and laid the watch upon the mantel piece; then, taking from his finger a ring, which he looked at many times, he put it in the same pocket where the seal was. He changed his shirt, put on a white waistcoat which he had worn the night before, and I helped him on with his coat. He took from his pockets his portfolio, his eye-glass, his snuff-box, and some other articles; he laid them with his purse on the mantel piece; all this in silence and before the municipal guards. His toilet completed, the King told me to inform Monsieur de Firmont. I went to call him; he was already up, and he followed His Majesty into the tourelle.

I then placed a bureau in the middle of the room and prepared it, like an altar, for mass. At two o'clock in the morning all the necessary articles had been brought. I took into my own room the priest's cassock, and then, when everything was ready, I went to inform the King. He asked me if I could serve the mass. I answered yes, but that I did not know all the responses by heart. He had a book in his hand which he opened, found the place of the mass, and gave it to me, taking another book for himself. During this time the priest robed himself. I had placed an armchair before the altar and a large cushion on the floor for His Majesty. The King made me take away the cushion, and went himself into his cabinet to fetch another, smaller and covered with horsehair, which he used daily to say his prayers.

As soon as the priest entered, the municipal guards retired into the antechamber, and I half closed the door. Mass began at six o'clock. During this august ceremony a great silence reigned. The King, always on his knees, listened to the mass with deep attention, in a most noble attitude. His Majesty received the communion. After mass, he went into his cabinet, and the priest into my room to remove his sacerdotal vestments.

I seized that moment to enter the King's cabinet. He took me by both hands and said in a touching voice:
"Cléry, I am satisfied with your services."
"Ah, Sire!" I cried, throwing myself at his feet. "Why can I not die to satisfy your murderers and save a life so precious to good Frenchmen! Hope, Sire,–they will not dare strike you."
"Death does not alarm me," he replied. "I am quite prepared; but you," he continued, "do not expose yourself; I shall ask that you be kept near my son; give him all your care in this dreadful place; remind him, tell him often, how I have grieved for the misfortunes he must bear: some day he may be able to reward your zeal."
"Ah! my master, my King, if the most absolute devotion, if my zeal and my care have been agreeable to you, the only reward I ask is to receive your blessing–do not refuse it to the last Frenchman who remains beside you."
I was already at his feet, holding one of his hands; in that position he granted my prayer and gave me his blessing; then he raised me, and pressing me to his bosom said:
"Give it also to all who are attached to me; tell Turgy [another valet] I am satisfied of his services. Now, go back," he added; "and do not get into trouble yourself."
Then, calling me back and taking a paper from the table, he said, "See, here is a letter Pétion [then Mayor of Paris] wrote me at the time of your entrance to the Temple. It may be useful to you to remain here."
I caught his hand again and kissed it, and went out.
"Adieu," he said to me again, "Adieu."

I returned to my chamber, where I found Monsieur de Firmont praying on his knees beside my bed.
"What a prince!" he said to me as he rose; "With what resignation, with what courage he looks at death! He was as tranquil as if he were hearing mass in his palace in the midst of his Court."
"I have just received from him the most affecting farewell," I said to him. "He has deigned to promise me that he will ask to have me remain in the Tower to wait on his son. Monsieur, I beg of you to remind him, for I shall not have the happiness to speak to him in private again."
"Rest easy about that," replied M. de Firmont as he turned to rejoin His Majesty.

At seven o'clock the King came out of his cabinet and called me; he took me to the window and said: "You will give this seal to my son–and this ring to the Queen; tell her that I part from it with pain and only at the last moment. This little packet encloses the hair of all my family; you will give her that also. Say to the Queen, to my dear children, to my sister, that although I promised to see them this morning, I wish to spare them the pain of so cruel a separation. How much it costs me to go without receiving their last embraces!"

He wiped away a few tears; then he added, with a most sorrowful accent, "I charge you to give them my farewell." He immediately re-entered his cabinet. The municipal guards who were close at hand had heard His Majesty, and had seen him give me the different items I still held in my hands. They told me to surrender them; but one of them proposed to leave them in my hands pending a decision of the [Municipal] Council about them, and this opinion prevailed.

A quarter of an hour later the King came out of his cabinet.
"Ask," he said to me, "if I can have scissors;" and he went in again.
I made the request of the commissioners.
"Do you know what he wants to do with them?"
I said I did not.
"You must let us know."
I knocked at the door of the cabinet. The King came out. A municipal guard who followed me said to him:
"You have asked for scissors, but before we take your request to the Council we must know what you wish to do with them."
His Majesty replied, "I wish Cléry to cut my hair."

The municipal guards retired; one of them went down to the Council chamber, where, after half an hour's deliberation, they refused the scissors. The municipal guards returned and announced that decision to the King.
"I should not have touched the scissors," said His Majesty; "I should have requested Cléry to cut my hair in your presence; inquire again, Monsieur; I beg you to take charge of my request."
The municipal guard returned to the council, which persisted in its refusal. It was then that I was told to be ready to accompany the King and undress him on the scaffold. At this announcement I was seized with terror but, collecting all my strength I was prepared to render this last duty to my master, to whom having this service done by the executioner would be repugnant, when another municipal came to tell me that I was not to go, adding, "The executioner is good enough for him."

Paris was in arms from five in the morning; nothing was heard outside but the beating of drums, the rattle of arms, the trampling of horses, the movement of cannon, which they placed and displaced incessantly. All this echoed through the Tower [of the Temple]. At nine o'clock the noise increased, the gates opened with a crash; Santerre [Commander of the National Guard] accompanied by seven or eight municipal guards, entered at the head of ten gendarmes, whom he placed in two rows. At this disturbance the King came out of his cabinet.
"Have you come to fetch me?" he said to Santerre
"Yes."
"I ask you for one minute."

The King entered his cabinet and came out again immediately, his confessor with him. He held his will in his hand, and, addressing a municipal guard, Jacques Roux by name, a priest who had taken the oath, and was the man nearest to him, he said:
"I beg you to give this paper to the Queen, to my wife."
"It is none of my business," replied the priest, refusing to take the document. "I am here to take you to the scaffold."
His Majesty then addressed Gobau, another municipal guard.
"Give this paper, I beg you, to my wife. You can read it; it contains dispositions which I desire that the Municipality should know."

Gobau took the document. I was behind the King, near the fireplace; he turned to me and I offered him his overcoat.
"I have no need of it," he said, "just give me my hat."
I gave it to him. His hand touched mine, which he pressed for the last time.
"Messieurs," he said, addressing the municipal guards, "I desire that Cléry should remain near my son, who is accustomed to him; I hope that the Municipality will accede to my request."

Then, looking at Santerre, he said, "Let us go." Those were the last words that he said in his apartment. At the top of the staircase he met Mathey, porter of the Tower, and said to him:
"I was a little hasty to you the day before yesterday; do not bear me ill-will."
Mathey made no answer; he even affected to turn away when the King spoke to him. I remained alone in the room, my heart wrung with sorrow, and almost without sensation. The drums and the trumpets announced that His Majesty had left the Tower.

From now on, we will switch to the narrative of the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont, the confessor mentioned by Cléry. The Abbé was an Irish priest who attended to the English and Irish Catholic communities in Paris. He had been recommended to Louis XVI by Madame Elisabeth. The Abbé would no doubt have had much more to say about Louis XVI's last thoughts, but he was bound by the seal of confession. Here he recounts the long ride to the guillotine:

The King crossed the first courtyard (formerly the garden) on foot; he turned around once or twice to look back, as though to bid farewell to all he held most dear in this world, and by watching his movement, one could see he was summoning his strength and courage.

At the entrance to the second courtyard stood a carriage; two gendarmes held the door open. As the King approached, one of them stepped in and placed himself in front, the King stepped in next and sat with me on the back seat. The other gendarme jumped in last and closed the door...

The King, finding himself closeted in a carriage where he could neither speak to me nor hear me without witnesses, resolved to keep silent. I lent him forthwith my prayer book, the only book I carried with me. He seemed to receive it with pleasure, and even asked me to point out the psalms most appropriate to his situation: he recited them alternatively with me. The gendarmes, without opening their mouths, seemed mesmerized and puzzled at the same time by the tranquil piety of a monarch they had probably never seen so close.

The ride lasted almost two hours. All of the streets were lined with several rows of citizens armed, some with pikes, some with rifles. In addition, the carriage itself was surrounded by an imposing number of troops, composed no doubt by what was most corrupted in Paris. As a last precaution were placed, in front of the horses, a number of drummers, to drown out any cries that might have been heard in favor of the King. But how could one have been heard? No one appeared at the doors or windows, and one could only see on the streets the armed citizens, who, at least out of weakness, were complicit to a crime they may have detested from the bottom of their hearts.

The carriage reached, in the utmost silence, the Place Louis XV [modern-day Place de la Concorde] and stopped in the middle of a vast space left empty around the scaffold: this space was surrounded by cannons, and beyond, as far as the eye could see, was a multitude in arms.

As soon as the King felt the carriage had stopped, he turned around and whispered to my ear, "We have reached the place, if I am not mistaken." My silence answered in the affirmative. Right away one of the executioners came to open the door; but the King stopped them, resting his hand on my knee.
"Gentlemen," he said in a masterly tone, "I commend this gentleman to your attention; take care that, after my death, no insult be made to him; I entrust him to you."
The two men answering nothing, the King wished to continue in a louder tone, but one of them interrupted him, "Yes, yes, we will take care of him, leave it to us," and I must add these words were uttered in a tone that should have turned me to ice, had I been able to think of my own fate.

As soon as the King had stepped out of the carriage, three executioners surrounded him and tried to remove his clothes; but he proudly pushed them back and removed them himself. He also took off his collar, his shirt and prepared himself. The executioners, whom the King's proud countenance had taken aback for a moment, then resumed their audacity; they surrounded him again and tried to tie his hands...
"Bind me!" said the King indignantly. "No, I will never consent to that. Do what you are bid, but you shall not bind me; give up this plan."
The executioners insisted; they raised their voices, and seemed ready to call for help to do it perforce.

This was the most horrible moment of this lamentable morning: one more minute, and the best of Kings would have received, under the eyes of his rebellious subjects, an outrage a thousand times worse than death itself, due the violence one wanted to use. He seemed to fear it himself and, turning to me, seemed to be asking for my advice. Alas! It was impossible for me to give him any; at first silence was my only response, but as he kept on looking at me, "Sire," said I in tears, in this new outrage I see but one last similarity between Your Majesty and the Lord who will be his reward."

At these words, he raised his eyes skywards with an expression of pain I could not begin to describe. "Assuredly," he said, "I need nothing less than his example to submit to such an affront. Then, turning to the executioners, "Do as you wish. I will drink this cup to the dregs."

The steps that led to the scaffold were very steep. The King had to lean on my arm and, from the trouble he seemed to be experiencing, I feared his courage would abandon him; but, to my astonishment, once he reached the last step, he escaped my hands, crossed with a firm step the whole width of the scaffold, silenced, with one look, fifteen or twenty drummers facing him, and, in a voice so strong it could be heard from the Pont-Tournant, distinctly uttered these memorable words:
"I die innocent of all the crimes of which I stand accused. I forgive the authors of my death and pray God that the blood you are going to shed may never fall back onto France."

The published narrative of the Abbé de Firmont stops here. In my opinion, these three accounts, different as they are, need little comment. How telling that Madame Royale, who fainted during father's adieux, chose not to speak of it when she recounted what must have been one of the most traumatic moments of her life. Some have tried to embellish on the narrative of the Abbé Edgeworth by having him say, "Son of Saint-Louis, ascend to heaven!" but he himself candidly admitted he did not remember uttering any such words.

The rest is known: Marie-Antoinette was guillotined later during the same year, on the 16th of October. Then it was the turn of Madame Elisabeth the following year. The young Louis-Charles, now Louis XVII, died of tuberculosis, aggravated by ill treatments, in the grim tower of the Temple in 1795. But Madame Royale, Cléry and the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont all survived the Revolution. Needless to say, Cléry and the Abbé had put their lives at risk for their attendance during the King's last moments.

And the mementos mentioned by Cléry were stolen at the Temple, apparently at the behest of Marie-Antoinette, and ultimately found their way into the hands of Louis XVI's brothers.

        

A few years before the Civil War, in the "free" state of Ohio,Tawawa House offers respite from the summer heat. A beautiful, inviting house surrounded by a dozen private cottages, the resort is favored by wealthy Southern White men who vacation there, accompanied by their enslaved mistresses.

Regular visitors Lizzie, Reenie, andSweet have forged an enduring friendship. They look forward to their annual reunion and the opportunity it affords them to talk over the changes in their lives and their respective plantations. The subject of freedom is never spoken aloud until the red-maned, spirited Mawu arrives and voices her determination to escape. To run is to leave behind children,families and friends trapped at home. For some, it also means tearing the strong emotional and psychological ties that bind them to their masters.

When a fire at the resort sets off astring of tragedies, Lizzie, Reenie and Sweet soon learn tragic lessons,that triumph and dehumanization are inseparable and that love exists even in the cruelest circumstances as they bear witness to the end of an era.

What do you think of this premise? I was immediately drawn to Wench, and, once I began reading it, could not put it down. Now the author, Dolen Perkins-Valdez, kindly agreed to be interviewed for Versailles and more, and she is offering a free copy to one of its readers!

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Welcome to Versailles and more, Dolen. Wench is a powerful, provocative title. How did it come to you? Did you think of alernative titles?

Excellent question. It's one that I'm sure lots of people have a curiosity about. My original title during the "unpublished manuscript" phase was "The Women of Tawawa House." I liked that title as well. It was fine. Yet as I continued to think about the novel and tinker with my drafts, I began to think more of this word, particularly as it was applied to African American women during this period.  Many of the reward posters seeking runaway slave women referred to the escapees as wenches.  There was a terrible stereotype that arose from this period that regarded black women as hypersexualized.  This stereotype had an earlier counterpart in the travel journals of Europeans who traveled in Africa and, after observing bare-breasted African women who lived in villages, came to the startling conclusion that Black women were more sexual than White women.  Originally, the word "wench" in the Middle English meant simply a young girl. It evolved to mean a sexually loose woman.  It was only after the word entered American usage that it became specifically attached to Black women. I felt that given the sexual servitude of my female characters, this word would most accurately evokes the set of cultural expectations they were entangled within.

This is your first novel. How did the idea for this book arise?

I was reading a biography of W.E.B. Du Bois and, during a section about his tenure at Wilberforce University, came across a stunning line about the existence of a summer resort in Ohio that was popular among slaveholders and their enslaved mistresses. I could not get this idea out of my head. I had so many questions. I began to delve into the archives, and found very little. These women left no record behind. Neither did the men, as far as I could tell. I know that you have read Annette Gordon-Reed's brilliant historical book The Hemingses of Monticello, and one factor that allows her to write so vividly about Thomas Jefferson's relationship with Sally Hemings was the fact that Jefferson was a meticulous record-keeper and also that he was such a prominent national figure. Well, there were many instances of relationships between slaveholders and their enslaved women that escaped the public eye. In fact, I would venture so far as to say that this was not an unusual arrangement, except there are no records because not every slaveholder was a meticulous record-keeper and not every slaveholder was famous. I wanted to write this book to answer my own questions of what it would have been like for these women.

Tawawa, where the story takes place, no longer exists. Yet in this book you manage to bring back to life this odd setting, so close to freedom for Lizzie, your heroine, and her friends, and yet a place of enslavement. How did you recreate it?

There is a sketched broadside of the actual resort that I found at the Ohio Historical Society. It is actually quite large—poster-sized—and very detailed. In the newspaper advertisements for the resort, I was able to determine how people traveled there (via steamboat and railroad), and there are topographical descriptions that helped me to re-create the physical setting. Although there were no personal accounts of slaves who traveled there, there was definitely information about the place itself. I merged that detailed research with my own knowledge of nineteenth-century slave narratives as well as early fictionalized accounts of Black women's experiences such as Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Harriet Jacobs. I wanted to provide another account of the Black female slave experience, but I did not want it to be altogether disconnected from earlier accounts.

I am not a slave, not African-American, and yet in some ways Lizzie’s story felt very close to my own experience. Would you call her relationship with Drayle, her master/owner, love?

I want to mention that Fran, the White wife of Drayle, also finds herself in a delicate situation. I hope that the novel points out the ways in which all women in the South were affected by slavery.  Many women readers, especially Southern women, may find that this book feels very close to their experiences.  As for whether or not Lizzie and Drayle love each other, I am not sure. Certainly, we can say there is genuine affection between them. But was it love? I think this is a great question for book clubs. I can't answer it. If I say to you that the concept of love must be taken in the context of the period, then you could possibly answer that any concept of "love" must be contextualized. So there is no easy answer for that.  All I can say is that their relationship is a complicated one. And, believe it or not, as I wrote the novel I felt sympathy for Drayle as well.

Some of Lizzie’s friends and fellow slaves at Tawawa were clearly raped. In the context of master/slave relationships, where does seduction stop, and rape begin?

Very good question. I don't know the answer to that. Lizzie is first taken by her master when she is 13 years old, and there is a clear seduction there. These are such imbalanced power dynamics. It is question for experts, I think, and I'm no expert.

What moves you most about Lizzie?

What makes my heart break for her is that despite her exceptional intelligence, she has such difficulty emotionally extricating herself from her situation.

The story takes place during the 1850s, tantalizing close to the Civil War. I very much wanted to follow Lizzie and her children further. Will you write a sequel?

I don't think so. I feel that one can take refuge in knowing that the Civil War is coming and that Lizzie and her children will see freedom.

What authors influenced you?

I am influenced by so much more than fiction, but the great novels that changed my life (dramatic, I know, but true) include Toni Morrison's Beloved, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, Gayl Jones' The Healing, and Edward P.Jones' All Aunt Hagar's Children.

What can you tell us about your next projects?

AllI can say is that I am still waiting for inspiration for the next literary project. I won't begin something until I feel extremely compelled because I know that it will take quite some time to finish!! Stay tuned.

Many thanks for visiting with us, Dolen, and best wishes with this wonderful debut!

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Giveaway rules: Simply leave a comment with the word "giveaway" under this post. Please note that the free copy of Wench can only be shipped to a US or Canada address.  Ends on January 24, 2010, at midnight PST.

FTC Warning: The perks bloggers like me rake in as a result of our online efforts are so huge, so outrageous as to have come to the attention of the Federal Trade Commission. Now this august body requires a complete disclosure of the relationship between any blogger who reviews books, films, diapers, baby food, fishing tackle, etc. and the provider of such goods, under penalty of a five-figure fine. So I hereby disclose that (1) I received a free galley of Wench, (2) Dolen and I share the same agent, the great Stephanie Cabot of The Gernert Company.

        

I won't have time to do justice to this remarkable exhibition at the V&A, but wanted to mention it before it closes a few days hence. The visual splendor of the objects, paintings, jewels and textiles presented matches the historical interest of the show. It follows the course of India, from the decline of the Mughal empire, in the early 18th century, during the British Raj and to this day.

The Maharajas, descendants of local Mughal governors or self-made warlords, Hindu or Muslim, briefly governed large swaths of Indian territory. Some, like Tipu Sahib, Sultan of Mysore in the South, sought an alliance with the French before and during the Revolution to drive the British out.

But the Honourable East India Company, with its own army and tax collectors, proved to have an unshakable foothold in the country. Tipu Sahib and other resisting rulers were defeated and killed, though their descendants were often nominally kept in power, provided of course they collaborated with the East India Company.

It was not until the second half of the 19th century that India became officially a British possession. It would remain so until its independence and partition between modern-day India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. But even under direct British rule, the Maharajas retained their crowns. Yet the exhibition notes how many of these "rulers" were children, whose stronger-minded relatives had been deposed.

Yet in the midst of colonial rule, whether that of the East India Company or the British government, traditional pageantry was preserved, symbols of power were retained, astonishing jewels were collected (by comparison the Crown Jewels displayed at the Tower of London look downright shabby.)

Yet the Maharajas were educated at the foremost English schools and universities, their portraits were painted by European artists, they adopted a Western lifestyle in Europe, patronizing Rolls Royce, Cartier and the French haute couture houses.

This contrast creates a sense of wonder and fascination, but also of sadness at the culture shock, at the weight of history. I noticed that visitors lingered in the last hall, as though reluctant to leave.

This will close very soon, but it will reopen in Munich, at the Kunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung (where, by the way, there is currently an Alphonse Mucha exhibition) from February 12 to May 23, 2010. And if you cannot see this exhibition, you may look at these videos.


At the Victoria & Albert Museum, until January 17, 2010

        

This is another Paris street scene by our friend Louis-Leopold Boilly. As always, the artist has much to tell us beyond the depiction of an everyday incident. This takes place in 1803, when the streets of Paris were still mostly unpaved. Any rain shower turned them into torrents of mud.

But there the poorest of the poor, the gagne-deniers, "penny earners" saw a business opportunity, like the man to the left of the painting. He owns the wheeled plank that will allow this well-to-do family to cross while keeping their dainty shoes and white silk stockings immaculate. Of course, the man, in his patched jacket, brogues and leather leggings (his clothing at least has nothing to fear from the rain) expects a tip for providing this convenience.

This is the moment seized by Boilly. The maid is entrusted with the payment, for the elegant bourgeois does not want to get his fingers dirty by putting a coin in the pauper's palm. However the payment must be deemed insufficient, for the proprietor of the plank extends a supplicating hand towards the other man, who makes a gesture of refusal.

Even within the family the power relationships are clear: the little boy, switch in hand, casts a look of utter contempt at the penny-earner while leading the way. His little sister, her wrist held firmly by their father, looks down, her other fist clenched, as though the scene were painful to her. Next comes the lady of the family, her pink shoes and white clothing at odds with the weather. She can only be bothered to take care of her pet spaniel and nonchalantly shows quite a bit of ankle, along with the hem of her embroidered chemise. A lower ranking woman, no doubt the governess or some poor relation, follows, less finely but more sensibly attired. She manages to both carry the youngest child and hold a large umbrella. One can guess that this woman's life is not one of leisure. Last comes the maid, her face ruddy from the glow of her orange umbrella. She is the only one to look with some sympathy at the penny-earner.

Finally, in the background, secondary characters are oblivious to this little drama: the woman to the right simply piggybacks onto her companion, and in the middle another man, his back turned, has resorted to sturdy boots. They manage without the plank. The lower classes are back where they belong, order reigns in Paris, Bonaparte has consolidated his power to the point where he will soon crown himself Emperor of the French. Boilly takes advantage of a rain shower to tell us that the French Revolution is over.

        

The first I heard from this exhibition was from this review in The Independent. What struck me, apart from the critic's confusion about the religious and historical background, was the obvious emotional impact of the show. Then I saw this better informed review in The Art Tribune and knew I could not afford to miss this during my last visit to London.

This is indeed a small but extraordinary exhibition, featuring works that rarely, if ever, leave Spain, where many are still displayed in the religious context for which they were designed. Here you can see them in the basement of the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery, against dark walls, in a dimly lit setting. And in near silence, for visitors do not speak above a whisper.

Let me be candid: as The Independent review makes clear, this is not religious art for the faint of heart. The first room displays the sculpted head of Saint John the Baptist, by Juan de Mesa, with the severed blood vessels, windpipe and spine represented with perfect anatomic accuracy. The bodies of Christ and saints acquire an extraordinary degree of reality. Some statues, like that, lifesize of Saint Ignacius de Loyola, are imagenes de vestir, they wear real cassocks.

It would be a mistake to look at this from a purely artistic standpoint, without taking into account the intensity of the faith behind these images. Yet it is equally impossible to detach oneself from the quality of the works. We are looking at masterpieces of 17th century art.

An 18th century biographer tells us that Gregorio Fernandez, who sculpted the Dead Christ reproduced by The Independent, "did not undertake to make an effigy of Christ our Lord or His Holy Mother without preparing himself first by prayer, fast, penitence and communion, so God would confer His grace upon him and make him succeed."

Diego Velasquez and Jusepe de Ribera are represented, but Francisco de Zurbaran makes by far the most vivid, profound impression, particularly his Saint Francis Standing in Ecstasy (left).

When Francis's tomb was open in the 15th century on the order of Pope Nicolas V, one of the accompanying cardinals noted that "it was a strange thing, that a human body, dead for so long, should be in that manner in which it was: for it stood straight up upon his feet... The eyes were open, as those of a living man, and somewhat lifted up to heaven." Zurbaran depicts here sainthood, prayer, death, a miracle.

Zurbaran gives us another representation of death with this Saint Serapion, painted for the De Profondis (mortuary chapel) of the Mercedarian Order in Seville. Francis looks awake in death, Serapion seems asleep, peaceful after his martyrdom.



This is a rare and beautiful exhibition, perfectly curated and not to be missed if you happen to visit London this month.

Until January 24, 2010 at the National Gallery, London

        

I could think of no better way to convey my wishes for 2010 than to post another of the extraordinary miniatures of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, the prayer book of that most worldly of medieval princes, Jean de France.

Here we see the Duc himself, ever the bon vivant, receiving his courtiers' wishes for the new year. He is seated under a canopy bearing his arms, the fleurs de lys of France mingled with his own swans and bears. Before him is spread a plentiful table, upon which his little dogs have unceremoniously jumped, next to a gold salt cellar shaped like a ship. A round wicker screen protects him from the ardors of the blazing fire in the hearth, for he must be warm enough: he wears a fur-lined, gold embroidered blue gown and a fur hat adorned with an enormous diamond. The battle scene in the background is part of a tapestry hanging above the fireplace, and the floor covered with wall-to-wall matted rushes.

Happy new year to all!

        

The past week has left me little time for posting, between extra work to be completed at the office before year end, research on my third novel and, last but not least, the school break. Now I will be heading for Tours and Bordeaux for a family reunion to celebrate the holiday season.

So I will have to be content to refer you to last year's Il est né le Divin Enfant, George Sand's memories of the Père Noël and the true Saint Nicholas.

After the intimist Nativité by Boucher, I would like to share this beautiful work by Charles Le Brun, one of Louis XIV's favorite artists and the foremost painter of the Sun King's Versailles, as a way to offer my heartfelt thanks for visiting here, and my best holiday wishes.

Merry Christmas!

        

I had to go to Vincennes this morning to do some research in the military archives and found my city more beautiful than ever in its velvety white coat, under a white sky. So I wish to share this picture of the Square des Batignolles with you, and invite you to watch this slide show on the site of Le Monde.


Photograph by Georges Seguin

        

I promise, Holly and I did not consult in advance about this, but what can I say? Great minds think alike, and we discovered that we were both posting about Charles Perrault and his fairy tales at the same time.

Indeed if you call at the famous Wonders and Marvels blog, Holly is having a fairy tale week, during which you can win, among other treats... a copy of the Oxford University Press edition of Monsieur Perrault's Complete Tales.

As for me, I am still working on a new post, this time on Perrault's Peau d'âne (Donkeyskin), my own personal favorite.

        

This may look like the other costumes displayed at this year's Court Pomp and Ceremony exhibition at Versailles. But this picture is deceptive: this is in fact but a half-size model of a French court gown.

Ordinary ladies, unlike the Crown Prince of Sweden, could not rely on their own ambassadors to keep informed of Versailles fashions. So French dressmakers, like the famous Mademoiselle Rose Bertin, who supplied Marie-Antoinette, sent dolls such as this abroad to spread the good word about the newest fabrics, colors and decorative motifs (the cut of the gown itself remained unchanged until the French Revolution.)

Such fashion dolls were given diplomatic passports so as to be allowed to travel freely through Europe. It is only decades later, during the wars of the Revolutionary and Napoleonic eras, that international conflict took its toll on the free diffusion of fashion information.

This picture is particularly interesting because it shows the back view of the the gown. Note that the ends of the bodice do not meet at the back, and leave a gap several inches wide. This was indeed the proper manner of wearing a court gown at Versailles, as my heroine Gabrielle might have told you: the - very sheer - chemise had to show in the back.



Related post: 18th century male court costume

        

You seem to have enjoyed my Halloween Cinderella, which, added to my own inclination to do so, is reason enough to dedicate a series of posts to Perrault's fairytales.

But first we should meet the author. Charles Perrault was born in Paris in 1628 into a family of wealthy bourgeois. As befitted his status, he received a careful education, on occasion running afoul of his school's rules. There must have been a stong element of whimsy in him, for he wrote a burlesque version of Virgil's most serious Eneid. He then went on to law school and became of member of the Bar, but discovered in short order that the practice of law was not to his liking.

As a well-connected young man, he had other options. He became a clerk in the Ministry of Finances, rose through the ranks and soon reported directly to Louis XIV's most famous and influential minister, Colbert. He became Comptroller General of the Royal Buildings, a position of great importance, given the Sun King's passion for architecture. The colonnade of the Louvre was build under his supervision.

He waited until middle age to marry, a much younger woman of course. But poor Madame Perrault died in childbirth after bearing him five children in six years, not an unusual occurrence at the time. Another misfortune followed a few years later: Colbert died, and Perrault, as his protégé, was dismissed from all of his public functions.

A widower and unemployed, Perrault returned to his first love, writing. Not that he has ever neglected literary endeavors during his years as what we would call an upper civil servant. He had been one of the most vocal proponents of "modern" literature versus the classics, and had played a major role in establishing the procedings of the French Academy.

Now he could dedicate his full time to writing. During the 1690s he published various literary versions of traditional folk tales. Perrault was not a mere scrivener. He chose between concurrent versions of the same stories, embellished, polished, removed what he did not like. Perrault's fairytales are very much his own stories. They are terse, brisk, subtly ironic, unsentimental and beautifully written. If you read French, I recommend the original 1697 text, far superior to the better known "modernized" versions.

Finally, in 1697, he gathered this work into one volume, published, ostensibly by one of his young sons, as Les Contes de ma mère l'Oye, with the alternate title Histoires ou contes du temps passé (Tales of My Mother Goose, Stories or Tales of Times Past). The original tales were Sleeping Beauty, The Little Red Riding Hood, Blue Beard, Puss-in-Boots, The Fairies, Cinderella, Riquet With the Tuft and Tom Thumb.

The falsely self-deprecating dedication to Elisabeth-Charlotte d'Orléans, Mademoiselle, Louis XIV's niece, bears the hallmarks of Perrault's wit:

On ne trouvera pas étrange qu’un enfant ait pris plaisir à composer les Contes de ce Recueil ; mais on s’étonnera qu’il ait eu la hardiesse de vous les presenter.

One shall not fin it odd that a child may have enjoyed composing the tales of this collection; but one shall marvel at his audacity in presenting them to you.

They were an instant success, with a second authorized edition the same year, and many pirated ones (yes, already...) And of course, foreign translations followed.

Perrault would die a few years later, after the turn of the century, in 1703. But as early as 1704, appeared the first French translation of Les contes des mille et une nuits (Tales of One Thousand and One Nights, better known in English as the Arabian Nights.) Ali Baba and Aladin never totally eclipsed the less exotic Cinderella and Donkeyskin, but the age of the Enlightenment was fascinated by faraway lands and people. In the eyes of many, Perrault's down home tales lost some of their charm.

And then, in the mid 19th century, a new edition was published, with illustrations by Gustave Doré. Doré was an extraordinary engraver and he illustrated, among others, the Bible, Dante's Divine Comedy, Don Quixote, the works of Rabelais and Byron. His reinterpretation of Perrault's tales brought them back to life in the minds and hearts of readers young and old.

The pumpkin scene in my prior Cinderella post is by Doré. Note the play of the shadows in this dimly lit setting, the funny yet affectionate treatment of the fairy godmother, the bond between the two women. As in Perrault's tale, the pumpkin has to be hollowed the hard way, painstakingly, by hand. The magic wand will come into play later, to turn it into a gilded carriage. What we have here are two women, one young, one older, both dressed as servants, in a typical country kitchen. Yet we feel we are in a fairytale.

The Doré edition immediately restored the tales to their former popularity, and countless other editions followed. Some of Perrault's stories, like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, were adapted by Disney, and the adaptations obscured the original works. All the more reason to rediscover those.

For the 1697 French edtion, see here, and for a (rather flat) English translation, here.

Finally, to conclude this post, and add to our growing Louis-Léopold Boilly series, a painting titled And then the ogre ate him.

        

This will be the second post in a probably long series dedicated to Louis-Léopold Boilly. After specializing in interior genre scenes such as The Sorrows of Love, Boilly felt the need to switch to depictions of urban life. Apart from the artistic merit of his compositions, he offers us a direct, candid view of Paris at the turn of the 19th century.

This Arrival of the Stagecoach is one of the most complex and ambitious of such scenes. It shows us a cross-section of French society in 1803. The focal point of the scene is the group of arriving travelers and the loved ones greeting them. A husband and wife embrace with loving abandon, a kneeling lady affectionately pats the cheek of a child. But there's more: note the older woman still seated inside the coach. She is in no hurry to leave because no one waiting for her. She seems removed from the general rejoicing, widowed maybe, lonely certainly. The sight of the happy reunited family must cause her pain.

Around these well-dressed bourgeois are more popular types, like the two men who unload the luggage from the roof of the vehicle, and the portefaix who carries a huge pile of bags and parcels on his back. Here too there is pain, physical this time. These men are the gagne-deniers, the penny-earners, often fresh arrivals from the countryside, who eke out a precarious existence in the great city.

Then you have the gawking street urchins, the woman nursing her infant, all perhaps waiting for the handout of a copper coin. To the left one can distinguish two military men. One, a private, shows much interest in a maid carrying a basket of linen. She is probably a servant at the inn where the stagecoaches stop, and she turns away from her unwanted suitor. She seems more attracted to the dashing officer with the plumed hat, who pays her no heed.

Now look at the characters on the far right. The man is elegant to the point of foppishness. The lady has a pug, the height of fashion then, on a leash. Her little girl has turned her back on this exchange. The man and woman exchange a few words, each ready to go his or her own way, and yet there is some regret in the way they part, as though they would like to linger a moment. At their feet, a couple of mutts engage in a lively romp. I can't help feeling this hints at an illicit affair between the elegant pair. Maybe they are arranging an assignation right then.

And of course the dun-colored façade of the inn, the chickens pecking at the dirt on the unpaved street. In this fairly small canvas (around 4 feet wide), now part of the Louvre collections, Boilly manages to bring an entire world to life. The contrast between the different classes of Parisians, the relationships between men and women. Now you have been to 1803 Paris!

        

Here is what Benjamin Franklin writes his daughter, Sarah Blache, on the topic of the Society of the Cincinnati. He opposes, of course, the very notion of establishing hereditary honors in the United States, and also discusses the insignia of this organization, which include a bald eagle:

Others object, writes Franklin, to the bald eagle as looking too much like a dindon, or turkey. For my own part, I wish the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country; he is a bird of bad moral character; he does not get his living honestly; you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk; and, when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to his nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him, and takes it from him. With all this injustice he is never in good case;but, like those among men who live by sharping and robbing, he is generally poor, and often very lousy. Besides, he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow, attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a properemblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America, who have driven all the kingbirds from our country; though exactly fit for that order of knights, which the French call Chevaliers d'Industrie.

I am, on this account, not displeased that the figure is not known as a bald eagle, but looks more like a turkey. For in truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America. Eagles have been found in all countries, but the turkey was peculiar to ours; the first of the species seen in Europe, being brought to France by the Jesuits from Canada, and served up at the wedding table of Charles the Ninth. He is, besides, (though a little vain and silly, it is true, but not the worse emblem for that,) a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on.

I am not much of a biologist and cannot opine on the "bad moral character" of the bald eagle, which I have never seen in the flesh, perched on a dead tree or otherwise.

I have, however, admired wild turkeys at Zion National Park, where they walk around in groups during the day and roost in the tall trees at night, unafraid of visitors. Magnificent, majestic birds indeed. Ah, if only Ben Franklin had had his way about the turkey as a national emblem, and many other things . . .

We will keep to French artists to illustrate this post. The portrait of Franklin as a cultivateur américain is by Joseph-Siffred Duplessis, painted during Franklin's momentous embassy in Paris. The wild turkey is part of the Birds of America series by Jean-Jacques Audubon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! (Or should we say, with Art Buchwald, Merci Donnant?)

        

It has been a long time since we discussed Marie-Antoinette, and my thanks go to Gabriela for an opportunity to write a guest post on her blog. The story of the sleigh rides is taken from Madame Campan's Memoirs. Marie-Antoinette is only twenty at the time, but already she is extremely unpopular.

Her love of sleigh rides is ascribed to her Austrian origins. Also the fact that she was obviously and publicly enjoying winter amusements while the poorest in Paris froze to death on the streets caused much resentment.

Last but not least, the Queen's sister-in-law, the Comtesse d'Artois, had just given birth to a son and heir, while the Queen herself would not present the King with a Dauphin until 1781, six years later. Vicious, lewd pamphlets circulated in Paris, fostering rumors that the Marie-Antoinette had many lovers, bot male and female.

Also this is precisely the time when Marie-Antoinette became friends with another lady who would meet a tragic end during the Revolution: the Princesse de Lamballe. One must of course avoid the temptation of reading too much into this in retrospect, but Madame Campan gives us the rather sad conclusion: the sleigh rides were abandoned after that one winter of Paris discontent, never to resume.