Élisabeth Le Bas's Memoirs (Part II)

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I must warn you that this is the last somewhat happy section. The next (and last) one skips all the way to Thermidor. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. This post talks about complications for Élisabeth and Le Bas's relationship, their marriage, and Le Bas and Saint-Just's mission to the Armée du Rhin. Enjoy! (And don't forget to comment. :D)

M. Le Bas continued to come assiduously to my parents’ home. One evening, he seemed sad to me, he who, until then, had always showed himself to be so cheerful and so happy with me. He was worried and a bit cold. I wanted to know the cause of this change and asked him whether he was still ill; he replied that he was not but that something he had learned recently had much afflicted him; he hesitated to confide it to me; however I insisted and I then learned from him that a man of his acquaintance had abused me to him, and had strongly discouraged him from marrying me, seeking to make him believe that I had had lovers and that one of them ought to marry me, adding that my father had no fortune, that moreover I was uneducated, that finally, as a compatriot, he owed him the whole truth, and that, in his interest, he strongly advised him not to make a fool of himself by marrying me, and that if would be easy for him to do better than me, insisting that I had had affairs, and telling him that he would do well not to rely on me.

                I could see that these calumnies had made an impression on my friend’s thoughts.

                I was profoundly afflicted my this, and I told him: “As far as instruction goes, if mine has not been very broad, nature has gifted me with a pure heart, and good and tender parents, who have raised us [my sisters and I] wisely and given us an education capable of making us virtuous women.” As to the infamies that had been produced to him on my account, I told him that I was quite pained to see that my Philippe could have believed them, and I cried much in speaking to him.

                He then sought every means to console me, told me that he did not believe those calumnies, but that, despite himself, he had felt great sorrow in thinking that she whom he had chosen for a wife could be suspected of being capable of deceiving him. “You do me much wrong,” I told him; “I will tell everything to our good friend Robespierre. He will be very cross to learn that you could have believed the ill that had been said of me. He knows how good and yet how strict our parents are, and how they raised us.”

                He saw my distress and finally named Guffroy [as the calumniator]; he was a printer and bookseller.

                He left me that evening in assuring me that he wanted to believe only me, and promised me that he would come the next morning early, in order to pray my parents to marry as early as possible. I was less miserable, though still sad. He said to me: “Adieu, my beloved; forget above all the pain I have caused you; pardon me for it, for I was very unhappy.” He wished my mother good evening and she invited him to come the next day to dine as a family; that seemed to pleas him; he kissed me in saying: “Until tomorrow.”

                My good mother, who was working with my sisters in a room next to the little chamber in which we had been talking, had heard a few words of our long conversation and seen that I had been crying. She had great confidence in Philippe after what Robespierre had said of him, and we were engaged. That good mother told me to go speak to her in her room before going to bed. I went therefore to find her and recounted everything Philippe had told me to her. She proposed that I should speak to our friend about it and told me: “You must hid nothing from him; h knows Philippe, and he will tell us if he knows the villain who spoke so odiously; we must get to the bottom of this; it is a question of your honor.” I could see that this afflicted my mother greatly and I feared too to cause Robespierre pain.

                My mother kissed me and said kindly: “Don’t worry; this will amount to nothing.” I left her, and despite her consolations, I passed a very bad night. My thoughts kept returning to the fact that Philippe could have believed the negative reports that had been made to him about me. If he loved me as I love him, I said to myself, he could never have believed whatever ill anyone said of me! At last, I had bad dreams and I was miserable until the moment I saw him again.

                He came the next day and saw that I was sad and cold; he reproached me for it, saying: “You promised me not to keep on worrying yourself, and I see that you have been crying this past night; that is not good, my Élisabeth; you know well that I love you more than my life; well then! No more chagrin; I have much to tell you.”

                What joy I felt to seem him again! As he had promised me, he had come early and did and said only what was good and lovable to make me forget the past; but he had difficulty in succeeding in doing this, for my heart was quite heavy. He told me that he would like to set the date of our marriage that very day. “I would like,” he said, “if it were today rather than tomorrow. What a lovely day for your friend and for my Babet!” My mother told him then: “You have caused your Élisabeth much pain; I wanted to know her chagrin; she confided in me; do you know, my son, that it is dreadful to attack a young girl’s honor; it’s appalling!”

                He replied that it was, in effect, dreadful by all accounts, and told my mother that he would like to speak to her a moment in particular. He kissed me, saying: “I have to tell our mother some things that you, my friend, may not hear, and that I will tell you later.”

                He then (I’ve since learned) recounted to my mother that he had gone, that day, to see Guffroy, and had asked him where he learned everything he had said of me, that he wanted to know the whole truth, and that if what he had said of my conduct was true, he would not marry me and would never see me again. Guffroy then said to him: “Listen, I have a charming eldest daughter, who has received an education and to whom I will give a very fine dowry; she would be, moreover, a compatriot; my dear Le Bas, marry my daughter, and you will be welcome in my family.”

                Philippe had, it seems, learned from a certain source many things on the conduct of this young person, and even knew that she was pregnant, having had a liaison with her father’s master printer. He replied therefore bad-temperedly: “Guffroy, you wish me too well; I thank you for the ill you have told me of Mlle Duplay, but I want to be the father only of children of my own making.”

                Guffroy, furious at this refusal, would later put all his effort into troubling our happiness, but he did not succeed. The pregnancy of his daughter was only too certain, for she had her lying-in four months after my marriage.

                This malicious man was known less than favorably on more than one account; he knew only how to bad-mouth everyone; he was despised by all and viewed negatively by his colleagues. He was, I believe, a deputy from the department of Pas-de-Calais, but I never saw him in my father’s house. The two Robespierre brothers had a great contempt for him.

                That day, during dinner, Philippe spoke to Robespierre of everything that had happened. Our good brother scolded Philippe and told him that he was very wrong of him not to have spoken to him about it first, because it would have spared much chagrin to both us: “Poor little one,” he said to me, “be cheerful again, this is nothing. Philippe does indeed love you; he is happy to have his Élisabeth.”

                He took our hands and pressed them together; he seemed to give us his blessing. Poor friend! You had for our parents the tenderness of a good son and for us the tender friendship of a good brother; which we returned, for we loved you sincerely!

                After dinner, I heard my Philippe ask my parents to fix the date of our wedding, saying that he would be happiest with the earliest possible date. Robespierre supported his request and said: “He’s right; we must get this marriage over with.”

                My parents asked that it take place in two décades, in order to have time to prepare my trousseau and our lodging. My father, the owner at that time of several houses, had a vacant one at that moment in the Rue de l’Arcade; he gave us lodging there and everything was promptly settled for the agreed-upon date.

                But, great God! What chagrin came to strike us again! At the moment of being united, we were separated. My friend was obliged to go promptly to the army. The Committee of Public Safety had just named him [representative on mission] and enjoined him to depart the same day; he barely had time to pack his trunk and have something to eat; he came in haste to bid us adieu; the post-chaise was at our door.

                He departed with his cousin Duquesnoy, a pure man of integrity, a devoted patriot. Judge of the sorrow of my beloved and of mine! To see ourselves separated on the eve of being united! I could not prevent myself from saying to Robespierre that he was doing us much ill. “My good Élisabeth,” he replied, “the patrie above all else when it is in danger; this departure is indispensable, my friend; you must have courage; he will return soon; his presence his necessary where he is being sent. You will be much happier, as patriotic as you are, to see him return after having rendered a great service to his country.”

                I was so distressed that I did not want to be a patriot any longer. I reproached him for having made my Philippe leave; he replied that having to fulfill such a mission spoke very highly of him, especially in a moment such as the one where we then found ourselves; that men like him were necessary in a moment like this. He sought, as well as my good parents, to console me, but it was useless; I was inconsolable.

                My health suffered greatly for it; this alarmed my family and our friend, who indeed promised me to seize upon a favorable moment to have him return. It would still be quite a long time, but we had to wait: I had confidence in our friend; I knew that he would do all in his power to have Le Bas return to Paris and have him replaced by one of his colleagues.

                Philippe wrote to me often and charged me to tell Robespierre that if he did not find a means of having him return, he would see himself as forced to absent himself for a few days to come to Paris, get married, and bring me back with him, for it was impossible for him to bear our separation any longer; that he could not live as he was and would fall ill.

                I insisted so energetically to Robespierre, I obsessed over it so often, that that good friend found a way to have my Philippe return; [this last] wrote me to pray our parents to have everything ready for the moment of his return.

                He arrived, and everything being ready, we were married at the [Hôtel de] Ville, by Lebert; it was 10 Fructidor (26 August 1793). What joy for us, and how happy I was! I believed that I would never again be separated from my husband; but alas! It had to be otherwise.

                After several months, he needed to go away again; my friend departed, sadness in his heart, and prayed my mother to keep me close to her. That good mother found me a little apartment close to the [Convent of] the Assumption, and, two days after my husband’s departure, I found myself close to those dear parents again. They were afflicted, as was our friend, by my solitude; but this last, a zealous friend of the patrie, put the duties of a good citizen before all else. He said to me: “You are angry with me, poor little one, but you are wrong. I see, in your husband, one of the most devoted representatives of this country, one of those on whom rests, at this terrible moment, the safety of the patrie. We are threatened from all sides; we need men like him today.” My only response was to cry bitter tears, having no strength to complain; he was so good to me and spoke with such mildness! “He will return soon,” he added, “have courage, be worthy of him!”

                He saw that I was suffering, took my hand and asked me again if I was angry with him: “Oh no!” I said, “my friend, you have always been so good to me! How could I be angry with you!” My parents wept as well.

                I often received letters from my husband; he worried about my health and recommended that I keep my mother informed about how I was feeling; my good mother well understood that I was pregnant, and told me so joyfully, engaging me to write promptly to Philippe about it: “How happy he will be! What joy for him!” She added: “Courage, my daughter; don’t worry; look after your health; you’re going to be a mother.” This good mother was so happy that she announced this news to my father and to our friend, who always rejoiced at what made us happy.

                Poor friend! Your heart has not been known! He did everything for my husband and for me; but he always placed the interests of the patrie before all else.

                He saw that my health was declining; this caused him much distress; he did all he could to have my husband recalled; at last one day he said to me: “You’ll see him again soon.”

                He was not deceiving me. Le Bas returned from the army, and found me quite changed; I had felt such chagrin far from him! He told me that he would not leave again without me, that he was too unhappy far from his Élisabeth. Finally we were tranquil and happy for some time; but this happiness could not last: he needed to leave once more and go to the Army of the Rhine to have the blockade of Landau lifted.

                What chagrin for us! Le Bas said to our good friend that he did not want to leave without me, indeed that he saw that I could no longer bear so cruel a separation, that already having made some sacrifices for the good of his country, he did not feel he had the strength to compromise the health of his wife by the pain that a new separation would cause her.

                Our friend saw only too well how much the idea of being separated from my husband afflicted me. Nevertheless, he needed to leave; Robespierre, who had great confidence in Le Bas because he knew his wise and prudent character well, had chosen him to accompany Saint-Just, whose burning love of the patrie sometime led to too much severity, and who had a tendency to get carried away.

                Saint-Just had much love for my husband; he saw the chagrin that the thought of leaving me caused him. He also had friendship for me and came often enough to our house. He saw well that I would have difficulty, in the state of pregnancy I was in, bearing the chagrin of a new separation.

                Finally our providence, our good friend Robespierre, spoke to Saint-Just to engage him to let me depart with them, along with my sister-in-law Henriette. He consented, but with some conditions: he made us promise to see no one in the city where we were going to go, to receive no one, and to have no social relations with the inhabitants, and told us that if we did not conform scrupulously to his recommendations, he would be forced to make us leave again right away for Paris. Saint-Just and my husband, who felt all the importance of their mission, feared that we would be approached by someone seeking to influence them and trouble them in their duties.

                My sister-in-law was only eighteen years old; we were both two young to have any experience; moreover we had never left our family, and we were unaware of the danger to which the least levity on our part could expose Saint-Just and my husband.

                We departed at last for Saverne. All four of us traveled in the same coach. Saint-Just had the most delicate attentions for me en route and the considerations of a tender brother. At each relay station, he descended from the coach to see if anything was missing, for fear of an accident. He saw me suffering so much that he feared for me. He was, at last, so good and so attentive to my sister-in-law and me that the trip did not seem long to us. My beloved was very sensitive to all his kindnesses and gave him all his recognition.

                To pass the time, these messieurs would read us Molière plays or some passages from Rabelais, and sang Italian airs; they made every effort to distract us and make me forget my suffering.

                We were very gay; no accident befell us and I rejoiced to see us at the term of our voyage. But we still had to cross the gorges of the mountains of Saverne. This passage frightened me. I believed at every instant that our coach would break and we would perish. Those tremors caused me terrible pain; my beloved held me in his arms to protect me against them, but nothing could prevent me from suffering from them. Our coach struck sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, and rocked as if on the sea. There was hardly room for a coach to pass. This passage did me much more ill than all the rest of the journey.

                This trip made a great impression on me and my sister-in-law; never had we left our parents; everything seemed extraordinary to us, to me especially, who was Parisian, and who had only gone very rarely to the country. We were traveling in the middle of winter; one day (I must say to my shame) I started to say: “My God! What misfortune! We won’t have any wheat this year; the snow will destroy the whole harvest!” (I had never had the occasion to observe the time of year at which the harvest took place.) When I had made this remark, I saw well that I had said some inanity; my friends laughed out loud: I understood that I had said something absurd; I was all in confusion and I promised myself to speak in future only of things that I knew well. My friends saw that this had caused me pain and ceased to joke.

                Finally, I glimpsed with joy the gates of Saverne; I believed myself saved: I had suffered so much! My sister-in-law had borne the voyage better than I. Upon our arrival Philippe forced me to go to bed to rest from all my emotions. A few hours later, I felt much better.

                We took an apartment in the hotel of the general headquarters, but entirely removed from the part occupied by the officers and soldiers. We had barely arrived when we needed to separate again: Saint-Just and Philippe only rested a few minutes, to dine, before they were obliged to go risk their lives at the blockade of Landau. Before departing, Saint-Just reminded us severely to be very prudent and conduct ourselves with much circumspection, reiterating that, if it were otherwise, he would be forced to send us back to Paris. My husband also said to me: “You know, my Élisabeth, how much pain you would cause your Philippe [if you were not to conform to Saint-Just’s recommendations]. Also, see no one, receive no one; you would be compromising us horribly.” They left and I, greatly pained, was separated from my husband.

                Upon our arrival, those good friends, in their foresight, had chosen an old man, the mayor of Saverne, a venerable white-haired man, decorated by the order of Saint-Louis, to be our mentor, our protect, and our friend. My friends, who had known him previously, had great confidence in him, which he merited by all accounts. He showed us the tenderness of a father and made sure with solicitude that we lacked nothing; he walked everywhere with us and often passed the evening with us. He was one of those pure and respectable men; he was cherished in that country as a mayor and as a good citizen. At that time I was suffering greatly; a father could not have had more care and regard than he had for me. He himself chose us a charming little maid belonging to a good family of that country; wise, sweet, good, she was barely eighteen years old and very reserved; she knew not a word of French, and my sister and I knew not a word of German; judge of the difficulty we had to understand each other! One day, I asked her if we could have a pigeon for our dinner; she could not understand me, but as this little one was very intelligent, she went and found her prayer book, showed me the Holy Spirit, and seemed enchanted at having guessed. She was very adroit, knew how to sew, iron, wash, cook; she was, moreover, very pretty and had a charming voice. I thanked our mayor a great deal for having given us this girl; he told me that if he had not known her well, as well as her family, he would not have brought her to us, and that she was, in effect, the best of her class.

                She would have quite liked to depart with us; my sister and I would have quite liked it too; we were attached to her; she knew how to make herself loved; she would have come to Paris for nothing rather than leave us. When, after the blockade of Landau was lifted, and our friends returned to find us, we asked my Philippe to take that young girl to whom we were so attached into our service.

                Philippe said to me: “No, my Élisabeth; she pleases you; she pleases my sister; I would myself be happy to see you have this little one who is so good, and especially after what our respectable mayor has said of her. But she is too pretty to be taken to Paris; we would despair if she were to be lost: what sorrow for her family! No, my friend, Paris is too dangerous for such young girls, so pretty, and foreign, who don’t know a word of French. I see that this afflicts you; but think about it; it would be only worry and pain for you and for me; you are too reasonable not to see that it is impossible.” I understood perfectly that the thing was not feasible, that it was too great a responsibility for us. We felt, my sister and I, chagrin at separating from her, and especially to see her break into tears.