Free Mistress of the Revolution by Catherine Delors Page A

Madam,” the Baron intervened, “do not scold my little cousin. I would be very sorry if she were whipped because of my remark, which was meant not as a reproof but as an expression of curiosity. I find it far more becoming for a female to talk too little than too much.”
    I raised my eyes to him and said: “Thank you, Sir.”
    He bowed to me. “I am delighted to hear Mademoiselle de Montserrat speak at last. Her voice is as charming as her person.”
    His words silenced me. There was another pause in the conversation. He turned to my brother. “Cousin,” he asked, “can we have a word between men?”
    My mother gestured to me to follow her out of the room. The Baron rose to wish us good-bye.
    How I wished I could have stayed behind to listen to that conversation! I had to sit with my mother in her apartment, my forehead resting on the windowpane, watching the courtyard for half an hour. Again and again I pondered each of the Baron’s looks and expressions with the same anxiety as if I had been madly in love with him and uncertain of his feelings. At last, I saw him leave the house. My brother accompanied him to the bottom of the front staircase. They embraced each other with great cordiality. I bid my last hopes farewell.
    I heard my brother’s brisk footstep outside my mother’s door. He walked in, smiling, took my hands in his and kissed me on both cheeks.
    “Let me offer my congratulations,” he said. “Our cousin has proposed and been accepted.”
    I had expected the blow but remained unable to utter a word, tears running down my cheeks. My mother berated me for my ingratitude. She slapped me. My brother took me by the hand and led me to my own room. There, he sat next to me on the bed, his arm around my shoulders.
    “Gabrielle,” he said, “tears are useless. My decision is irrevocable. Any other girl would be delighted to have been chosen by the Baron. He speaks like a man truly in love with you. He even had the generosity to decline the modest dowry offered with your hand.”
    My brother let go of my shoulders and handed me his handkerchief. “The wedding date has been set. Our cousin is impatient to proceed and I see only advantages in keeping the engagement short. The 15th of September has been settled upon, which will allow almost a month for the publication of the banns, the drafting of the marriage contract and other preparations. We also need to obtain the Bishop’s dispensation because of your kinship with your fiancé.”
    My sobs redoubled at the idea that my wedding would take place so soon. I had nothing to lose. I had to tell the truth.
    “Please, Sir,” I said, “spare me the pain of marrying the Baron. Not him. I beg you. Besides, I am already engaged to another. I have accepted Pierre-André Coffinhal.”
    My brother blanched. He seized me by the shoulders so hard that I cried aloud in pain and fear. Trembling with rage and shaking me, he made me describe everything that had happened between Pierre-André and me, in what manner, on what parts of my body, how often he had touched me, whether I had enjoyed it, whether I loved him. I had never seen my brother in such a state of fury. Every detail was pried from me. When he saw that I had no more to reveal and that I was choking with tears, he let go of me.
    “You had no right,” he said, his mouth tight, “to enter into that engagement without my permission. It is void. You seem, along with your lover, to have forgotten that you are under my authority. If what you told me is true, you will be married as soon as can be arranged. If not, beware.”
    He left, slamming the door. There is a great difference between guessing something we do not like and being assured of it. My brother discovered it that day. He must have surmised that there was more to my meetings with Pierre-André than I had cared to admit before, but had not sought to learn of it. It was not long before I felt the consequences of my disclosure.
    I remained on my bed,