Vive la Revolution!

Le printemps au Paris – springtime in Paris – the sun warms the cobbled streets. Neighbors greet one another, children’s laughter echoes sounding as beautiful to the ear as the hallowed bells of Notre-Dame.  Quiet thoughts of love blossom in the hearts of young men and women. How could that be helped in a city as romantic as this?

Marie-Julie delighted in this time of year. Having lost her mother in childbirth and having a father who had little interest in raising a daughter, Marie was shuffled from distant relative to distant relative, usually serving as a gouvernante – a nanny – for unruly children on some country estate. But in the spring – in the beautiful spring – Marie-Julie found herself settled with her Aunt Sophie. Aunt Sophie was unlike other women. She believed that women should be educated and encouraged to find their own place in the world. Aunt Sophie and her husband, Nicholas, delighted in the time they spent with their beloved niece. They bought her the finest clothes, paid for operatic lessons, encouraged her interests, and allowed her to wander the beautiful city at her leisure.

Her favorite place to visit was Les Halles de Paris, the central food market. Here the air was filled with the pungent odors of fish and meat, the sweet scent of overripe fruits, and the tantalizing aromas of spices. More riveting than the food were the people. The banter and gossip of the “poissardes,” the women who ran the shops, was accompanied by the whiny voices of the children still clinging to their skirts. The customers milled about attempting to find bargains and the fish mongers drowned everyone out with their deep, booming voices competing for attention. In the spring of 1789, there were other sounds floating on the wind, but the notes of discontent had only begun to reach Les Halles.

Marie-Julie was familiar and welcome by all in Les Halles. She would stop at each stall, greeting the proprietor by name – doting on their children or remembering to ask about their wives. Her favorite spot was the fromagerie de Monsieur Caritat – the cheese shop. Monsieur Caritat was an older gentleman. To him, Marie-Julie was a breath of fresh air, a granddaughter he longed for but never had. She would come by most days, full, pastel skirts swirling about as she ran breathlessly, toward him. Her chestnut brown hair worn in ringlets around her beautiful, porcelain face was topped off by a bonnet, silk strings flying, never tied. Happiness and laughter beamed from her smile and her eyes sparkled with merriment. Some days, Marie-Julie would climb upon the barrel, he brought out just for her, and sit with him, spending hours watching the bustling center, making up funny stories about the people around them.

“When are you going to marry me, Monsieur Caritat” she would tease, “and build me a castle of cheese where we can live happily ever after?”

“If only I was forty years younger, mon petit chou,” was his constant refrain.

Marie-Julie was unaware of her beauty. She had not been spoiled by compliments from those who used her to keep their children occupied and her Aunt Sophie felt that women were worth much more than their comely presence. But beautiful she was, and it came as no surprise to Monsieur Caritat, that in the spring of her sixteenth year, she would find her first suitor, his little fromagerie providing the backdrop to her changing world.

“Good morning, Monsieur, how are you?” Marie-Julie sung out as she offered a little hug to her favorite vendor.

            “Yes, I’m fine and you?” 

            “Very well. I decided I am going to learn to cook this summer. I think it is a skill that everyone should have, no?” she asked him as she picked up a wheel of cheese, inhaling its nutty scent through the thin wrapper.

            “Oh indeed, it is a skill all women should have, but surely someone as beautiful as you must have servants to wait on her hand and foot,” a voice not belonging to Monsieur Caritat responded.

            Marie-Julie turned toward the voice and for a second, faltered. A very handsome young man stood nearby, offering his hand. She placed her small, delicate fingers in his and he brought them to his lips, kissing them gently.  Monsieur Caritat harumphed his displeasure.

            The young man glanced toward the older proprietor, and though he had little respect for the common marketeer, he did remember his manners.

            “I’m so sorry, I was so overwhelmed by your beauty that I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Jean-Paul,” he said, executing a deep, gentlemanly bow.

            “Oh, I am… that is, my name is Marie-Julie Eglin,” she stammered, remembering at the last minute to courtesy.

            “It’s very nice to meet you, Mademoiselle Eglin. I have seen you before, but I have not summoned the nerve to approach you.”

            “Oh,” Marie-Julie replied, “do you have a market around here?”

            He stared at her in amusement and laughed, “You think me a common marketeer? No, I come here with my uncle as he collects his rent. I am a businessman.”

            So wrapped up was she in the first stirrings of her heart, that she did not notice how condescending Jean-Paul had just been. “That’s very interesting,” she replied, “is he around… your uncle I mean?” Self-consciously, she reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear.

            “He’s around somewhere, I really should catch up to him. I never know when he might need my business acumen,” he tapped his head indicating his exceptional wisdom. “Will I see you here next week?”

            “Yes, that is, I will be here. I am sure you will find me, if you look,” Marie-Julie answered shyly.

            Jean-Paul bowed again to her small courtesy and wandered off to find his uncle.

            Extracting her floral fan from her small bag, Marie-Julie fanned herself and turning to Monsieur Caritat, looked for her dear friend’s approval, but he only cleared his throat and busied himself with an arrangement of cheese. It wasn’t his place to advise her young heart on matters of love.

            As the days of spring grew longer and warmer, Marie-Julie found herself spending more and more time at Les Halles. She was so eager for the time with Jean-Paul, that she would arrive once a week, early in the morning and wander restlessly through the market until he appeared. Some of the shopkeepers smiled at the young love, others, like Monsieur Caritat, kept their own counsel and a watchful eye on the young man proffering his heart.  

It was during one of those long days that the seeds of discontent that had been rambling on the wind, finally took root. The whispers among the “poissardes” were replete with words of freedom and rights. The men leaned over the walls between their shops and spoke about uprisings. The phrase “liberté, égalité, fraternité” could be heard muted at first, and growing louder as the day went on. Marie-Julie heard their words, but it meant little to her, still she made a mental note to ask her Aunt Sophie what the commotion was all about.

She waited and waited with Monsieur Caritat, but Jean-Paul did not show that day and when she fretted about his health and safety, Caritat would only nod his head and pat her arm absently with vague reassurances as to his welfare. Secretly, he hoped that Jean-Paul had found someone else to occupy his time. This young man, he thought, was an imbecile.

Marie-Julie headed home as the first lights of purple and pink began to streak across the sky. A little cross from her disappointment of not seeing her young love, she nearly forgot to ask her Aunt Sophie about the shopkeepers and their restlessness.

“How was your day at the market my darling? Did you see the boy who has put that light in your eyes?” her Uncle Nicholas asked her.

“How do you know about him?” she asked her uncle, who was by nature a professor and not, in her mind, wise in the world of love.

Nicholas chuckled, “I was your age once, my dear. You never forget your first romance.”

Aunt Sophie smiled at him, “You better not, Nicholas, I was your first romance.”

He took her hand and kissed it, “And my last, my love.”

Marie-Julie smiled, surely Jean-Paul was her first and last love as well.

“Aunt Sophie, the shopkeepers were not happy today. There was a lot of… unrest in the market. They spoke of freedom and rights and of taking a stand. What is going on?”

Aunt Sophie smiled at her young niece. She looked at Nicholas, and with words spoken only with a look, she made a decision.

“Marie, I am going to an event tomorrow. You are old enough to attend with me. Would you like to go?”

Marie-Julie thought for only a moment. She might miss her chance to see Jean-Paul, but her aunt never included her in her social events. It seemed worth the risk. “Yes, I would very much like to attend.” Sophie smiled and patted Marie on the hand.

The next evening Sophie and Marie-Julie headed out together. “We’re going to a house of an old friend of mine, her name is Germaine de Staël and she is hosting a salonnierre.”

“A what?”

“You’ll see my darling.”

Germaine greeted Sophie and Marie-Julie and ushered them into her parlor. There, they joined women of all ages and listened to impassioned speeches on the rights of women and the need for independence. They heard how important it was that widows could inherit land and first-born daughters had just as much a right to the land as men.

Marie-Julie’s young, impressionable heart grew with excitement at the possibility of change. She promised to become part of the movement and signed her name proudly to petitions, agreeing to take part in marches and movements. Sophie smiled with pride.

With the anticipation and excitement that only youth could bring, Marie-Julie could not wait to tell Jean-Paul about her newfound causes. She filled Monsieur Caritat in on all her news while she waited. He smiled at her, thankful that something else was occupying her mind and handed her a small French flag, which she twirled while she spoke passionately about freedom.

Jean-Paul came by that day, dressed in a suit and looking every bit a grown man instead of the young boy he had been just two weeks ago. He came to the stall, barely glancing at the marketeer.

“Marie-Julie,” he said taking both of her hands in his, “Caritat,” he said nodding in the storekeeper’s direction. Marie-Julie pulled back.

“You seem different, Jean-Paul, is everything okay?”

“Yes darling, I’m just busy. I am afraid I have little time to waste making small talk with these… these… commoners. I am here, at my uncle’s behest to collect the rent and of course, I made time to see you, my love. But I really wish we could meet elsewhere – I don’t want to be in the company of these, rabble, and I think it would be better for you to spend less time here.”

“Rabble? These are my friends! Surely, you do not think you are better than them?”

“My love, lower your voice, you are making a spectacle of yourself. Proper women should not be heard, they should be soft spoken and elegant.”

“Proper women?” Marie-Julie sputtered. “Proper women are speaking out all over for the first time. They, and all the people here, are the same as you and your precious uncle and deserve to be recognized as such. And unless you speak nicer to them and to me, I don’t want to see you again!”

“So you stand with these… peasants…. these peons of society who are not worthy to speak your name let alone call themselves your friends?”

“Jean-Paul, we seem to have irreconcilable differences.” With that, she took the small French flag, put it in the lapel of his jacket. “Vive la revolution!”

He threw the flag down and walked away Monsieur Caritat hid his smile.