Читать книгу Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women in Revolutionary France - Lucy Moore - Страница 8

Everywhere, just like warriors, We carried off the laurels and the glory, And roused hopes for the glory of France.

Poissard song, autumn 1789

LIKE A CAROUSEL abandoned to centrifugal force, with respect for the government and tradition dissolving, France spun into revolution in 1789. The harvest the previous year had been destroyed by late hail storms and the winter was the worst for nearly a century. Bread prices had doubled and people were dying of starvation. Bands of brigands—and horrifying rumours of their brutality—swept through the countryside, taking advantage of the chaos caused by the abolition of feudal rights and dues, and the vacuum once filled by the king's heavily centralized government.

Alongside Germaine de Staël's gilded cocoon teemed another world. Marie-Antoinette's friend, the painter Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, was terrified in the summer of 1789 when she looked out of her window to find sans-culottes shaking their fists at her from the street and jumping on to the running-board of her carriage, shouting, ‘Next year, you'll be behind the carriages and we'll be the ones inside!’ When émigrés, including Vigée-Lebrun, began leaving France, the savage insults of passers-by floated in the wake of their heavy-laden carriages: ‘There go some more on the way out, those dogs of aristocrats.’

Although Germaine and her friends passionately believed in reform, their ideas were largely conceptual. The aristocracy numbered several hundred thousand in a population of twenty-eight million; perhaps five thousand nobles lived in Paris, a city of about 550,000 inhabitants, in 1790. Isolated from the rest of France in their magnificent hôtels and crested carriages, the only common people with whom they came into contact tame peasants or liveried servants, they had little comprehension of what life was like for ordinary men and women. Rich and poor viewed each other as utterly alien beings; it seemed all they had in common was their cynicism and their disaffection with the king and his government. The rich saw the poor as barely human—savage beings for whom it was certainly not worth stopping one's carriage if they had had the bad luck to have been run over—while the poor viewed the rich as frivolous, mannered and cruel.

Popular responses to the political upheavals taking place in Paris were marked by a defiant, unrestrained combination of violence and delight: ‘no riotous scene…did not have its festive aspect,’ writes Mona Ozouf in her study of revolutionary festivals, and there was ‘no collective celebration without a groundswell of menace’. Poissard, the Parisian slang dialect of the markets, exemplified this peculiarly French juxtaposition of levity and deadly seriousness in ‘comic and abusive verse, rhymed insults and a kind of tough, threatening talk’. Its jeering tone was fashionable among slumming aristocrats in the 1770s and 1780s, who performed poissard plays in their private theatres without any conception of the true resentment that lay beneath its rough mockery.

The typical poissarde woman, literally a fish-seller, but including other market women, seamstresses or laundresses, was described in the revolutionary newspaper Père Duchesne as a plain speaker, a frugal housekeeper and a chaste wife. She had an ugly face and despised finery, and was devoted to her family and capable of defending it savagely if need be. Her children were raised according to the political principles she and her husband held, a tradition of fierce egalitarianism and independence, and she claimed the right to sign petitions, fill the audience chambers of the National Assembly and denounce those she considered unpatriotic, deliberately addressing them by the familiar ‘tu’ rather than the more formal ‘vous’. Although the revolution was marked by violent anticlericalism, these women often continued to revere Mary, ‘la bonne petite mère’. Many of them lived in the faubourg Saint-Antoine, just east of the Bastille on the outskirts of Paris.

Common women were praised by revolutionaries, generally from middle-class backgrounds themselves, for their shrewdness, swift judgement and moral fibre. ‘The women of the people hide a fine character which finds expression when needed,’ wrote one patriotic journalist in 1789. They were barometers of the political environment: if things were really bad, the market women would be restless.

The activist Pauline Léon came from a typical lower-middle-class faubourg background—not the poorest of the poor but far from prosperous. Her father was a chocolate-maker—an artisan working in a luxury market supplying the rich—and, she said, a philosopher, who had raised his children according to his principles and without prejudices. She could read and write, although her family's modest means had not allowed for much education; girls from her background might have learned to read the mass in French and vespers in Latin, and then begun working in their early teens. When her father died, her mother took over his business and raised their five children, with help from Pauline, apparently the eldest.

Pauline was thirty-one and unmarried at the start of the revolution, still living at home and working with her mother, when the new ideas inflamed her. Mothers with young children stayed at home, so the politically minded women on the streets were either young and single, like Pauline, or middle-aged, sometimes widows, perhaps with sons fighting the revolution's foreign enemies at the front while their mothers and sisters guarded against the fatherland's ‘aristocratic’ enemies at home. Unlike in the salons of the nobility, sans-culotte men and women, though in accord ideologically, led separate political lives during the revolution. Radical lower-class women protested together, went to political clubs together and watched the guillotine's blade falling together.

But the women of Paris began participating in the revolution long before Madame Guillotine cast her shadow over the city. In January 1789, the women of the Third Estate addressed a petition to the king, a mirror of the cahiers the men of the nation had been asked by the king to draw up at the same time, stating the grievances and expectations of their classes and regions. At a time ‘when everyone is trying to assert his titles and his rights, when some people are worrying about recalling centuries of servitude and anarchy, when others are making every effort to shake off the last links which still bind them to the feudal system’, they began, neatly summing up both the political situation and women's contradictory status in France, should not women, ‘continual objects of the admiration and scorn of men…make their voice[s] heard?’

Common women, they explained, had no fortunes or education, and were doomed to becoming prey for seducers if they were pretty or to unhappy dowerless marriages if they were not. Their plight was exacerbated by parents often refusing to help their daughters financially, preferring to concentrate their resources on their sons. Because of these disadvantages, the women had three demands. First, they requested that women's trades, such as embroidery and dressmaking, be reserved for women; ‘if we are left at least with the needle and the spindle, we promise never to handle the compass or the square’. Second, they asked that prostitutes, ‘the weakest among us’, be required to wear a mark of identification so that honest women were not mistaken for them. They added tartly that if prostitutes did wear distinctive dress, ‘one would run the risk of seeing too many women in the same colour’. Finally, they implored the king to set up free schools where girls could learn religion and ethics. Science would not appear on the curriculum: teaching women such a ‘masculine’ subject would be flying in the face of nature, and would only make female students stupidly proud, not to mention producing unfaithful wives and bad mothers. ‘We ask to be enlightened, to have work, not in order to usurp men's authority,’ they assured Louis, ‘but in order to be better esteemed by them.’

The escalation of the revolution's pace throughout the spring of 1789 thrilled working-class women as much as men. Inflamed by a potent combination of resentment, patriotism and the desire for change, Pauline Léon said she felt ‘the liveliest enthusiasm’ when the Bastille, symbol of royal despotism, fell. Even though she was a woman she ‘did not remain idle’. She was on the streets from morning till evening, ‘inciting citizens against the partisans of tyranny, [urging them] to despise and brave aristocrats, barricading streets, and inciting the cowardly to leave their homes to come to the aid of the fatherland in danger’. France was not yet at war; the danger Léon refers to came from counterrevolutionaries—internal, rather than external, enemies.

Pauline does not say whether she saw the prison taken and the few prisoners it contained liberated on 14 July, but many women were present. The idealistic young British writer Helen Maria Williams, who moved to Paris in 1790, heard that women had patrolled the streets, as Pauline described doing, and brought their sons and husbands at the Bastille food and drink, ‘and, with a spirit worthy of Roman matrons, encouraged them to go on’.

Throughout the remainder of the summer of 1789, Parisian women and girls wearing the white dresses they reserved for ceremonies and wreathed in orange blossom paraded in thanksgiving for the Bastille's fall, demonstrating their gratitude ‘for the happy revolution which had just taken place’. They made offerings of bouquets, bread, brioches and vines at their local churches, just as liberal bourgeoises donated their silver and trinkets to the nation's bankrupt treasury, as expressions of their patriotism.

On the feast of Saint-Louis at the end of August, the market women went to Versailles with the mayor and magistrates of the city of Paris, as they did every year, to present a bouquet to the king. Marie-Antoinette, well aware she was loathed by the common people for her foreignness, extravagance and perceived corruption, both physical and political, was cold and unfriendly to the deputations. Utterly resistant to the idea of reform, she was visibly shaking with rage when Lafayette presented the captains of the newly formed National Guard to her, and the fishwives also noticed how poorly they were received.

In the summer of 1789, aged thirty-two (a year older than Pauline Léon), Lafayette had been made commandant of the National Guard, but it was a complicated role to play. Despite his immense personal popularity, he found it hard to please both the royalists and the ‘patriots’. As Germaine de Staël said, he supported the king ‘more from duty than attachment’, but he was drawn ‘towards the principles of the democrats whom he was obliged to resist’. Neither group trusted him. Pauline Léon attested that she was suspicious of Lafayette from the time he took office. In her eyes he was one of the internal enemies of the state, a counterrevolutionary in disguise; aristocrats, who had oppressed the nation for so long, could not be trusted. Caught between two extremes, anxious to satisfy both his liberal principles and his responsibilities to his office, Lafayette would end by fulfilling neither.

The National Guard he commanded was made up of the members of various volunteer militias, especially former members of the garde française, gathered together as a regular force and charged with defending the decrees of the new National Assembly on the one hand and protecting the people from revolution's excesses on the other. They had to pay for their own muskets and red, white and blue uniforms, so most were relatively prosperous. Progressive patriotism was their unifying sentiment. Germaine de Staël's army officer lover, Louis de Narbonne, would become commander of a regiment of the National Guard in Besançon the following summer.

The effects of recent failed harvests, droughts and bitter winters had accumulated and despite an adequate harvest in 1789 a flour shortage became cruelly evident on the streets of Paris as September wore on. In the public mind, the subsistence crisis was intimately connected to the political crisis. The despised representatives of the Crown were held responsible for the people's hunger; it was thought that bread was being withheld from them in order to crush their spirit of revolt. Lafayette, who was responsible for ensuring that supplies reached the Parisian markets, was a particular focus for their resentment.

Women began stopping carts of grain and dragging them to the Hôtel de Ville for distribution. On 17 September, after another morning when riflemen had been stationed at the bakers' to prevent rioting when the bread was handed out, they requested an audience with the mayor, saying ‘men didn't understand anything about the matter [the lack of grain] and they wanted to play a role in affairs’.

The issue of the veto (what Germaine de Staël had described as ‘her’ veto—Louis was delaying his assent to his new constitutional role, approved by the National Assembly on 10 September) exacerbated popular discontent and suspicion of the king and queen, who were scathingly known as Monsieur and Madame Veto. In revolutionary newspapers, firebrand journalists like Jean-Paul Marat urged their readers to ‘sweep away the corrupt, the royal pensioners and the devious aristocrats, intriguers and false patriots. You have nothing to expect from them except servitude, poverty and desolation.’

Given the atmosphere of starvation and destitution, an extravagant dinner held at Versailles on 1 October by the royal bodyguard was ill conceived. An additional regiment from Flanders had been summoned to Versailles as a precautionary measure, and the royal forces extended to them their traditional welcome of a banquet. Unusually, the king and queen made an appearance, bringing the gold-ringleted dauphin with them; toast after toast was drunk, royalist songs were increasingly blurrily sung, and court ladies handed out cockades in white and black, respectively—the Bourbon (for Louis) and Hapsburg (for Marie-Antoinette) colours.

The next day, the liberal press denounced this royalist ‘orgy’, repeating the words of one officer who had said, ‘Down with the cockade of colours [the tricolour]; may everyone take the black, that's the fine one.’ It was said the guards had stamped underfoot the tricolour cockade, since the fall of the Bastille in July the potent emblem of a new, reformed France. Marie-Antoinette later expressed her ‘enchantment’ with the guards' banquet, and this was taken to mean that she was enchanted by the insult offered to France. Black and white cockades seen on the streets of Paris began provoking fistfights; the people grew still hungrier.

At dawn on the morning of 5 October, a young market woman began beating a drum in the street in central Paris. By seven o'clock, perhaps two thousand women had gathered in front of the Hôtel de Ville, calling out for bread and for the punishment of the royal bodyguard. They broke into the building, threatening to burn all the council's papers, combing it for weapons, blockading the doors—refusing to let any men inside on the grounds that the city council was made up of aristocrats—and denouncing the mayor Jean-Sylvain Bailly, and Lafayette, who they said deserved to be strung up from streetlights for not ensuring that Paris had bread. They declared that ‘men were not strong enough to be revenged on their enemies and that they [the women] would do better’.

This violent appropriation of previously proscribed places ‘was the first delight of the revolution’: ‘the beating down of gates, the crossing of castle moats, walking at ease in places where one was once forbidden to enter’. For ordinary women, restricted by their gender as well as by their status, these new liberties were all the more potent. What is evident in the accounts of these October days is that the women revelled in their own boldness and determination. They were driven to act by desperation, but they seem to have surprised even themselves, and they were proud of what they did.

Men, who had failed in their duties as administrators and providers, were deliberately barred from the Hôtel de Ville. The only man the women allowed in was a National Guardsman called Stanislas Maillard. At first, because of his black coat (members of the Third Estate wore plain black coats), they thought he was a councillor; but then they recognized him as a vainqueur, one who had participated in the sacking of the Bastille, and opened the doors to him.

Despite Maillard's initial efforts to dissuade them, the women insisted they were going to Versailles to present their demands to the king and the National Assembly. Maillard decided to go with them, explaining to a colleague that in this way warning could be sent ahead of the crowd of angry women and control maintained over them. He was also sympathetic to their cause, as were many National Guardsmen who were husbands or sons of those protesting. Lafayette, knowing this, tried to keep the National Guard under his command from joining up with the marchers for as long as possible, fearing violence.

Another Guardsman, known as Fournier ‘l'Américain’, who defied ‘the sycophant Lafayette’ to assemble troops to follow the women to Versailles, believed, like the women, that royalists were plotting to starve the nation into submission. Writing during the Reign of Terror, he remembered rallying straggling women in Paris with the words, ‘Your children are dying of hunger; if your husbands are perverted and cowardly enough not to want to go look for bread for them, then the only thing left for you to do is to slit their throats.’

Maillard began beating a drum to call the women to order, but the area in front of the Hôtel de Ville was too small to hold them all and they moved their assembly point first to the Place Louis XV at the end of the Tuileries gardens and then spilled over into the open Place d'Armes on the Champs Élysées. Children blowing bugles and ringing bells went round the market area of Les Halles to assemble the throng. Women converged on the site carrying makeshift weapons like pitchforks and broomsticks as well as pikes, swords and muskets. ‘The town is in alarm,’ reported Gouverneur Morris. ‘All carriages were stopped’, and any passing woman was swept along by the crowd and ‘obliged to join the female mob’. Later, respectable bourgeois women would testify that they had been forced to join the crowd; onlookers were surprised to catch sight of pale-complexioned women in fine clothes alongside the rough market women.

Numbering by this stage about six thousand, the women set off for Versailles, fourteen kilometres distant, through driving rain. Maillard and six drummers headed the procession alongside two cannon, ridden by women. The cannon were taken for effect; they had no powder, but all the same Maillard persuaded the women to place them at the back of the cavalcade when they reached Versailles so as not to intimidate the townspeople. The marchers wore tricolour cockades and carried leafy branches, just as Camille Desmoulins's mob had three months earlier when they stormed the Bastille. They sang poissard songs such as the ‘Motion of the Market Women of La Halle’, which just tipped the balance between coarsely amusing and threatening:

If the High-ups still make trouble

Then the Devil confound them,

And since they love gold so much

May it melt in their traps—

That's the sincere wish

Of the Women Who Sell Fish.

With cries of ‘Vive le roi!’ the women reached Versailles at about five in the afternoon, just as dusk was beginning to fall, marching down the broad allée that leads straight up to the palace. Germaine de Staël, who had driven to Versailles by the back roads as soon as she heard news of the march, had already arrived, but a reluctant Lafayette, at the head of the seditious National Guard, was some hours behind her. The great gates had been drawn across the palace entrance for the first time in its history. ‘Every eye was turned towards the road that fronts the windows of the palace of Versailles,’ recalled Germaine. ‘We thought that the cannon might first be pointed against us, which occasioned us much alarm; yet not one woman thought of withdrawing in this great emergency.’ Both inside and outside the palace women were preparing themselves to participate in history.

After much discussion, fifteen were chosen to appear with Maillard before the National Assembly. Maillard spoke for them, raising rumours of grain hoarding, which the women believed was an aristocratic plot. Deputy Robespierre, immaculate as usual, rose to his feet to confirm the rumours of hoarding. Maillard took the floor again, this time asking that the royal bodyguard be requested to adopt the tricolour cockade to make amends for the insult they were said to have made to it.

As he spoke, the women waiting outside flooded into the assembly hall, declaring that the bodyguards in the palace courtyard had fired on them. The mood in the hall became riotous, almost carnivalesque: the marchers levelled hostile remarks at the Bishop of Paris, threatened to murder a guard, derided the king's failure to sign the Declaration of Rights and spread their wet clothes out to dry. One woman sat in the chair reserved for the president of the Assembly; others tried to participate in the debate and vote with the deputies. They mocked the rituals of government, shouting insults so as to disrupt proceedings, some dropping off to sleep on the deputies' benches.

Outside, the town of Versailles had shut down. One of Marie-Antoinette's ladies-in-waiting tried to get back into the palace at about nine on the evening of the 5th, but a National Guard sentry from Versailles recognized her at the gates and sent her back to her lodgings. ‘You must not be seen in the street,’ he told her. ‘You have nothing to fear for your friends, but there will not be a single lifeguardsman [royal bodyguard] left tomorrow morning.’

Meanwhile the Assembly's president, Jean-Joseph Mounier, had taken a deputation of women to see the king himself. Much impressed by Louis's paternal sympathy and concern (he fetched smelling-salts for a seventeen-year-old flower-girl, chosen as spokeswoman, who fainted at his feet), they returned to the assembly hall bearing a signed order for any delayed wheat to be delivered to Paris immediately. Mounier and some of the women now went back to Paris to inform the people of the king's promises; the remainder stayed in Versailles, the lucky ones finding beds in stables and coach-houses, others huddling in the lee of buildings wrapped in their damp clothes. Many of them wept with exhaustion and confusion, saying they ‘had been forced to march and did not know why they were there’, miles from home and without shelter on a cold, damp night.

The king then agreed without qualification to sign the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, which he had delayed doing for almost a month. He consulted his ministers about whether he should resist the hostile approaching National Guard by force, or flee, and decided to do neither. ‘Habits of formality’ stopped him escaping, then or later, according to the daughter of an aristocrat who urged flight.

When Lafayette arrived with the factious Guard it was almost midnight. Versailles was quiet, but wide awake: the tinderbox still smouldered. Alone and unarmed, the general was permitted into the palace to see the king, and told him—after swearing to die at his feet

—that if Louis would guarantee food for Paris, allow the patriotic National Guard to replace the royal bodyguard, and agree to move his family, court and government from Versailles to Paris, the National Guard would be satisfied and a clash between them and the royal bodyguard would be averted. The king said he needed to think about the last proposal. Lafayette reported back to the National Assembly, then to his soldiers and officers, and spent the next few hours trying to maintain calm before snatching a few hours' sleep on a sofa at his grandfather's house.

Just before dawn, a crowd of armed men and women broke into the palace compound. Storming into the royal apartments, they called for the blood of the ‘Austrian whore’ (Marie Antoinette had been an Austrian princess before she became the French queen). Two soldiers were killed and their heads paraded around the courtyard on pikes. They chased the barefoot, frantic queen through the Hall of Mirrors to the king's apartments, where the terrified royal family were reunited; outside, the National Guardfinally turned against the mob and stemmed their advance.

Lafayette, awoken by the mayhem, ran to the palace. At his suggestion Louis took his family on to the narrow balcony outside his grand-father's state bedroom and, addressing the crowd, promised to entrust himself to the love of his subjects, to their cheers below. Then Lafayette persuaded Marie-Antoinette to step out in front of the crowd alone, turned to her, and kissed her hand; the volatile crowd suddenly turned royalist, and erupted with cries of ‘Long live the queen!’ as well as, brandishing loaves on pikes, ‘We have bread!’

For the moment, the crisis had been averted.

Later that morning, Lafayette escorted the royal family back to Paris through the rain at the heart of a procession of perhaps sixty thousand people flanked at either end by the National Guard. Ministers and deputies marched too, alongside flour wagons from the king's own stores and triumphant market women arm in arm with Guardsmen whose caps they were wearing. Green branches were tied to rifle butts, the two cannon brought from the Hôtel de Ville the morning before were wreathed in laurel, and the two murdered bodyguards' heads were carried aloft on pikes beside bloody loaves of bread. Many women lifted their skirts and flashed their bottoms as they passed, a traditional expression of female mockery and contempt. They were bringing the baker, the baker's wife and the baker's boy (the king, queen and dauphin) to Paris, sang the mob.

The harlequin makeup of the crowd during those October days excited much comment at the time. The eight-year-old daughter of a courtier remembered the streets of Versailles flooded with ‘horriblelooking people, uttering wild cries’. Edmund Burke, from the safety of England, denounced the ‘horrid yells, and shrilling screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and all the unutterable abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shape of the vilest of women’. ‘Probably,’ responded Mary Wollstonecraft icily, ‘you mean women who gained a livelihood by selling vegetables or fish, who never had any advantages of education.’

Some of the October women undoubtedly were violent, bloodthirsty and deliberately intimidating. On the way to Versailles, a few shouted that they were going to the palace ‘to bring back the queen's head’. When the palace was stormed, some were heard calling for the queen's liver to be fricasséed. On the whole, though, it was not until the National Guard arrived late on the night of the 5th that the mood turned bloody.

Mme de Tourzel, governess to the royal children, thought that many of the ‘women’ who entered the palace early on the morning of the 6th were men in female clothing. It was not unusual for eighteenth-century Frenchmen to adopt women's clothes and women's names, such as Mère Folle, when demonstrating for political or economic purposes; peasants had dressed as women and blacked their faces to attack surveyors during a land dispute in the Beaujolais in the 1770s. Like poissard humour, like the joy taken in entering forbidden places and challenging long-established authorities, this grim fancy dress was another element of black carnival, the combination of festivity and menace that characterized the popular revolution.

Most of the marchers were proud of their participation, and saw the precedent set by women seizing the political initiative as a positive one. The following month, a woman writer in Les Étrennes Nationales des Dames hailed the Parisiennes for proving that they were at least as courageous and enterprising as the men. ‘We suffer more than men who with their declarations of rights leave us in the state of inferiority and, let's be truthful, of slavery in which they've kept us so long,’ she continued. ‘If there are husbands aristocratic enough in their households to oppose the sharing of patriotic honours, we'll use the arms we've just employed with such success against them.’

The poissardes, for their part, had a new song:

To Versailles, like braggarts,

We dragged our cannon.

Although we were only women,

We wanted to show a courage beyond reproach.

We made men of spirit see that just like them, we weren't afraid;

Guns and musketoons across our shoulders…

Pauline Léon did not say whether she had been in Versailles on 5 and 6 October, but she did say that Lafayette's behaviour on those days, the evident conflict between his political principles and his loyalty to the king, and his efforts to bring about a compromise between the royalists and the populists, had confirmed her mistrust of him. She saw him as a traitor, and her words echo Fournier l'Américain's portrait of a wretched, perfidious general stalling for time to save his king at the cost of his countrymen: ‘Since that time [the women's march] I have sworn eternal hatred of him, and I have used all possible means to unmask him.’

The march on Versailles gave the women of Paris like Pauline Léon a new political self-confidence. The guts and initiative they had shown gave credence to their demands. Ceaselessly they urged the continuance of the work of the revolution. Eighteen months later a group from Saint-Germain, mostly widows and single women, addressed the Cordeliers' Club, a popular revolutionary assembly which had met, since April 1790, on the rue des Cordeliers. Léon may have been among them: she lived in Saint-Germain and regularly attended the club, which met at the bottom of her street.

‘Watch with more exactitude and severity than ever over the governing of the state,’ they exhorted the Cordeliers. If Frenchmen failed in their duty, if they trusted perfidious tyrants—like Lafayette—who hoped to return the French people to slavery, the women swore that they themselves would defy established social roles to fight in defence of liberty.

We have consoled ourselves for our inability to contribute to the public good by exerting our most intense efforts to raise the spirits of our children to the heights of free men. But if you deceive our hope, then indignation, sorrow, despair will impel and drag us into public places…Then we shall save the Fatherland, or, dying with it, we will uproot the torturous memory of seeing you unworthy of us.

Like Germaine de Staël, these women made a point of accepting feminine political passivity as essential to society's greater good; but they were utterly committed to the revolutionary cause. They did not want rights for themselves, but they wanted rights for all Frenchmen. If men failed to deliver the new liberties they had promised, they insisted, women would not be afraid to step on to the public stage as they had in October 1789.

All over France, common women gathered together in clubs of different types to demonstrate their patriotism and their devotion to the revolution. Some dared call for girls to be better educated; others demanded the privilege of fighting for the patrie, or rights of consent over marriage and inheritance. In Saint-Sever, a Mme Lafurie argued that custom did not prove the law: contrary to popular belief, she declared, women were neither too weak to work nor too depraved to play a role in public life.

Twenty-seven cities had auxiliary clubs of the Fraternal Society of the Friends—calling themselves Amies rather than Amis—of the Constitution. In Breteuil in August 1790 a group of unmarried ‘Sisters of the Constitution’ offered a hand-sewn national flag to the town; the women of Alais formed a Patriotic Club which met to read the decrees of the National Assembly to their children. Female companies of the National Guard were formed across the country: at Creil, at Angers, at Villeneuve-la-Guyard, Aunay, Bergerac and Limoges. In the summer of 1791, the women of Les Halles, Paris's central market, donated to the National Assembly their guild treasure, in silver plate and cash, amounting to almost fifteen hundred livres. Before the revolution, they said, ‘all politics and all refinements’ had been foreign to them; since then, ‘the idea of liberty [had] enlarged souls, inflamed spirits, electrified hearts’, and they were willing to make any sacrifice to acquire and safeguard it.

Most rural Frenchwomen were not revolutionaries; all they wanted was bread to feed their children and fuel for their fires. Counterrevolutionary sentiments were strong in the west of the country. In September 1790, women protesting at the price of bread cried, ‘We want to save the monks! Long live the clergy! Long live the nobility!’ A royalist newspaper, L'Ami du Roi, reported in 1791 that ‘a Frenchwoman inflamed with love for her country’ had suggested forming a club of female ‘Amazons’ to defend France and the king.

Louis-Marie Prudhomme, editor of the left-wing Révolutions de Paris, wrote in November 1791 that many of his female readers were complaining of being excluded from participating in the revolution. Some claimed that in ancient Gaul women had had a voice in government and questioned why these rights were not returned to them. Prudhomme responded savagely: ‘we do not venture to come and teach you how to love your children, spare us the trouble then of coming to our clubs and expounding our duties as citizens to us’. His chauvinism was not unusual, and would only become more widespread. Jacobin Clubs across the country increasingly resisted women's attempts to participate in their activities, fearing what they saw as their corrupting influence; in Tonneins, the local Jacobins succeeded in segregating the men and women watching their debates and in banning women and men from conversing with each other on their premises.

The month after the women of Saint-Germain addressed the Cordeliers, Pauline Léon presented to the National Assembly a petition bearing over three hundred signatures. In the event of a foreign war, she argued, women would be left defenceless at home; they needed weapons in order to defend the patrie from its hidden, internal enemies. ‘Your predecessors deposited the Constitution as much in our hands as in yours,’ she argued. ‘Oh, how to save it, if we have no arms to defend it from the attacks of its enemies?’

Women did not want to abandon their homes and families, she insisted, but having been ‘raised to the ranks of citoyennes [citizennesses]’, having ‘sampled the promises of liberty’, they could never again submit to ‘slavery’; the irony of her argument was that the ‘rank’ of citoyenne carried with it neither civic liberties nor political rights. Politicized by the march to Versailles in October 1789, Léon and her associates claimed not the vote but a greater role in the defence of the nation. She demanded ‘the honour of sharing their [men's] exhaustion and glorious labours and of making tyrants see that women also have blood to shed for the service of the fatherland in danger’.