Tag Archives: Janell Strube

In a world where women are seen but rarely heard, Adélaïde
Labille-Guiard refuses to be silenced.

Prologue
Paris 1793 

A column of fire reached like the Colossus of Rhodes into the night sky.

Shadowed figures waving torches poured into the Place du Carousel.

There, a clamoring mob passed wooden chairs, carriage wheels, and empty wine barrels over their heads toward the center of the square. Anything to feed the growing fire.

The Palais des Tuileries loomed to Adélaïde’s left. Its mansard roof jutted into a smoke-filled sky. To her right, the Palais du Louvre’s long wings stretched into the dark. The stone walls of the gallery that connected the two palaces flickered yellow and orange.

Adélaïde had never felt as small and alone as in that moment, between the embrace of buildings, in a space designed to dazzle royal spectators with seven hundred horses and jousting riders. Tonight, the square was filled with thousands of milling Parisians. And this time, she was the spectacle.

She pulled herself up on the tongue of the wooden cart next to the fire. Squinting against the smoke, she searched for anyone familiar.

Not a soul.

Even the donkeys had balked against their traces and been set free. Their distant braying reached her over the noise of the crowd.

Around her, men lurched about, their faces reddened from the bonfire, their sleeves stained purple from the wine they had scooped into their hands when the king’s cellars were raided. The scent of Bourgogne rose into the air. Beside her, a woman opened a dusty brown bottle and poured wine into the mouths of her companions.

Then the woman turned to Adélaïde. “Traitor!” she shouted, and drew back her arm, preparing to throw the bottle.

The crowd took up the chant. “Traitor! Traitor!” Others brandished their wine bottles.

Time slowed down. Adélaïde felt each sluggish boom of her heart, the constriction of her lungs, the loss of air she could not drag into her paralyzed chest. Was this the way she was going to die? Sliced to ribbons by a barrage of flying glass?

She raised her hands to protect her head and braced herself, but then a tall man in striped pants and a pointed red hat plucked the bottle out of the woman’s hand and emptied the last drops into his mouth. “Any Parisian knows not to let good wine go to waste,” he said.

Laughter.

The new citizens of France stomped their feet, shook their fists at Adélaïde, and threw the staves of the wine barrels into the flames. Arms brushed against her skirts. Bodies jostled the cart. She gripped the splintered seat to avoid being knocked into the fire.

The wind changed, and a rush of acrid smoke filled her lungs. She fought the urge to cough. Heat seared through her dress, burned her arms. Her mind screamed at her to run, but she had promised herself not to show fear, not to retreat.

The man in the red cap climbed into the cart. Sweat rolled from his face, and she smelled the sharp scent of his perspiration. Beneath his polished leather boots, the mountain of canvasses shifted. Fragile wood snapped. He stooped and held up a painting, still in its gilt frame. Black paint effaced the portrait sitter.

“Look at this travesty to art,” he called to the crowd.

How right you are. She kept her eyes averted from his familiar face.

“Burn it. Burn it all!” the crowd roared.