The Diary of Adèle Moreau
December 16, 1787
Dear Diary,
Mama and I went to the market today. My dry lips longed to taste the thick, creamy inside of the éclairs that have been foreign to me for so long. Each day when we enter the market, the delicious smells engulf me, and I dare not say how many nights I have gone to bed longing for a bite of chocolate or a steamy croissant. I know that these daydreams will never be fulfilled; Mama and Papa can barely afford the 10 sous for our bread! I scarcely know what we will do if the prices continue to rise. Lord knows we could barely afford it before, but now? I cannot imagine.
Alexendre was at the market again today. I could barely breathe at the sight of him; I swear I saw him writhe in agony. If only I had been alone, then we could have spoken together like last Tuesday. Oh! What would Mama say if she knew of us? I dare say she’d cry for a week straight. Since the day I was born, she has had her sights set on me marrying a rich man. Lord knows that will never happen. Ha! Me, marry a rich man? As likely as someone calling me a beauty! What chance does a girl like me have of marrying well? I was born poorer than the peasants, I have no trace of delicacy in my face or features, and I have absolutely no connections in higher circles anywhere! It is absurd. Perhaps Mama will come around after Papa has told her of Alexendre’s proposal. I must end now, dear Diary. The sun is setting, and I need to get closer to the fire; my fingers are threatening frostbite. So long; I know not when I shall have the chance to write again.
March 11, 1789
Dear Diary,
How long it has been since I have written! So much has happened in the past year and a half; I know not where to begin. Our situation became much more dire after last winter, the temperatures have been so cold that I fear for Alexendre and the baby. That I believe is new, Alexendre and I were married last February, and we are now expecting our first child. What a wretched time to be expecting! Into what kind of a world am I bringing this child?
The bread prices have increased so much more than I ever could have imagined two years ago. 15 sous! I know not how we will afford it much longer.
Alexendre has gotten so thin; his clothes hang off of his shoulders and his strong firm chest seems as weak as a child’s. I fear for him, but he refuses to eat more than a few bites each day, insisting that all of the bread go to me. If I were only feeding myself, I would be obstinate that he took more, but I cannot bear the idea of depriving my poor, innocent child of food. The idea of this new being, this new soul that is growing within me, is the only thing that allows my heart to thrive in this wretched time.
Deep in my soul I resent the Queen. I would never tell a soul besides you my dear diary, not even my loving Alexendre, of my hatred for her. She and the King rolled through the streets yesterday barely looking at our starving bellies and depressed souls. How I longed to simply have been able to touch her gown. It was so extravagant; there must have been a hundred buttons sown down the side, and the delicate roses must have taken years to stitch! The price of that mere piece of clothing alone could have fed me, my love, and our new child for months. Her expenditure sickens me! Does she not care about the lives of her people? How many have died this past year of starvation and of cold? Can she simply turn away her eyes? Ah! This is enough! Who am I, a mere beggar woman, to speak so of the Queen? What do I know of her affairs? She must be a kind woman, she must! I cannot allow my spite to be directed toward my country. I am ashamed of myself.
Alas! Here comes my love, I must leave you now, dear diary, for other matters need to be met.
June 18, 1789
Dear Diary,
How the times have changed since I last wrote to you my dear diary! There has been such uproar! Yesterday, there was an assembly of the Estates General. Our representatives were locked out of the building, and needless to say, the people were furious. The men and women assembled instead in a tennis court. The people are speaking of declaring revolution through what they call the Tennis Court Oath. As if King Louis’s rule hasn’t been bad enough. I have no idea what will come of this! I fear for my country; I fear for society. The horrors of this time have caused people to become irrational! Indeed, I myself am not happy with our government, but is it worth it to revolt as the people are speaking of doing? I am not sure, if this turns into something similar to the American’s revolt, I do not know if we should precede. Lord help us! Where is this nation headed?
August 23, 1789
Dear Diary,
I am disgusted by the lack of courage with which I last wrote to you. A revolution has indeed begun, and I spit on the vulgarity of King Louis and Marie Antionette’s names! I never thought that my dear land of France would come into such hands as these despicable royals!
When my long anticipated child was born dead last month, I did not know how I would go on. The tragedy struck my dear husband’s and my deepest heartstrings in ways we did not know were possible. The ability to fight alongside the revolutionaries for a better future has allowed us to gather our strength and hope for a new prosperous life.
In the midst of this tragedy, my dearest Mama passed away a few days before the birth of my child. I cried for weeks, it is so hard to go through my life without my dearest companion and friend at my side. Her death was unexpected; even Papa has no idea of the cause. She simply did not wake up one morning. The only good that has come of this is that she did not have to see the tragedy of the birth of her dead grandson. I fear that if she had, she may have died of a broken heart. She awaited the birth of her first grandchild as if it were the coming of the Messiah; I am glad that at least she was spared this shock.
October 16, 1793
Dear Diary,
I write to you now, after nearly four years. It is strange to imagine the anger with which I last wrote to you. Today instead of anger, I write to you in sorrow. The tears that I have shed this past year have been innumerable. I am now completely alone in the world. My most honored father passed on several months ago, and the loss of my final parent was a shock to my heart, the only reminder of my childhood was ripped away from me, and I shall never meet it again. After mourning for the loss of my father, the name of my beloved Alexendre appeared on one of the lists of traitors posted by Robespierre. Last Thursday the love of my life was beheaded in front of a crowd hateful people. To think that I was once among the crowds of jeering people screeching for the death traitors! My support of this movement has long since died. It is unjust to kill so many innocent people and my soul feels dead; the only emotion it is capable of feeling is sorrow.
Today the last queen of France was shoved into a prisoner cart and killed mercilessly without a single loving face near her. I cannot imagine how the poor woman must have felt. The shame! The disrespect! The hatred! How she bore it with composure, I do not know. I must admit, I am now ashamed to call myself French. My heart yearns for my motherland, my soul burns for the lost innocence of my people. I cannot imagine how good could possibly come from all of this evil; I fear my country has fallen to its doom. I must leave you now, my dear diary. You are the only possession I have left in this world, yet if you were found? I shudder at the idea of my fate. So long then, I have determined to bury you in this soil. This soil that I call my homeland and my country. May this land soon prosper, and may a flower grow out of the ash and dust of what used to be France.
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