The Chateau on the Lake (27 page)

‘There you are, Viard!’ says Mayor Prudhomme. ‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to.’

Jean-Luc pushes me forward, still keeping a tight hold on me. ‘By chance I saw Mademoiselle Moreau amongst the crowd and took the liberty of asking her to join us.’

Mayor Prudhomme looks me up and down. ‘So you’ve come to see the traitors hang?’

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. ‘I was shopping in the market,’ I say, evading the question.

‘But like all good citizens,’ says Jean-Luc smoothly, ‘Mademoiselle Moreau will be gratified to see justice done.’

The mayor nods in approval. ‘There’s no place for squeamishness when there are traitors in our midst. Shall we take our seats with the rest of the committee?’ He turns to lead the way.

Suddenly dry-mouthed, I shrink back, full of horror at the prospect of being forced to watch Père Chenot hang. ‘I can’t, Jean-Luc,’ I whisper. ‘Let me go and I’ll keep out of the way.’

‘Too late for that now.’ His voice is harsh and the grip on my wrist grows stronger as I hurry along beside him over the square. Once or twice I trip on the cobbles and he has to drag me to my feet again. Then we reach a raised platform with a row of chairs facing the gallows.

I’m overwhelmed by disbelief. Morville is a commonplace little market town full of ordinary people. How is it possible that the sunny market square has been turned into a cruel place of execution for a kindly priest and two devout old women?

The soldiers have formed a cordon before us and the chattering crowd is kept back from the scaffold, where three gallows have been erected. I shiver as I see that nooses are suspended from the crossbeams, silhouetted darkly against the blue of the sky.

I’m aghast to discover that I have a perfect viewpoint for the proceedings in the front row of chairs. My gorge rises and I swallow hard. My knees begin to tremble with dread as I sink down on to the chair that Jean-Luc indicates.

He’s still holding my wrist but his grasp loosens. ‘Don’t you dare disgrace me by fainting,’ he whispers. ‘You don’t have to watch. Look above the gallows if you must but
do not
turn your head away.’

It seems impossible that violence could come to a place as peaceful as this. But then, the king, the highest man in the land, hadn’t escaped the revolutionaries’ wrath and had paid the ultimate price. A vision of his execution rises before me. I hear again the gleeful shrieks of the spectators and then the ‘swish’ that haunts my dreams as the blade falls. I picture the young executioner dancing across the scaffold with the king’s head in his hands, spraying the crowd with royal blood.

‘Jean-Luc, please…’

He strokes my hand, kind again. ‘Madeleine, be calm!’ he whispers. ‘Remember, I bring you here only to keep you safe after your own impetuous behaviour.’

I cannot answer him and my stomach lurches again as Père Chenot and the two women, their hands tied behind their backs, stumble up the steps to the scaffold. A soldier pricks them with his bayonet to chivvy them into their places.

‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do!’ calls out Père Chenot.

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd and someone jeers.

A soldier, little more than a youth, casually rams the butt of his rifle into the priest’s stomach and I cram my knuckles into my mouth to stifle a cry of distress. The young soldier catches Père Chenot as his knees crumple and the hangman pulls a sack over his head.

One by one, the hangman slips the nooses around the prisoners’ necks.

The throng ceases their catcalls and whistles, the noise dying down into a hum of anticipation.

Mayor Prudhomme, seated in the centre of our row of chairs, stands up.

All at once I’m icy cold, despite the heat of the sun. Spots of blackness dance before my eyes and my mouth is dry.

Mayor Prudhomme holds a white handkerchief above his head.

The crowd becomes eerily silent.

I glance at Jean-Luc’s profile but he shows no emotion.

The mayor swiftly lowers his hand.

At the signal, the hangman pulls a lever.

The trapdoors fall open and the three prisoners drop.

The crowd screams in delight, roaring and whistling in approval.

I follow Jean-Luc’s advice and look up high above the three figures jerking like puppets on the ends of their ropes. I stare, dry-eyed, at the wispy clouds floating in the lovely cerulean blue of the sky, wishing I had never set foot on French soil.

 

 

I hardly remember us taking our leave of Mayor Prudhomme. Jean-Luc holds my arm tightly as he leads me back to where Madame Thibault is waiting for me in the
charrette
.

Silently, I climb up to sit beside her.

She turns away and keeps her gaze firmly fixed on Colbert’s back.

He flicks the reins and we roll forwards.

Jean-Luc rides alongside us on his chestnut gelding as we clatter over the stone bridge and leave the town behind.

Madame Thibault glances at me out of the corner of her eye now and again but neither of us mentions the hangings.

Some time later, she says, ‘Mademoiselle Moreau?’

I blink to rid myself of the picture of the poor priest jerking in his death throes. ‘Yes, Madame Thibault?’

‘I’ve had a stroke of good fortune,’ she says. ‘I’ve been offered another sack of flour at a very good price. It will be delivered next week.’

‘I thought flour was rationed?’ I hardly care, so shocked am I by what I have witnessed.

Madame Thibault purses her lips. ‘It is, in the normal way. However, Madame Viard hinted that she’d heard a soldier had some sacks of flour available and he might be found near the
lavoir
, so I went to seek him out. The flour has been confiscated from some anti-revolutionaries. In a way, you could say it’s being redistributed to the people.’

I open my mouth to speak and then think better of it. But I can’t help thinking that, whether Madame Thibault knows it or not, she must be buying her sack of flour on the black market.

The day after the hanging, the evening sun is still hot and the air torpid as I leave the vineyard.

Jean-Luc is leaning against the
chai
, waiting to walk me home.

‘Madeleine, I apologise if you thought me harsh yesterday,’ he says as we set off, ‘but I don’t think you realised how dangerous your comments were. I was trying to protect you.’

I rub the bruises on my wrist from where he’d gripped me but my anger dissipates at the sight of his anxious expression.

‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘since you grew up beside Etienne at Château Mirabelle and enjoyed the benefit of sharing his education, why you have so much sympathy for the new regime?’

Jean-Luc frowns. ‘Regardless of my current position, I’m never allowed to forget that my mother is no more than a superior servant. There is a rot still festering in our society,’ he says, his voice full of passion, ‘and it must be cut out! Those rich, weak aristocrats, feasting on lark’s tongues while they grind the faces of the poor underfoot, must be taught a lesson.’

There is a fanatical glint in his eye and I look away, suddenly uncomfortable. Père Chenot was not a rich aristocrat but I’m still too upset to argue the point. The first time I met Etienne he accused me having too little knowledge of the Revolution to make a proper judgement of a complex situation and I understand now that he was right. The complacent conversations I used to enjoy with friends and acquaintances in London drawing rooms about the events unfolding in France have in no way prepared me for the truth of the situation. It’s confusing. Jean-Luc supports the revolutionary ideals despite his advantageous upbringing and extravagant tastes, whilst Etienne, although he has noble blood, toils beside his labourers in the fields.

‘Nothing is black and white, is it?’ I say. ‘Only many shades of grey.’

Jean-Luc leans forward to clasp my hands. ‘France is building a new and better society. There are bound to be difficulties initially but once these are swept away we’ll all reap the benefits.’ He lifts my hands to his lips.

I hope he’s right.

‘The sun has kissed your cheeks,’ he says. ‘You must take care not to spoil your complexion. I shall buy you a sunbonnet with a wider brim or you’ll end up looking as leathery as the village women. I’ll send to Paris for a pretty one in finely woven straw, decorated with silk ribbons.’

‘Then I shall have to take care not to be taken for a rich aristocrat or I may come to an untimely end.’

Jean-Luc laughs. The breeze ruffles his brown hair and the sun paints it with shiny bronze highlights. He looks a picture of vigorous good health. ‘Let me take you home.’

As the château
comes into sight, Jean-Luc catches hold of my arm, drawing me to a halt. ‘Look!’ he says.

The sun paints the stonework with gold, and the conical roofs of the four towers make the château resemble a fairytale castle.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘It’s a privilege to live here.’

Jean-Luc nods. ‘This place and the estate mean more to me than I can say.’

A little while later we reach the house and I remove my battered old sunbonnet and shake my hair free.

Jean-Luc grips me by my shoulders. ‘You’re so lovely, Madeleine.’ He gathers me into his arms and kisses me. His lips are warm and urgent and I confess that desire stirs in me as I feel his broad chest pressed against me.

At last he lets me go. His eyes are gleaming as he runs his forefinger slowly down my cheek and stops to touch my mouth. ‘So soft,’ he says, and kisses me again.

Resolutely, I banish the thought of Etienne from my mind and submit with some willingness to Jean-Luc’s embraces.

Then the thin wail of a baby’s cry comes from upstairs and I step back. ‘I must go,’ I say.

‘Must you?’

I nod. But Sophie is right, I realise; I should forget my feelings for Etienne and think only about this man who is able to offer me a secure future.

‘Tomorrow evening I dine with the mayor,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘I would be honoured if you’d accompany me.’

I don’t like the mayor but I know that he matters to Jean-Luc. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I should be delighted.’

 

 

The following morning I peep into Sophie’s room. Marianne clings to her mother’s thumb, making contented little noises as she nurses.

Sophie smiles up at me. ‘I swear she’s grown since yesterday.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

Sophie turns her adoring gaze back to her baby’s face and I quietly withdraw. It’s too painful to contemplate what will happen to them in the future.

In the evening Babette carries a jug of hot water upstairs for me. ‘I’ve laid out your dress and clean stockings on the bed. One of them had a small tear so I’ve put a stitch in it.’

Her earnest little face makes me smile. ‘Thank you, Babette. You make an excellent lady’s maid.’

She flushes and smiles. ‘You must look your best for the mayor. He’s a very important man.’

I strip off my work clothes and wash, paying particular attention to my fingernails, which are grimed with dust. I slip on my clean dress and take special care with arranging my hair. My father’s moonstone ring, threaded on a ribbon, nestles between my breasts and I lift it up to stare into the milky depths. Do I wish to see into the future now? I’m not sure. Only if it is happy, I decide.

Downstairs, Sophie is watching for the carriage through the hall window with Marianne on her shoulder. In only a moment she cries out, ‘Here he is!’ and I hear the wheels on the gravel.

‘Have a lovely evening,’ says Sophie, kissing my cheek. ‘And in the morning you must tell me everything that happens.’

I open the door and wonder with a momentary pang if Etienne knows that Jean-Luc is using his carriage to take me out for dinner.

‘You look ravishing, Madeleine,’ Jean-Luc greets me, taking my hands to draw me closer so that he can look at me properly. ‘I shall be the envy of every man tonight.’

It’s hard not to be flattered. ‘And you have an elegant new coat,’ I say, noticing how well it fits his broad shoulders.

A moment later we are bowling along the carriage drive. As we turn out of the gates a horseman carrying sacks in his panniers is waiting to enter. I glimpse his scarred face and recognise him as the soldier from the market place. He must be delivering Madame Thibault’s black-market flour.

 

 

The Lion d’Or has reserved a private room for the mayor’s dinner party. Mayor Prudhomme comes to greet us, clasping Jean-Luc’s hands in his and full of loud exclamations of welcome. He kisses my hand and I try not to flinch away from his moist lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mademoiselle Moreau.’

Madame Prudhomme proffers me two limp fingers and a suspicion of a social smile. Her cheeks are rouged and her fair hair has an unnatural tinge of yellow.

‘Mademoiselle Moreau has taken it upon herself to teach the village children to read and write,’ says Jean-Luc.

The mayor nods approvingly. ‘We all must do what we can in the current struggles for equality. And education is the key.’

‘I agree,’ I say.

Mayor Prudhomme continues speaking without acknowledging my comment. ‘Robespierre himself advocates education for children, even the girls.’ He spreads his hands wide and smiles. ‘Let no one say that he is not generous.’

‘I hold the view,’ I say, ‘that girls who grow up with an education will pass that knowledge on to their children…’ My words fade away as the mayor turns his back on me. The door has opened to admit the innkeeper, bearing two bottles of wine.

‘Nothing less than your best vintage, I hope?’ says Prudhomme.

‘Most certainly,’ replies the innkeeper, uncorking the first bottle. He pours a little into a glass and offers it deferentially to the mayor, who takes a sip and makes a great show of rolling it around his mouth before swallowing it.

Still simmering with indignation at his rudeness, I hope he’ll choke on it.

He shrugs. ‘Passable,’ he pronounces.

The saucy maid I met the last time Jean-Luc brought me to the Lion d’Or serves our dinner but her demeanour is meek this evening. Eyes downcast, she shoots an occasional anxious glance at the mayor.

The boiled leg of lamb and green beans is appetising and the dinner is only spoiled by Mayor Prudhomme’s self-satisfied way of speaking, rarely allowing anyone else the opportunity to lead the conversation.

‘Now that Maximilien Robespierre is elected to the Committee of Public Safety, we
will
have progress,’ says Prudhomme. ‘He will not allow himself to be swayed by emotion but will cut through all the uncertainties and act to end the uprisings and riots.’

‘Robespierre won’t stand any nonsense,’ agrees Jean-Luc. ‘He’ll slice out the cankers in our society, cleanly and swiftly, with the guillotine. And then France will be a safe place for its citizens again.’

‘Exactly!’ The mayor’s wig slips as he nods vigorous agreement and he reseats it with one podgy hand. ‘When he’s finished with the insurgents, Robespierre has promised that there will be nothing left of the Vendée but scorched earth.’

‘Is that not a little harsh?’ I ask.

Madame Prudhomme stops chewing and turns to look at me.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he says with a flash of his yellowing teeth, ‘I fear you understand little of politics.’

I open my mouth to protest but catch sight of Jean-Luc’s slight shake of the head and stare at my plate while my temper cools.

‘Robespierre will send in battle-hardened troops.’ Mayor Prudhomme snorts with laughter. ‘They’ll soon shatter the Vendéeans so-called Royal and Catholic Army, who fight with nothing more than pitchforks and wooden clubs.’

Jean-Luc nods his head in agreement. ‘Robespierre is a catalyst for change.’

Mayor Prudhomme continues to drone on and I stop listening since he doesn’t allow comments from a mere female to interrupt his flow.

Under the table Jean-Luc presses his foot against mine. He glances at me with a swift curving of his full lips and then turns his attention back to Prudhomme again.

My attention wanders until I hear Château Beaubourg mentioned.

‘The Rocheforts are too full of ideas of their own superiority,’ states Mayor Prudhomme. ‘I’ve received reports that they ignore Robespierre’s decree on the hoarding of food.’ He smiles. ‘But they will receive what they deserve when their storerooms are inspected.’

Jean-Luc puts down his fork. ‘The workers are hungry and what little there is should be shared. The punishment for hoarding is death, I believe.’

‘Just so,’ says Prudhomme.

‘Etienne d’Aubery is friends with Edouard Rochefort,’ Jean-Luc says. ‘Why, he came to take dinner at Château
Mirabelle not two months ago.’

I stare at Jean-Luc. Surely it isn’t wise of him to draw attention to that?

‘Did he, indeed?’ says Mayor Prudhomme. ‘These nobles, despite giving up their titles, will always stick together, it seems.’

‘I expressed then the sentiment that Edouard Rochefort is a pompous fool who has never shaken off his sense of privilege.’

The serving maid brings us apple tart, walnuts and cheese, and Mayor Prudhomme calls for more wine.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ whispers Jean-Luc.

I force a smile and resign myself to an interminable evening.

Some time later Madame Prudhomme excuses herself and when she returns I, too, take the opportunity to escape. On my return from the privy, I loiter outside the door to the private dining room, unwilling to return to the party.

‘It will be hard to stop people from hoarding food,’ I hear Jean-Luc say. ‘A prudent housewife has always kept a little extra in the cupboard for hard times. Why, I cannot even guarantee that the cook at Château Mirabelle hasn’t hidden a spare sack of flour or a few jars of olive oil in the cellars.’

‘That will no longer be tolerated,’ says the mayor. ‘We cannot allow the army to go hungry, and the people need to know that the Republic will provide for them.’

I dare not delay any longer and enter the room.

‘There you are!’ says Jean-Luc, rising to his feet. ‘It’s growing dark so I shall call for the carriage. Madame Levesque will not wish me to keep you out too late.’