The Chateau on the Lake (9 page)

Sudden tears spring to my eyes at his last-minute bravery but then there is a great bellow from a cavalry officer.

‘Beat the drums, damn you!’

The drummers begin to pound furiously again and hoarse shouts come from the crowd.

‘Get on with it!’

‘Death to Citoyen Capet!’

My mouth is dry as I watch the executioners grapple with the king and drag him under the blade of the guillotine. Suddenly I feel sick and my heart rattles rapidly behind my ribcage.

Then I hear a swish and a thud as the blade falls.

The king’s head is severed from his body and drops into the basket below.

An artillery salute booms out over the square.

The crowd roars in an orgy of excitement. ‘Long live the Republic!’

It isn’t until this moment, this terrible moment when one of the executioners holds up the king’s head by his hair, that the true horror of what I have seen hits me with the force of a lump hammer. The youngest executioner dances around the scaffold, shrieking in glee and swinging the severed head so that drops of royal blood sprinkle the spectators, while with his other hand he makes obscene gestures.

A woman standing next to me is jumping up and down, shrieking in delight. Turning aside, I vomit on to the ground.

All around me people are whistling, cheering and kissing each other. Trembling with shock, I wipe my mouth. Am I the only person in the crowd who is sickened by what has happened?

A woman in a tricolour sash is standing next to me, watching. ‘Aren’t you pleased the king is dead, Citoyenne?’ Her eyes narrow as she questions me.

‘The sight of blood makes me ill,’ I say, but I can tell from her expression that she doubts me.

‘Now there will be freedom for everyone.’ She throws back her head and yells, ‘Death to the queen!’

A handful of people take up her cry.

She prods me with a grimy forefinger. ‘You… say it with me!’

I open my mouth but can’t bring myself to shout the words.

The woman grips my wrist, her nails digging into the skin. ‘Don’t you want the royal bitch to die?’ She frowns. ‘Who are you? You don’t speak like a citizen.’

I spin on my heel, snatching my wrist from her grasp, and began to shove my way through the crowd.

‘Don’t let her escape!’ shouts the woman. ‘She’s a traitor to the Revolution!’

Others take up the cry. ‘Traitor!’

I scream as hands clutch at my clothing and snag my hair. Sheer terror gives me the strength to propel myself onwards. A man grabs my arm, but then the cannon fires again close by and he looks up to watch a cannonball fly in an arc across the grey sky above. I twist out of his grip and force my way through the multitude until I reach the edge of the square. Glancing back, I see the woman in the sash screaming and shaking her fist at me. Heart hammering, I duck down and weave away through the crowd, panic lending me strength. At last I leave the square behind and run as blindly as if the devil is chasing me.

Breath rasps in my throat as my feet pound over the cobbles. At any moment someone might catch hold of me and drag me back. At last I collapse against a wall, chest heaving, while I press my fists against the stitch in my side. Sobbing, I glance over my shoulder but don’t see anyone I recognise. A horde of people rushes past, buffeting me with their elbows and treading on my toes, but I’m so relieved to have lost my pursuers that I don’t care.

The stitch in my side has eased but as I look around I see nothing that is familiar to me. The masses stream past, punching the air and singing bawdy songs. I’m lost in a strange city and no one knows, or cares, where I am. I flinch as a sudden crack of gunfire ricochets from building to building and a woman screams. A flutter of panic makes my stomach clench. I daren’t ask anyone for directions. Skirting the walls, I sprint to the end of the street and turn into the next road.

My attention is caught by a display of red, white and blue in a shop window and a wave of relief washes over me as I recognise the parasols I saw earlier. I glimpse my reflection in the window and realise that I have lost my frilled cap and my hair is tumbled around my shoulders. Forcing my way through the chattering masses surging along Rue St Honoré, I set off, against the flow, towards the safety of Rue de Richelieu, desperate to be back in the safety of Monsieur d’Aubery’s house.

A gang of twenty or so youths, singing at the top of their voices, is marching towards me. I shrink back against the wall to let them pass, but one of them snatches hold of me and plants a kiss on my mouth. I recoil while the youths cheer, clap their friend on the back and continue on their way. Shuddering, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.

All at once someone seizes my upper arm in a grip of steel and spins me around. I gasp, terrified again as a voice hisses in my ear.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Monsieur d’Aubery’s handsome face is taut with anger and his eyes blaze.

‘Monsieur d’Aubery! The king, I saw the king…’

He shakes my arm violently. ‘Didn’t I tell you that the streets of Paris are too dangerous for a lady?’

Relief gives way to distress. ‘I only wanted to…’ Tears start to my eyes and I can feel my face turn scarlet as I try not to cry.

‘Don’t speak to me! I’m too angry to listen.’ Still clutching my arm, he sets off at such a pace that I nearly trip over as I trot along trying to keep up, all the while shaking with shock.

Before long we arrive back at the house and the front door opens seconds after Monsieur d’Aubery hammers a tattoo with the knocker.

The maid flinches when she sees the thunderous expression on his face and steps away as, still gripping my arm, he drags me up the staircase.

Sophie is propped up in bed, her cheeks flushed and sweat glistening on her brow. She cries out when she sees me and Dr Dubois rises from the chair at her bedside.

‘Are you hurt, Mademoiselle Moreau?’ he asks.

I notice that the buttons have been ripped off my coat but I shake my head, trying to forget my terror.

‘We have all been extremely concerned for your welfare,’ says Dr Dubois. The reproach in his voice is enough to make me drop my gaze and my knees are trembling so much I fear they will give way.

‘I expected to return before you awoke, Sophie.’ Surreptitiously I wipe away tears with my finger.

‘Dr Dubois called by to see how I was and that’s when we found you were missing.’ Sophie’s voice is faint and she closes her eyes as if the effort of speaking has exhausted her.

Monsieur d’Aubery strides from the room. We hear his booted footsteps clip down the stairs and then a door slams.

I glance at Dr Dubois, who shrugs. ‘He was concerned for you.’

Sophie begins to cough so violently that I can hear the breath whistling in her lungs and I’m overtaken by new anxiety. She presses a handkerchief to her lips and falls back against the pillows when the fit is over.

Dr Dubois indicates that he wishes to speak to me and I follow him from the sickroom.

‘Madame Levesque has not shaken off the fever as quickly as I’d expected,’ he says.

His face is grave and fear stirs in my breast. ‘But she will get well?’

Dr Dubois is silent for a moment and then picks up my hand and pats it. ‘I will do all in my power. Watch her carefully, especially as I believe it is not only her own life that is at stake. Is that not so?’ He studies my face carefully.

I stare back at him and then lower my gaze. ‘Yes,’ I murmur.

He nods in acknowledgement. ‘Feed her chicken broth, keep her cool and send for me if there is any change.’ He smiles. ‘And remember to look after yourself too. I prescribe a glass of red wine with your dinner and you should sleep whenever your patient does.’

‘I’ve made Monsieur d’Aubery very angry.’ I’m close to tears again.

‘He has suffered many tragedies in his life, and feared the worst might have befallen you.’ Dr Dubois pats my hand again. ‘Go and see him this evening. He’ll be himself again by then.’

I sit beside Sophie all afternoon with my aching head full of dreadful images of the king’s beheading. In my mind’s eye I picture the glint of the guillotine’s blade and hear it hiss and then see the head fall into the basket, over and over again.

When it grows dark I close the curtains and bathe Sophie’s overheated face.

Later, the maid comes to tell me that supper is ready and I put on a clean dress and fichu before going downstairs.

Monsieur d’Aubery is already seated at the vast dining table. He stands as I enter the room and waits while the footman draws out my chair.

We sit in uncomfortable silence while the footman ladles soup into our bowls and then Monsieur d’Aubery dismisses him.

Dismayed, I watch him leave and wish I could run after him but know I must face up to what is sure to come.

‘I believe I owe you an apology,’ Monsieur d’Aubery says. His posture is stiff and his face unsmiling.

I’m completely taken aback. ‘On the contrary,’ I say in a low voice, feeling thoroughly chastened, ‘I understand why you were angry and I’m sorry I put you at risk, too. I know now that it was extremely foolish of me to leave the house today.’

‘You escaped very lightly,’ he says, slightly mollified.

I shiver at the memory of the murderous crowd clutching at my clothes and hair. ‘I would do it again, though,’ I say.

‘Again?’ He stares at me.

‘Don’t you see?’ I appeal to him. ‘History was made today and I was there to witness it.’ I close my eyes for a second as I remember the executioner dancing around the scaffold with the king’s head in his hand. ‘Although I shall be for ever haunted by the terrible memory of King Louis’s beheading…’

‘My God!’ Monsieur d’Aubery pushes back his chair and surges to his feet. ‘You
saw
him go to the guillotine?’

I push away my soup as queasiness overwhelms me. ‘It was a dreadful event but not so dreadful as the bloodlust of those watching.’

‘A lady like you should never have experienced…’

‘Monsieur d’Aubery, you told me a while ago that I had not the knowledge to have an opinion upon the Revolution in France. I realise now that you were correct. But however shocking it was today, I am at least a step closer to gaining that knowledge.’

‘I made a very great mistake in allowing you and Madame Levesque to come to France.’ Monsieur d’Aubery sits down again, his brow furrowed.

‘We would still have come, whatever you had said.’

Monsieur d’Aubery sighs. ‘You are extremely stubborn, Mademoiselle Moreau.’ He returns to his soup and we barely exchange another word until I excuse myself to attend to Sophie.

 

 

My friend remains very ill and I’m exhausted from tending her through the nights, but after several days her fever breaks. Although I’m relieved by this, she has become thin and frail with bruised shadows under her lack-lustre eyes. We make our own little world in our adjoining rooms, toasting our toes by the fire and reading books from Monsieur d’Aubery’s library, but her spirits remain very low. My own thoughts are occupied with imagining myself meeting Papa’s family for the very first time and wondering what I shall say to them. Will I sense echoes of him in the château in which he grew up? Sometimes he spoke fondly of his nurse. Perhaps she will still be at Château de Lys.

One day, while Sophie is dozing, I am standing by the window looking down at the street below when a battalion of ragged soldiers march by. A motley collection of civilians runs along beside them, most of them wearing red caps. I open the window and listen to the tramping of soldiers’ feet and the raucous shouts and jeering cries of the followers. Three or four street dogs chase after them, barking excitedly.

There is a soft knock at the door and I open it to see Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘I must speak to you straight away,’ he says.

Alarmed by his grim expression, I glance at Sophie and see that she still sleeps

Silently, I follow him downstairs into the library. He gestures me to a leather chair beside the hearth.

‘What has happened?’ I ask.

‘France has declared war on England and Holland.’

I draw in my breath sharply. ‘First Austria and Prussia and now this! I’ve just seen soldiers in the street.’

‘New conscripts, I daresay.’ He rubs his temples as if he has a headache. ‘The question is, what am I to do with you and Madame Levesque? If anyone suspects you’re English, you’ll be accused of being a spy. They’d imprison me too, or worse, for harbouring you.’

‘But no one need suspect that we’re not French.’

Monsieur d’Aubery rubs his thumb over his chin. ‘It’s one thing to pass as a native Frenchwoman travelling through Paris, quite another to live here. The city is extremely volatile at present and, as a member of the former aristocracy, my house may become a target for the revolutionaries. I have decided to retreat to the country.’

I swallow, suddenly conscious that Sophie and I will then be left to find somewhere else to stay.

‘I shall take you with me,’ he says.

‘Oh, but…’

He holds up his hand. ‘Please do me the courtesy of not arguing, Mademoiselle Moreau. You are not yet fully aware of the danger you and I could find ourselves in if I leave you at large in Paris or travelling alone to Fontainebleau before Madame Levesque is fully recovered.’

I consider what he’s said. I’m impatient to find Papa’s relatives but it’s quite possible that we’ll receive an uncertain reception and, as Sophie is still unwell, I don’t wish to exhaust her by subjecting her to the vagaries of public transport. Perhaps it is more sensible to remain under Monsieur d’Aubery’s protection for the present. ‘Thank you, then. We will be happy to accept your kind offer.’

He nods. ‘We shall leave in the morning before first light.’