The Red Necklace (21 page)

“But what can I do?” said Sido.

“Nothing. No matter how much you try to please him, even if, God forbid, you lay down your life for him, he will never love you. It would be best just to accept this, and let acceptance make you stronger. I am sorry to speak out of turn, mademoiselle, but that’s how I see it. Is there no other family you can turn to?”

“There’s my mother’s sister in London. She is married to an Englishman, a Mr. Laxton.”

“Well, then,” said Jean, “what’s the sad face for? At least you know there’s someone who will be pleased to see you.”

“Yes, but how would I ever get to England?” said Sido.

“Goodness knows, but if things carry on as they are, you may be glad to have relatives there. If it is of any comfort, Bernard and I have worked out an escape route from the château in case the mob should come. Shall I show you?”

He took a lantern from the dresser and guided her out of the kitchen and down the steps that led to the wine cellar. “Follow me,” he said, pushing back a small wooden door and lifting the lantern high to show her a long tunnel.

“Where does that go?” asked Sido with surprise.

“To the stables. It was built so that your father would not have to see any tradesmen unloading wagons. You never know, his vanity may yet save us.”

Sido smiled.

“That’s better. Bernard is going to keep a carriage ready night and day. Does that make you feel a little less fearful?”

For the next two nights Sido hardly slept. Certain that they would be attacked at any moment, she watched from her window, looking for lights and figures amongst the dark shadows. Only as dawn broke did she allow herself to lie down.

A week later, what Sido had been dreading finally happened. At two o’clock in the morning there was a sudden terrible sound that broke the stillness of the night. She looked into the garden and saw a small army of people advancing on the château, carrying torches and singing loudly, emboldened by wine.

Quickly she dressed and ran to the marquis’s bedchamber, just as Jean burst through the door. The marquis was standing by the window in his robe, looking in disbelief at the crowd down below.

“Who let them in?”

“No one did, Papa. They stormed the wall.”

“Impossible.”

At that moment the window broke. A burning torch landed on the floor and rolled toward the four-poster bed, setting the drapery alight. Sido grabbed a jug and threw water on the flames, while Jean seized the hangings and tried to smother them. It was no use. No sooner had he done so than another torch was thrown in. Downstairs they could hear the sound of breaking glass and hammering on the front door.

“We must leave,” said Jean. “They’ll be in the house at any moment.”

“Not without my buckles,” said the marquis. “I won’t leave without them.”

He pushed open the door to the antechamber. The room was ablaze and he staggered back from the billowing smoke.

“Hurry!” shouted Jean as the marquis desperately tried to beat out the flames to get to his beloved buckles. “If you don’t come now, we’re leaving you.”

The front door gave way and a sound like a wave came crashing into the hall.

In desperation, the marquis grabbed a red-hot buckle and let out a piercing scream as the burning silver branded his hand. Like a wounded child he allowed Jean to lead him down the secret passages, while all around them they could hear the sounds of furniture being broken, ornaments destroyed, and the roar of the fire about to engulf the château.

They rushed down to the cellar, closing the door behind them and stacking baskets of bottles against it in the hope of delaying the mob. Jean went ahead as they groped their way along the dark musty corridor that led to the stables.

Bernard was waiting, trying to calm the two terrified horses that he had harnessed to a carriage. The other horses he had let run wild.

The marquis, on seeing that it was not his finest carriage, demanded that the horses be unharnessed immediately and his gilded coach used instead.

“Get in!” shouted Bernard, losing his patience.

“Surely you don’t expect me to travel in a carriage intended for the use of servants?”

“Please, Papa,” implored Sido, who was already inside. She looked back and saw the château lit red against the sky as the mob began to move toward the stables.

With great presence of mind, Bernard and Jean pushed the marquis into the carriage and set off at full speed. The mob ran after them, throwing stones that ricocheted off the coach, one breaking the back window and hitting the marquis on the head. They were all thrown across the carriage as it swayed dangerously from side to side, bumping over stones from the fallen wall.

There was no choice as to direction. An angry crowd of peasants was waiting, blocking the road leading to Versailles and Normandy.

The marquis, stunned, sat in the corner of the carriage. Blood trickled down his forehead as he looked back at his beloved château, now consumed by flames.

They reached Paris just as the gates were opening. The gatekeeper, who was more used to seeing people trying to leave than entering, opened the carriage door and sniffed at the all too familiar smell of burned clothes and hair.

He smiled at the marquis, who was sitting in his dressing robe, without his wig, and said with relish, “Now you’re one of us. No more the great man, eh, citizen?”

The marquis, who had appeared to be in a trance for most of the journey, looked at the gatekeeper, astonished.

“You are without doubt the ugliest man I have ever had the misfortune to encounter,” he said in a dismissive tone.

“What’s that?” said the gatekeeper, leaping inside the carriage and grabbing hold of him. “You say that again if you dare.”

“Please,” begged Sido, “my father is not himself. He has lost his mind. Surely you can see that?”

The gatekeeper looked at her and then threw the marquis back onto the seat of the carriage like a sack of flour.

“Are you here by appointment, my man?” asked the marquis.

“Am I what, citizen?”

“You see,” said Sido, “he is not well.”

The gatekeeper brushed himself down and looked at Jean. “And who are you, citizen?”

“This is a friend of the family,” said Sido quickly. “He is helping me take my father to the nuns at the Hôtel-Dieu. They will care for him there.”

Jean took the basket that he had had foresight to bring with him and handed it to the gatekeeper. “It must be hungry work, checking all these coaches for traitors to the Revolution. I admire your dedication, citizen.”

The gatekeeper’s mouth began to water as he pulled back the cloth and looked hungrily at the pâté, bread, and cheese. His face was so thin that his cheekbones made a bridge across the flat planes of his features. He took the basket. “Away with you, and don’t let me see him come this way again. Is that understood?”

Early as it was, the heat of the city wrapped itself around them as they made their way through the eerie, deserted streets.

Sido had asked Bernard to drive to the Duchesse de Lamantes’s town house on the Place Royale, which was the only address she knew. They arrived to find it full of packing cases and the duchess preparing to leave. The marquis sat down on a crate, staring before him like a statue, while the duchess, in dismay, addressed herself to Sido.

“My dear child, why on earth did you come to Paris? It’s not safe here. I am leaving, going abroad. Did your father not read my letter?”

“No,” said Sido.

“Oh dear.” Almost in a whisper, she asked, “And have you seen Kalliovski?”

“No.”

The duchess looked around, terrified, as if she expected him to be standing nearby listening, like a cat waiting for a mouse to move.

“I have found someone who will help me to escape. I advise you to do the same. You won’t be able to leave without a passport, though, and they are like gold dust. Have you any money?”

“No,” said Sido, “we have nothing.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, did the marquis not make any arrangements? ”

“No.”

The marquis, his hand held out before him, muttered, “My collection of buckles was even more valuable than the king’s.”

“I do advise you,” said the duchess, ignoring him, “to leave here as soon as you can. They are arresting all aristocrats as traitors. The prisons are full. It will end in a bloodbath.” She went over to her desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “By all means stay, but I beg of you, if Kalliovski does come looking for you, not to tell him where I’ve gone. This is the person you should use to get you out of Paris. I will tell him you need help.” She glanced at the marquis. “I will pay him to get you both out.”

“Thank you,” said Sido, “oh, thank you for your kindness.”

“In these troubled times we must support each other,” said the duchess, kissing Sido. “Good-bye. I hope we will all meet again in London.”

The marquis looked very grave and replied, “I knew, of course, the minute whalebone corsets went out of fashion that things were coming to a pretty pass.”

Sido watched as the duchess left and then looked at the piece of paper she had been given. On it was written the name of a Mr. Tull.

chapter twenty-three

The gates to Paris were now barricaded, for there was a tangible fear that the enemies of France were poised to take the city. Everyone coming or going was a potential spy, or a counterrevolutionary trying to escape, every coach suspected of carrying an aristocrat or a member of the clergy. Papers were lingered over and bribes given.

Yann and his fellow passengers stood in a line. A lady from their party became quite alarmed to see her portmanteau opened and her garments sniggered over by the National Guard.

Lefort the gatekeeper, whose domain this was, looked on like a small king of his castle. He had a squint, and dark bushy eyebrows that dominated his face and made up for the lack of expression in his eyes. He was proud of his work, showed no mercy on man or priest, let no one slip through his iron grip. He walked to and fro in his own bilious cloud of tobacco smoke, occasionally spitting out large yellowish gobbets of saliva.

They all heard the mob before they saw what had brought it tearing onto the street. A large coach painted yellow, not unlike the one the king and queen had used for their failed flight to Varennes, was waiting to leave the city. Its grandeur was causing quite a lot of commotion.

“It’s the king trying to escape again,” jeered one of the onlookers.

Lefort quickly lost interest in the passengers from London and was walking over to the yellow coach when out of nowhere came a group of angry men and women, all wearing the red bonnet of liberty, armed with pitchforks, their sleeves rolled up, ready for action. Yann had never seen such hatred as he saw now, etched upon their faces.

The coachman looked terrified as one of the men leaped at the yellow door, forcing it open with animal ferocity so that it fell off its hinges.

“Shame on you,” he shouted at the occupants, “trying to smuggle out the wealth that belongs to France! You’re traitors to the Revolution! The enemy within, that’s what you be. Well, you’ll soon see how we deal with the likes of you.”

The husband and wife and their two terrified children were unceremoniously dragged out, screaming.Yann, who had a sudden urge to help them, moved forward. He was stopped immediately by the hand of a fellow passenger who whispered urgently to him, “It isn’t worth it, sir. They’ll have you thrown in prison for your efforts. Believe me, there’s nothing we can do. Just thank the Lord you’re not a Frenchman.”

Lefort waved away the cloud of tobacco smoke. Seeing that he had caught himself a mighty catch, he had no interest whatsoever in the London stagecoach. Without so much as a second glance, he let it go.

Yann sat back in his seat. From the window he caught a last glimpse of a child’s frightened face. What had happened to this city, to its citizens, that they should have so much hatred for their fellow men?

The gentleman whose hand had restrained Yann said, “This is a godless city. I get my business done as fast I can and get out again. Wouldn’t catch me staying here any longer than necessary. It’s a tinderbox that will self-ignite and go up in flames.”

“What will happen to those poor people?” asked the woman whose clothes the National Guard had found so amusing.

“They’ll be arrested and sent to prison as cattle fodder for the masses.”

The coach rumbled on over the Pont Neuf, where the statue of Louis the Sun King had been torn down. In the distance Yann could see bonfires still burning.

So this is Paris, thought Yann. He felt a thrill of excitement. For better or worse he was back home at long last.

Monsieur Aulard had been well served by the Revolution. For the time being at least, all theaters were free to put on whatever plays they chose as long as they supported the Revolution, made fun of the clergy, and mocked the greed of the aristocrats.

Wisely, seeing which way the wind was blowing, Monsieur Aulard had renamed his small theater the Theater of Liberty. In so doing, he had won the approval of no less a figure than Citizen Danton, one of the most influential men in the National Assembly. With such patronage the theater manager no longer needed to hire magicians to perform cheap fairground tricks to a half-empty auditorium. He now put on productions full of spectacular effects, filled with revolutionary zeal. There was never an empty seat or a dry eye in the house. The only other time the takings had been this good was in the old days of Topolain.

Success had brought sobriety. He treated wine like medicine, doctoring himself with a certain amount each day and not one drop more. In times like these, a man needed his wits about him if he were to survive, for politicians, like audiences, are a fickle lot. What worked well today could be the end of him tomorrow.