The Ruby Talisman (6 page)

Mimi clambered down the post and offered Amelie her paw, sticky with jam, to lick.

‘I am innocent,’ argued Amelie, ignoring Mimi. ‘And I’m a girl. There’s no reason to kill me – they wouldn’t dare!’

‘Amelie, they will kill thousands of innocent people. They will even invent a machine called the guillotine to make killing people easier and more efficient. The King and Queen; most of the nobles of Versailles; even the little Dauphin, the four-year-old prince – they will all die.’

Amelie turned over and buried her face in the feather pillows, covering her ears with her hands. Mimi sat on the pillow beside her head, licking her paw clean, occasionally patting Amelie’s curls.

Amelie and Tilly spent a miserable day and night in the empty, plundered apartment. Neither of them slept well. Tilly wondered what would happen if she went to sleep. Would she wake up at home in Auntie Kara’s little attic room and find it was all a strange dream?

They woke early on the morning of July 15, 1789. Amelie tossed and turned restlessly, which woke Tilly. They stared at each other, eyes wide with astonishment to find that Tilly was still there.

‘Bonjour,’
mumbled Amelie, rubbing her forehead. ‘I have a headache.’

‘And I’m starving,’ complained Tilly. ‘We had nothing for dinner.’

Amelie sat up and rang the bell next to her bed. Of course, no-one came.

The girls slowly dressed in their clothes from the day before, helping each other with the stays and their hair.

‘Bon.
Let us go and find some breakfast,’ suggested Amelie.

As the two girls walked the tiled corridors of the palace, they could sense something different from yesterday. Courtiers, servants, nobles and pages stood in little huddles whispering and glancing furtively at the girls as they past.

A large dowager brushed past them carrying a huge gold birdcage with a brightly coloured parrot squawking inside. She was followed by a maid laden down with portmanteaus and bandboxes. The dowager’s dress was rumpled and her hair dishevelled, as though she had dressed hurriedly.

‘Something’s going on,’ Amelie whispered to Tilly. ‘I wonder what it is?’

‘I told you,’ retorted Tilly. ‘The Bastille fell yesterday and the Revolution has begun.’

Amelie glared at Tilly and walked faster. With a small cry, she recognised someone in plain black breeches, jacket and waistcoat, hurrying down the corridor towards them.

‘Monsieur Lebrun, my music master,’ explained Amelie. ‘He might be able to tell us something.
Bonjour,
Monsieur Lebrun. Has something happened? What is going on?’

Monsieur Lebrun stopped somewhat reluctantly and made a little bow.

‘Mesdemoiselles, I cannot stop for long,’ warned the music master. ‘Have you not heard? La Bastille was stormed yesterday afternoon by an angry mob. The news came through last night while the King slept.’

Amelie glanced at Tilly in astonishment. Tilly raised her eyebrows in a
told you so
gesture.

‘Apparently, the rioters assaulted the prison to steal weapons and gunpowder,’ continued Monsieur Lebrun. ‘Over one hundred people died and many more were wounded in the assault, yet the soldiers were powerless to stop them.

‘The mob murdered the governor of the fortress and paraded his head around the city on a pike.’

Amelie shivered with fear, clutching Tilly’s arm.

‘The prisoners were freed, and the mob began to tear down the very wall of the fortress. Wild rumours and accusations are flying around Paris against the King and Queen and their favourites. There is talk of more bloodshed. The streets of Paris are dangerous, with aristocrats being pulled from their carriages and murdered in the streets. People fear we aren’t even safe here in Versailles.’

The music master leant forward in earnest. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that many of those closest to the throne are planning to flee the country. I, for one, am packing my bags and heading to the country until things quieten down. You should advise your uncle, Monsieur le Comte, to do the same.’

Amelie opened her mouth to explain about her uncle and aunt, but Monsieur Lebrun had bowed and was hurrying away with a final
‘Au revoir,
mesdemoiselles’ thrown over his shoulder.

The girls stared after him, his news churning through their brains.

‘So you were right,’ acknowledged Amelie finally. ‘La Bastille has fallen.’

‘And you must escape,’ added Tilly.

Amelie turned and continued down the corridor, Tilly hurrying after her. They swept down two flights of stairs and into the main level of the palace that held the major reception rooms and the apartments of the King and Queen.

A large group of women, all dressed in black, glided towards them, their massive pannier skirts and tall headdresses filling the whole passageway. A gaggle of lap-dogs yapped at their feet – pugs, terriers and poodles, barking, chasing and nipping each other. Amelie and Tilly stepped aside to let the group past, Amelie dropping into a deep curtsey.

‘’Tis the Queen,’ she hissed. ‘Curtsey – and make it deep!’

Tilly obeyed clumsily, trying to copy Amelie’s graceful
reverence.

A couple of the ladies-in-waiting tittered, which made Tilly blush bright crimson.

Queen Marie-Antoinette was in the centre, wearing a billowing black dress with white ribbons, and a coiffeur of glossy black ostrich feathers. Her face had deep creases of grief. It was only a few weeks since her seven-year-old son, Louis Joseph, the Dauphin, had died, and the court was in mourning.

Beside her walked her two surviving children: eleven-year-old daughter, Marie-Therese, and four-year-old son, Louis Charles, the new Dauphin. Both children had the fair hair, blue eyes and striking prettiness of their mother.

Marie-Antoinette heard the titters and noted Tilly’s blush and Amelie’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes. The Queen smiled warmly at the two girls and nodded her head graciously. She stopped for a moment and took Amelie’s hand in her own black-gloved hand.

‘We heard of your loss, Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse,’ said the Queen in a soft voice with a slight foreign accent. ‘I am deeply sorry for it. The Comte and Comtesse de Montjoyeuse were frequent visitors at Versailles. We shall miss them. Please let my ladies know if there is aught you need.’

‘Merci,
your Majesty,’ replied Amelie in a low voice.

The Queen glanced at Tilly, intrigued by her fine clothes and clumsy demeanour. Tilly blushed again.

‘This is ... a ... distant relative of mine ... Tilly ... Mademoiselle Mathilde ... de Montjoyeuse,’ stammered Amelie.

Queen Marie-Antoinette inclined her head graciously. ‘I pray you enjoy your visit to Versailles, mademoiselle.’

It was too tragic that this kind-hearted – perhaps misguided – Queen would be imprisoned and killed. A rush of fury overwhelmed Tilly.

‘Your majesty, you must escape,’ she implored urgently, rushing forward to Marie-Antoinette. ‘You and your beautiful son and the King will all die if you don’t go! I beg you, please don’t delay.’

There was a flutter of disapproval from the ladies, shocked that an unknown girl with no manners would dare address the Queen about such indelicate matters. One hurried forward as though to usher Tilly away.

The Queen held out her hand to stop her. She smiled sadly at Tilly, picking up her young son in her arms. She drew her daughter, Marie-Therese, closer to her side.

‘Merci,
for your concern, mademoiselle,’ replied the Queen with quiet dignity. ‘We live in very troubled times, and I am aware of the grave danger we all face, but my duty as always is to be beside the King.
Au revoir.’

‘No, your Majesty!’ called Tilly. ‘Please save yourself. Save your children.’

The Queen glided forward gracefully, head held high, still carrying her son on her hip and holding her daughter by the hand. The retinue of black-clad ladies and gaggle of lap-dogs flowed behind her.

Tilly stared after Queen Marie-Antoinette longingly.

At the rear of the group was a young lady-in-waiting, about the same age as Amelie. She stopped beside the girls with a great air of importance, greeting them with an airy
‘bonjour’.

‘Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Jeanette,’ greeted Amelie, curtseying in reply. ‘The Queen is very brave, is she not?’

‘The Queen is most upset,’ whispered Jeanette, peering over her shoulder to make sure no-one could hear her gossiping. ‘She has just received the Duchesse de Polignac. The Queen insists the Polignac family flee to Switzerland today, as she is terrified the Duchesse is in danger. She is to be disguised as a maid.’

The girl giggled at the absurdity of the Queen’s best friend dressed as a servant.

‘The Duchesse so far refuses to go, so the Queen will beseech the King to order their departure,’ continued Jeanette excitedly. ‘All is panic in the royal apartments. No-one knows if Versailles will be next. If the King’s troops could not defend the fortress of the Bastille, how could they ever defend Versailles? The Queen wishes to flee somewhere safer and has ordered us to start packing, but the King refuses to go.’

‘Why will he not go?’ demanded Amelie.

‘He says his duty is to stay here at Versailles,’ Jeanette replied. ‘He insists that he will not be a fugitive king. He says the people love him like a father.’

Tilly stamped her foot in frustration. ‘But what about his duty to his wife, the Queen, and his own daughter and son?’ insisted Tilly. ‘Doesn’t he realise that they will die if he doesn’t do something!’

The girl shook her head in sympathy, brow creased with concern.

‘You may well be right, but for once the King will not be swayed. It seems not even the Queen may convince him.’

Jeanette realised the royal party were nearly out of sight and she dashed after them, flinging a hasty
‘au revoir’
over her shoulder.

‘Will the King and Queen escape?’ asked Amelie.

‘No,’ replied Tilly firmly, a great weight upon her heart. ‘The King dithers and refuses to accept the situation, so when they finally try to escape it is too late. I told you. They will be guillotined.’

She thought about her own attempt to warn the Queen.
Could I actually change history by urging King Louis XVI and Queen Marie-Antoinette to escape? What if the whole history of the French Revolution was changed by my actions? What would that mean to the world now?

The girls went to the Great Hall, where the palace kitchens were located, and begged some brioche with hot café au lait. Mimi helped herself to an orange, which she ate delicately with her tiny, wizened paws.

They felt so much better after some food. Their
petitdéjeuner
was interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of the Chevalier, Amelie’s intended husband.

He bowed a formal greeting to the girls, fluttering his handkerchief and simpering at Amelie.
‘Bonjour.
My condolences, Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse. I am extremely pleased to find you. I called on your apartment this morning but found no-one at home.
Excusez-moi.
I know this is irregular, but...’ he glanced at Tilly meaningfully, flicking open his snuffbox and taking a delicate sniff. ‘Perhaps mademoiselle would allow me the indulgence of a private word with Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse?’

Amelie glared at Tilly in alarm, begging her not to leave.

‘Monsieur could have nothing to say that cannot be said in front of my ...
ma cousine,’
replied Amelie, holding herself stiffly. The Chevalier bowed and took Amelie’s hand in his, kissing the top of her glove. Amelie had to restrain herself from snatching it back.

‘Très bien.
It is about our impending marriage, mademoiselle,’ continued the Chevalier. ‘With your aunt and uncle gone, I feel it is my duty to protect you and formalise our union as soon as possible. In short,
ma chérie,
I would like our wedding to be conducted in the chapel here at Versailles before the end of the week. We will then retire to my country estate for our honeymoon.’

Amelie and Tilly stared at each other in horror. Amelie found her handkerchief and covered her eyes, feigning tears to buy herself some time.

‘My cousin is overwhelmed,’ confided Tilly. ‘The death of her uncle and aunt has been a great shock. Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this now, monsieur.’

The Chevalier looked disappointed but bowed gallantly, one leg stretched before the other, as though he were an aged ballet dancer.

‘I will withdraw,
ma chérie,
to make arrangements with the priest. I will call on you later this afternoon to give you news of when the ceremony will take place. Sadly, we will not have time to prepare the proper wedding garments that I would wish for my beautiful bride but, in the current situation, I believe time is of the essence.’

After yet another elaborate bow, the Chevalier kissing his fingertips to Amelie, he was gone, mincing away on his high heels and fluttering his lace handkerchief. Amelie peeked over her own handkerchief.

‘Mon Dieu,
is he gone?’

‘Yes – thank goodness.’ Tilly pulled a face and started to laugh. ‘Oh, Amelie, how could you even consider for one moment marrying that ridiculous man?’

Amelie smiled, then gurgled a laugh. The two girls laughed and laughed until their cheeks ached and tears glimmered in their eyes. When the last chuckle had escaped, they looked at each other.

‘Well, what shall we do then?’ asked Amelie, still smiling.

‘Flee,’ replied Tilly. ‘Flee to England.’

‘Non.
England is too far,’ retorted Amelie. ‘It is nearly three hundred and twenty-five kilometres to the north coast. We should go to the Chateau de Montjoyeuse. We will be safe there with Henri.’

‘Amelie...’ began Tilly, ready to argue. Then she held her tongue. At least Amelie was agreeing to go, which was a start. She would have to work on getting to England later.

Tilly raided the breakfast leftovers, wrapping up some bread, cheese and fruit in a serviette. Now that the decision had been made to go, they wasted no time. They returned to the apartment, where Amelie changed into her green riding habit and riding boots. She found a spare riding cloak for Tilly.

Amelie packed two portmanteaus, with her ball gowns, fans, shawls, day dresses, linen and her rose satin slippers. Finally, she opened a drawer in her writing bureau. Right at the back was a secret compartment where she had hidden a few coins and the small package of jewels lent to her by Tante Beatrice – the pearl bracelets, diamond buckles and hairpins. She stowed the precious items, along with the note she had discovered from her mother, in a pouch tied around her waist and hidden under her skirt.

The girls searched the apartment looking for more money, without success. Everything of value seemed to have been removed.

Tilly did however find a small, thin sword that had been left in the corner of Henri’s chamber. It was heavier than the
épée
she used for fencing lessons, but she decided it might just come in handy. She buckled the belt around her waist and hid the sword under her riding cloak.

Mimi climbed onto Amelie’s shoulder and they set off, each carrying a portmanteau.

All was confusion down in the stables – they were not the only people planning their escape. Grooms ran hither and thither, saddling horses and harnessing carriages. Servants piled belongings up into carriages and carts.

The girls hurried their steps. The row of stalls where the Comte’s horses had been kept was empty. Amelie ran towards Angelique’s stall. One of the Comte’s horses – a pale-grey Arab – was already saddled and tethered outside its stall.

The black mare, Angelique, was still standing in her own stall. She was, however, in the middle of being saddled up by a strange young man.

‘Excusez-moi,’
blurted Amelie, ‘but this is my horse. Take your hands off her at once,
s’il vous plaît.’

The man look discomfited as he hefted the saddle girth tighter.

‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ he replied, ‘but my horse has been stolen this morning, so I am now taking ownership of this mare. I must leave Versailles immediately. However, I will pay you handsomely.’

‘Merci, mais non,’
replied Amelie. ‘I do not want your gold. I want my horse. We, too, must leave Versailles immediately.’

The man did not reply, instead slipping the reins over Angelique’s head and sliding the bit into her velvety mouth.

‘Monsieur!’ reprimanded Amelie.

The man slipped his fingers into his pocket, extracted some coins and handed them towards Amelie. At the same moment, he gripped Angelique’s reins and started leading her out of the stall. Amelie let the coins clatter to the ground.

In one quick movement, Tilly had flung back the cloak and unsheathed her sword.

‘Monsieur, my friend said she doesn’t want your gold,’ Tilly reminded him with a clenched jaw. ‘She wants her horse back.’

The man laughed nervously and led Angelique forward, putting his arm out to fob off the girls.

‘Now, no need for that ... What sort of lady would draw naked steel on an unarmed gentleman?’

‘What sort of gentleman would steal a horse from two defenceless ladies?’ retorted Tilly angrily. ‘Now step back.’

The man sized Tilly up. She was only a girl, dressed in cumbersome skirts and petticoats. However, she had in her hands a glittering sword – and she held it expertly.

‘En garde!’
warned Tilly one last time, her body tensing into its familiar fencing posture. She leapt forward, the sword leading her thrust.

The gentleman dropped Angelique’s reins and scuttled back into the stall, away from the wicked point. Angelique shied and pranced at the altercation.

‘Amelie, lead Angelique out of the stall,’ ordered Tilly, still threatening the man with her sword. ‘Monsieur, don’t do anything foolish. I promise you, I know how to use a sword – and I will.’

The man’s eyes darted around, looking either for a way to escape or a weapon. Tilly backed out after Angelique, keeping the sword pointed towards the enemy and closing the stall door behind her.

‘Get up on Angelique,’ ordered Tilly. ‘I’ll pass you your bag.’

‘It is not a side-saddle,’ complained Amelie. ‘It is a gentleman’s saddle.’

‘Just ride astride,’ ordered Tilly. ‘Marie-Antoinette used to when she was younger – and for goodness sake hurry!’

Amelie hauled herself into the saddle, Mimi scrambling behind her. Tilly passed up one of the bulging portmanteaus.

‘Go,’ ordered Tilly, slapping Angelique on the rump. ‘Wait for me out in the courtyard.’

Tilly untied the reins of the second horse, sheathed her sword and hurriedly swung herself into the saddle, struggling to heft up the heavy portmanteau. The gentleman burst from the stall after her, lunging for the reins. Tilly kicked her heels into the horse’s sides.

‘Ya! Ya!’
she urged.

The heavy bag cut into Tilly’s palm, the uneven weight causing the grey to skitter.

The would-be horse thief caught hold of Tilly’s skirts and yanked, nearly unseating her. Tilly used the portmanteau as a weapon, lifting it high, then swinging it down on her assailant.

Dodging and slipping in the stable muck, the horse thief fell, the portmanteau on top of him. The bag fell open, spilling petticoats, chemises and pale-green silk all over the hapless man.

Tilly urged her horse into a canter down the long cobbled corridor, swung around the corner and out into the sunshine.

Amelie was waiting impatiently in the courtyard, strapping her leather portmanteau to the front of her saddle.

‘Let’s go,’ cried Tilly as she galloped past Amelie. Tilly’s heart surged with joy at outwitting the horse thief. She felt wonderful, galloping a horse off into the French countryside on a sunny, summer day. They were finally escaping.

The two horses slowed to a trot to negotiate the busy streets of the township of Versailles. The streets were crowded with people, waiting in anticipation for the King to attend a meeting of the National Assembly.

There were artisans in wooden sabots, tradesmen carrying tools, market women with their cheeks stained with red wine to replicate the fine ladies’ rouge and barefooted children in rags, their faces grey and hungry.

A thin boy with sunken eyes watched Amelie and Tilly trot past on their expensive horses, dressed in fine velvet and lace. His stomach ached with perpetual hunger, and a rage roared through his blood. He stooped, found a broken stone and threw it with all his strength after Amelie.

The jagged stone struck Angelique on the rump and made her rear with panic. Amelie clung on tightly, Mimi shrieking with rage and fright.

‘Down with the
aristos.’
He shook his fist at Amelie, speaking with a heavily accented, rough patois that was difficult for Tilly to understand. ‘Long live the Third Estate!’ he shouted, referring to the common people– anyone who was not of the nobility or the clergy.

‘Long live the Third Estate,’ echoed a mob of tradesmen, punching their fists in the air. ‘Down with the
aristos!’

A carpenter grabbed an orange from a nearby stall and hurled it. Tilly decided not to waste time watching to see what might happen. She kicked her heels into the sides of the pale-grey mare and cantered on, dodging the orange and passers-by. Behind her she could hear the angry cries of the fruit seller and the insults of the mob.

In a few minutes the girls were away from the town of Versailles and riding down a country lane, heading roughly south. Amelie stopped to check if Angelique was wounded, but she seemed more frightened than seriously hurt.

‘Sorry, I had to use your bag as a weapon to fight off your horse thief,’ apologised Tilly. ‘I dropped it on his head.’

Amelie looked stricken, realising Tilly no longer had the other portmanteau. She glanced back towards Versailles, as though she was prepared to gallop back and fetch it.

‘We can’t go back,’ warned Tilly firmly. ‘We might not make it away a second time. Besides, last time I saw your bag the horse thief was lolling in horse manure with your clothes draped all over him.’

Amelie sighed and nodded.

‘Oui,’
she agreed. ‘I suppose you are right. We should ride on if we want to reach the chateau by nightfall.’

‘Do you know how to get there?’ asked Tilly curiously.

‘Chateau de Montjoyeuse is about fifty kilometres south-west of here,’ replied Amelie. ‘It is very beautiful, set in a little open valley near the royal hunting forest of St Arnoult. We need to ride south towards Rambouillet, then on the back road towards St Arnoult.’

‘Fifty kilometres?’ asked Tilly. ‘How long will that take us?’

‘It is a long ride, but we could do it in one day if we tried. Angelique and Mystique, your horse, are both Arabs, so they are fast and strong. They could do twice that distance in a day if we really had to.’

The day was hot, the sky a vast blue. Late flowers– white feverfew, deep-blue lupins, pink thyme and fragrant honeysuckle bloomed in the hedgerows. The girls rode on, clopping through shady forest paths, wide-open fields golden with nearly ripe wheat and corn, and small villages.

At midday, they stopped for a short rest in the shade of an old oak tree to drink chilly, clear water from a brook and to eat bread and creamy, tangy goat’s cheese before riding on. Mimi curled up and slept in Amelie’s lap, ignoring the bumps and jolts.

By mid-afternoon Tilly’s legs and back were aching. They paced the horses – periodically cantering, trotting and walking. As the day drew on, Tilly felt too sore to canter or trot and she longed to reach their destination.

The dirt track wound along on a plateau of wild moor before descending through a thick forest of birch and oak. They startled a deer and her spotted fawn, grazing in a clearing, and the two animals bounded off into the undergrowth.

The forest was dark and gloomy. The hot July sunshine did not penetrate into its dank shadows. Amelie and Tilly drew their horses together unconsciously, feeling less secure than in the open countryside.

The two horses arched their necks and pranced nervously. Tilly heard a branch crack. Amelie clutched her riding crop and reins.

Suddenly, two men galloped their horses out from behind a thicket of trees and wheeled sharply to face the girls, blocking the track. They wore grey mufflers around their necks, covering the bottom half of their faces, and were dressed in the rough clothes of peasant farmers. Each one pointed a deadly black pistol at the girls.

‘Bonjour,
my fine ladies,’ growled one of the men. ‘You’re very brave riding alone in this forest. Don’t you know there are brigands and outlaws roaming about, robbing and murdering innocent travellers?’