The Blue Rose

by Kate Forsyth

  The news spread fast. Viviane heard it that night. No-one could talk of anything else. Charlotte was arrested and interrogated. It was impossible she acted alone, most said. A young woman could not act with such force of mind, such ruthlessness. Paris was plunged into mourning. Alouette joined hundreds of other women in holding a wake over Marat’s body, crowning him with everlasting flowers. They paraded the bloodstained bathtub in which he had died through the streets of Paris. Odes were read over his heart, which was embalmed and set in an urn at the Cordeliers Club.

  ‘But why?’ Viviane asked her friend. ‘Marat was no friend of women.’

  Alouette said sharply, ‘He was the friend of the people!’

  As she turned away, Viviane saw a flash of fear in her eyes. She thought she understood. Alouette and other women of the sans-culottes could not be associated with the monster that had murdered Marat.

  Charlotte Corday was guillotined on the 17th of July. A few days later, Olympe de Gouges was arrested. She had spoken out against Marat and Robespierre and the other Jacobins, and was thought to have sympathy for the imprisoned Brissotins.

  ‘A woman has the right to mount the scaffold, she must also have the right to mount the rostrum,’ she had written. Viviane feared that her words were prophetic.

  Antoine Simon was enraged at the murder of Jean-Paul Marat. His own lodgings were next door to Marat’s in the Rue des Cordeliers and his well-paid job had been won as a result of the journalist’s patronage. For hours, the sound of his drunken ranting echoed through the prison. Viviane could hear Louis-Charles crying out for mercy, and was once again overcome with anger.

  She did what she could to help. She made rich beef broth and carried it upstairs to Louis-Charles’s room, handing it through the door to Citoyenne Simon. When the boy was out in the garden for his daily walk, she stripped the bedding from his low cot and plumped his pillow, then burned some juniper to purify the air. And she took the queen a little nosegay of sweet-smelling flowers, hiding it within the clean chamberpot as she had once hidden her sabots.

  Shyly she laid it next to Marie-Antoinette’s hand. The queen managed a faint smile, but her eyes returned at once to the gap in the shutters, where she could see just a glimpse of the garden. Marie-Antoinette crouched there all day, in the hope of seeing her little boy.

  Viviane picked up the dinner tray – hardly touched – and carried it away with an aching heart.

  One evening in early August Viviane was sitting in her usual spot by the kitchen fire, reading Olympe de Gouges’s latest pamphlet, released just before her arrest. The outspoken playwright fully expected to be executed, and so had written a mock will: ‘I leave my heart to my country, my integrity to men (they need it). My soul to women, not an indifferent gift; my creative genius to authors, they are sure to find it useful … my compassion to the ruthless, my philosophy to the persecuted, my spirit to the fanatics, my religion to the atheists, my guileless gaiety to women past their prime, and all the sad debris of an honest fortune to my natural heir, my son, if he survives me.’

  What a gift to be given, Viviane thought. Olympe’s indomitable soul and her guileless gaiety. It lit a spark somewhere deep inside her. She felt suddenly restless and got to her feet, moving about the kitchen and tidying it once more.

  The door to the garden opened with a bang, and Ivo came in.

  ‘I met your brother tonight,’ he said abruptly.

  Viviane had a strange sensation, as if the floor rocked under her feet. ‘What?’

  ‘Your brother. I met him tonight.’

  A tall white dog with three red feet came bounding through the door. On her side was a large spot, as round as the moon. ‘Luna!’ Viviane cried and ran forward.

  Luna went mad with joy. She leapt and pranced, wagging her tail, then sprang into the air and put her only front paw on Viviane’s shoulder so that she could lick her face. Viviane embraced her, caressing her soft ears, weeping with surprise and gladness. Then she saw that Pierrick had come in with the dog, and flew to him, embracing him. ‘But how … where? Oh, Pierrick!’

  All was tumult for a moment.

  ‘I wanted you so badly,’ Viviane cried. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Working at the opera as a stage hand. I create the fiery pits of hell where the villains end up.’ Pierrick’s familiar cheeky grin. How she had missed it.

  ‘But how? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I needed work, and they needed someone happy to play with fire.’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were, or how to find you. Why didn’t you come to the prison, or write to me?’

  His grin faltered. ‘It was too dangerous. Anyone associated with an aristo was in danger of being arrested themselves. Besides, I had to look after Luna.’ He patted the dog’s head, and she licked his hand, tail wagging madly.

  ‘I didn’t know where to go once I got out, or what to do … I was all alone.’ Viviane had to mop her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  ‘But how did you end up here?’ Pierrick looked around at the dark, cavernous kitchen, with its vast medieval hearths and heavy oaken beams.

  ‘The queen,’ Viviane faltered, ‘and the children of France.’

  ‘You came to serve them?’

  ‘To help if I could. I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘You told me you were a peasant girl,’ Ivo said accusingly. ‘You lied to me. I helped you get papers. False papers! You’re an aristocrat! If anyone knew …’

  ‘I’m sorry. You must know I couldn’t tell anyone the truth. Besides, I didn’t want …’

  I didn’t want to be a duchess anymore, she was going to say.

  Ivo gave her no chance. ‘I thought we were friends. But everything you’ve told me is a lie. You’ve put my neck at risk.’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ Viviane’s words tumbled out as she tried desperately to explain. ‘Besides, it wasn’t all a lie. I did grow up at Belisima, in the kitchen, with Pierrick, and he really is my brother, or my half-brother at least …’

  ‘What?’ Pierrick stiffened. His laughter died away. ‘What did you say?’

  Viviane pressed both hands against her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she faltered. ‘Your mother made me swear not to tell you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pierrick demanded. ‘Not …’

  As realisation dawned on him, horror grew on his face. ‘No! It’s not true! My mother would never …’

  ‘It was not her fault,’ Viviane cried. ‘She never wanted anything to do with him. But our father always took what he wanted, you know that.’

  ‘He is not my father!’ Pierrick shouted.

  ‘That is why she was given the job as cook …’

  ‘To pay her off?’

  ‘No, no, to support …’

  ‘Me, the bastard child.’

  Viviane took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Pierrick. I so wanted to tell you. Your mother made me promise on my mother’s grave. She told me the night the mole-catcher’s house was burned … there were three children, all born so close together, you and me and the mole-catcher’s daughter …’

  ‘You, the marquis’s daughter, given everything, and me, the bastard, given nothing.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Viviane said. ‘You, at least, were loved.’

  For a moment, Pierrick stared at her. His face was burning. Then he shook his head dazedly. ‘No. It can’t be true. You’re wrong. Or lying.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Oh, Pierrick, please … I’m sorry …’ Viviane reached out her hands to him, but he jerked away from her as if she was made of poison. He gave a quick whistle, and Luna leapt to his side. In a moment, they were gone.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Ivo said. ‘You lied to me … you risked my neck … I don’t even know your real name!’

  ‘I am Héloïse-Rozenn-Viviane de la Faitaud de Ravoisier,’ she told him. ‘Or I was. Before they made me marry the Duc de Savageaux.’

  He shook his head. ‘A duchess,’ he whis
pered. ‘Here in my kitchen. They will kill me if they find out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she tried to say, but he turned and ran out after Pierrick.

  Viviane stood, silent and trembling. She heard the faint clatter of sabots outside the kitchen door, and looked that way. Had someone been listening? She went slowly, as if struck down with an ague. But when she opened the door, no-one was there.

  At two o’clock in the morning, Viviane and the other maids were woken by the tramp of marching feet on the stairs.

  Ten minutes later, shawls flung over their nightgowns, they watched silently as Marie-Antoinette walked down the steps, between heavily armed guards. Dressed in black, she looked thin and hunched. She carried a small bundle in one hand.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ Viviane asked one of the guards, who glanced at her.

  ‘To the Conciergerie,’ he answered.

  Viviane bit her lip. The Conciergerie was known as the most pestilent of the prisons.

  As Marie-Antoinette came down the steep spiral staircase, a guard insolently blew his pipe smoke into her face. She stumbled and knocked her head sharply against the stone beam.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Micholet asked, putting out his hand to help her.

  Marie-Antoinette shook her head. ‘Nothing can hurt me now.’

  25

  The Forbidden City

  6 August – 5 September 1793

  ‘For all their fine words, you’ve got to admit we’re little better than prisoners,’ David grumbled. ‘It is ridiculous! We’ve been in China for seven weeks now, and still we have not been permitted to visit any gardens.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a single peony,’ John said wistfully.

  And I’ve not seen a single rose, let alone one as red as blood, David thought.

  ‘They promise us everything we desire, but do not have the slightest intention of delivering,’ Scotty said. ‘It does not bode well for our embassy.’

  ‘It is most humiliating that they continue to call our gifts to the emperor “tribute”,’ said Anderson, the valet. ‘And his lordship “the bearer of tribute”!’

  ‘And they expect us to eat our dinner with nothing more than a couple of sticks!’ Dr Gillan exclaimed.

  The men were seated cross-legged on the floor, trying to convey morsels of food to their mouths with chopsticks. There was no table or chairs or cloth or knife or fork or spoon, only a few low tables on which the men could rest their bowls of food.

  Their dining parlour was the main chamber of a wooden junk, one of a small fleet moored along the banks of the River Pei Ho. Lanterns of coloured paper bobbed from the masts of the junks, their light reflecting in ripples of vermilion on the water. The embassy’s Chinese entourage were camped on the banks of the river, in round tents with high pointed roofs. It was nearly as noisy at night as it was during the day, with shouted orders, arguments, strange high-pitched music, the beating of drums and the striking of gongs.

  The last few weeks had passed slowly, with many small misunderstandings. It had taken several days to transfer all the cargo from the British ships to the junks, which were dragged up the river by teams of half-naked Chinese men, harnessed like mules with heavy wooden collars and leather straps.

  Meanwhile, Lord Macartney and Sir George had endless meetings with mandarins, some of whom were eager to please, while others were pompous and suspicious. The ambassador had been angered by the banners fluttering from the junks, which read ‘Tribute-Bearer to Great Emperor’. He had protested, only to be met by shrugs. Gifts to the emperor were always described as tribute, and those who carried them as tribute-bearers, they said, not seeming to understand the insult to the ambassador and King George.

  Lord Macartney was also perturbed by the attitude of the Imperial Legate deputised to attend them. His name was Zhengrui, and he found it necessary to constantly instruct the ambassador on the rigid etiquette of the Celestial Court.

  According to Zhengrui, there were eight salutations of respect in China. The lowest was the kung-show, in which hands were clasped together and raised high. The next degree of respect was the tsa-yih, which meant to bow from the waist with hands clasped. Third was ta-tseen, the bending of the knee. Then came the act of kneeling, called the kwei. The fifth act of respect was the ko-tow, which meant to kneel and knock one’s forehead against the ground. The san-kow meant to strike one’s head three times. To give the seventh degree of respect, luh-kow, one must kneel and knock one’s head three times, rise to one’s feet, then kneel once more and knock the head three times again.

  The highest act of respect was the san-kewi-kew-kow, in which the supplicant knelt three times, each time knocking his head thrice against the earth for a grand total of nine. That was reserved only for Heaven and his son, the emperor. Marco Polo had called this ritual abasement ‘the adoration’.

  Lord Macartney was amenable to being taught the first four obeisances, but he refused to lower his forehead to the floor. He made some joke about being too stout. Zhengrui, who was far stouter, was most displeased. He shouted something in Mandarin, which David took to mean, ‘You must!’ Then Zhengrui dropped to his knees, bent forward till his silk-clad bottom was lifted high in the air, and banged his forehead to the ground again and again. Every now and again he looked up, shouting. Ripples of stifled laughter ran through the watching men and even Lord Macartney had trouble maintaining his composure.

  When Zhengrui heaved himself to his feet once more, his face was suffused with rage. He said something in rapid-fire Mandarin, then swept out of the room without waiting to be dismissed. His servant had to race to pick up his fan and cinnabar snuff bottle, left discarded on the table. He then hurried from the room, bowing so low and so often it was as if he sought to demonstrate to the British how it should be done.

  ‘What did the Legate say?’ Lord Macartney asked Father Li, who inclined his own head and said briefly, ‘The emperor must not be insulted.’

  ‘It is hard to imagine an act of more profound submission,’ Lord Macartney said to Sir George, frowning. ‘And there is no evidence that such subordination leads to the loosening of trade restrictions in any way. The Dutch have been ko-towing for years and haven’t won a single concession. Indeed, I heard the Dutch ambassador returned home to Holland in utter ignominy after ko-towing to the sound of the emperor’s name, his letters, his empty throne, abasing himself in every possible way for no gain whatsoever.’

  ‘It is a vexed question,’ Sir George replied. ‘We do not want to cause offence and so jeopardise our mission.’

  Lord Macartney thrust out his jaw. ‘I will not do it unless a Chinese official equivalent to my own rank stands before a portrait of His Majesty the King and prostrates himself in the same way!’

  ‘That they will not do,’ Sir George answered.

  ‘Then they cannot expect me to do so. I shall write to the emperor and say so!’

  Lord Macartney and Sir George had gone that very evening to meet with Zhengrui and another high-ranking mandarin, Liang Kentang, the viceroy of Zhili. They had been carried away from the junks in gilded palanquins.

  David could not help wishing that he had been able to accompany them. The junks, picturesque as they were, moved at only five miles an hour on a river that meandered back and forth through plains planted with millet. Any attempt to disembark was met with vigorous denials from the soldiers who guarded the fleet. If David insisted, he was watched with such a degree of suspicion and mistrust, he felt uncomfortable. Besides, there was little point. Sir Joseph Banks was interested in tea plantations and rare flowers, not millet.

  The ambassador and his secretary returned soon after sunset, and Sir George came with his son Tom to tell the men the outcome of the meeting.

  ‘We are to see more of China than we expected,’ he said with a rather forced smile. ‘It seems the emperor Kien Long is not in Peking anymore. He has retired to his summer palace, up in the mountains at Zhe-hol in Tartary.’

  ‘Does that mean we do not get to see
Peking after all?’ David asked.

  ‘Zhengrui did his best to make sure we did not have a chance to see the capital,’ Sir George said. ‘We think it was the emperor’s intention to keep us away from Peking. But His Excellency insisted that some of the gifts were too delicate to be transported through the mountains and asked for a residence in Peking to keep the more precious items.’

  ‘Zhengrui was not pleased about that!’ Tom said, grinning.

  ‘His Excellency would not be bullied, however.’

  ‘The new official interpreter from Canton was no use at all,’ Tom cried. ‘The Legate would say, “After touching the ground with your forehead before the Great Emperor, you may lay your tributes to his greatness at his feet.” And His Excellency would reply, “We have travelled many miles to bring gifts from one great sovereign to another,” and the new interpreter would translate it to, “We have come from afar to pay homage by knocking our forehead to the ground.” I think he didn’t realise that Mr Plum and I could understand him.’

  ‘He will be sent back to Canton,’ his father said. ‘We cannot have an interpreter so in awe of the mandarins that he misrepresents our words.’

  ‘I’ll translate for you, Father,’ Tom said.

  Sir George ruffled his fine brown hair. ‘And a far better job of it you would do too, my boy. I am afraid, however, that the Legate would find it too demeaning, having a boy of thirteen as his mouthpiece. We will just need to rely on Mr Plum, and the Jesuit missionaries.’

  ‘I was hoping we’d get to see inside the Forbidden City,’ John said wistfully. ‘I’d like to catch a glimpse of the emperor’s concubines!’

  ‘No-one sees the concubines,’ Dr Gillan said. ‘The only men allowed inside the Forbidden City are eunuchs, you fool.’

  ‘At least we’ll get to see the Great Wall of China,’ David said. ‘And, if we are lucky, the emperor’s gardens!’