The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  Robespierre moves some papers towards him, shuffles them, racks them perfectly straight and then slides free the top document.

  He stands and walks to a locked bureau. Robespierre is a collector, a connoisseur. Here, neatly filed, are his favourites.

  Two are in German, in such elegant, pleasing cipher they were almost impossible to break.

  Four letters were written by an Englishman named Atherton, a retired naval officer of exceptional intelligence with a gift for inventing, lock-picking and ciphers. His battalion of handpicked spies are assigned to all corners of the globe.

  Robespierre’s hand falls to his greatest prize, perfectly preserved between sheets of card.

  This is The Letter. From Him. The unknown man. The man whose code has so far been unbreakable. Robespierre has been edging away at it for over a year. Sometimes he thinks he has made headway. But these have been only false dawns.

  What he has had better success with is the provenance of the letter. It is from someone Atherton writes to. Someone important. A person who has a genius for coding that is entirely unique. He believes the prodigy is English, but operated in Russia until recently.

  Robespierre decides it reasonable to assume this codebreaker must have been instrumental in Gaspard’s escape and return to Paris.

  He lifts The Letter reverently. It is worn and folded from so much study. The failure to solve the code and identify the coder haunts Robespierre. It keeps him awake at night. But in some strange counter way it makes him feel alive.

  CHAPTER 32

  I REMEMBER, AS A GIRL, THE FIRST TIME I WENT TO A play, seeing the actors in their thick paint and painted cheeks. And as Foulon throws open the door of Angelina’s parlour, for a moment, I think he is an actor, fresh from stage.

  Reality slots into place. And after that, horror. Because Foulon is at least seventy years of age. Ancient, thin and sinewy, his aged face is thickly coated in white make-up. His sunken cheeks are rouged like an English prostitute and his preposterously frilled and ribboned clothing reeks of heavy perfume.

  I have an awful image of him pawing at Angelina. I’m so transfixed by the yellowed fang-like teeth poking through the purple-painted lips.

  ‘Angelina, you’ve brought me a little morsel,’ he’s saying with a vulpine grin.

  Foulon uses a jewelled walking stick, which I assume is an affectation until I realize he needs it to prevent himself tripping on the enormous ruffled ribbons of his silk shoes.

  My face must give me away, because Angelina gives an imperceptible shake of her head. No, Attica, don’t.

  ‘My coat,’ he tells her, frowning. ‘Angelina, you seem quick to forget how you are protected.’ He looks at me. ‘Did she tell you about our outing?’

  Angelina bites her lip. ‘Monsieur Foulon was good enough to allow me to see a punishment at the Bastille,’ she says, not meeting my eye. ‘A young boy.’ Her eyes are filled with tears at the memory.

  I think of Gaspard de Mayenne. Perhaps he was already lying in the mortuary as Foulon flaunted his powerful associations.

  She helps Foulon off with his lace-trimmed coat, forcing a smile as he pushes a hand inside her dress. Foulon lowers his creaking limbs into a velvet armchair.

  ‘And whom have you brought for my amusement?’ he asks, eyeing me up and down.

  Angelina lifts a decanter, almost stumbling to get in between us. I think she’s worried I’ll do something rash. With clumsy hands she pours wine and hands a drink to each of us.

  ‘This is Attica Morgan, an old friend from Convent School,’ she says.

  I curtsey with deliberate formality.

  ‘Monsieur Foulon,’ I say, keeping my expression polite and my accent flawless country-French, ‘I am enchanted to meet you.’

  ‘You have heard I am the King’s appointed finance minister?’ he demands.

  ‘I have told Attica how active you have been, maintaining the old order,’ says Angelina quickly.

  ‘The peasants hate me for speaking the truth,’ explains Foulon proudly. ‘The people say they are starving. Those rascals always claim to be deprived. So I say eat the grass if you are hungry.’

  I wait uncertainly, watching for the cue I should laugh. I catch Angelina’s expression and I realize he isn’t joking. This disgusting old man really does believe it.

  ‘Monsieur Foulon,’ I say, fighting to keep my voice even, ‘people cannot eat grass.’

  ‘You or I could not,’ agrees Foulon, ‘our constitutions are too fine. But peasant people can. They have become entitled and impertinent, eating bread. I’ve told the King I think it best we cut their wheat supplies completely.’

  ‘Attica has had a long journey and is greatly fatigued,’ says Angelina quickly, moving to my side. ‘I must take her to my room to get some rest.’ She begins to pull me away from Foulon.

  Her elderly protector smiles his dark-lipped smile. ‘Not yet, my darling.’ His small eyes narrow as he considers, receding into his aged face. ‘I think I should get better aquatinted with your guest.’ There’s a snake-like quality to him now. A cunning.

  ‘Go upstairs,’ he says to Angelina after a moment, ‘put on the dress I like.’

  I feel a flash of pure hatred for him, showing off now, lauding his power over Angelina. She nods wordlessly and leaves the room.

  Now it’s just him and me. My heart beats faster. I wonder what he means by getting me alone. In an English house this would be an unthinkable discourtesy; but we’re not in England and French nobles have a much looser notion of entitlement.

  I notice my knuckles are white around the stem of my wine glass. Deliberately I relax my fingers.

  ‘Engleesh,’ says Foulon, speaking the word in a strong French accent, ‘are you not?’

  ‘You are very clever to have discerned it,’ I say. ‘I spent many years in France. I’m told my French is flawless.’

  ‘It was not your voice that gave you away,’ says Foulon. He’s looking alert now. ‘It’s your demeanour. The way you carry yourself.’ He taps his nose, causing powder to fall. ‘I notice such things.’

  Foulon sips wine through his darkly pursed lips. He knocks on the floor with his walking stick. The door opens and a dour-looking servant appears.

  ‘Tell my guards to wait outside Angelina’s bedchamber,’ he says, not taking his eyes from me. ‘My little songstress is not to leave.’ The servant vanishes.

  Not a question. Foulon regards me thoughtfully.

  My heart is pounding, a slow, steady beat.

  ‘You’ve come because of the diamonds.’ He says it flatly.

  ‘Why should you think that?’ I ask, sipping wine.

  ‘Why,’ Foulon concludes, ‘because Monsieur Robespierre told me.’

  CHAPTER 33

  THE CANDLES IN ANGELINA’S ELEGANT ROOM BURN LOW and the air feels warm. Any pretence of guest and host has vanished and I’m wondering desperately what Foulon knows. The thought overtaking all others is that I need to protect Angelina. My usual rational mindset is jumping and sliding.

  Foulon watches me, assessing. The flame throws shadows on his painted face, making him look like a dead-eyed puppet.

  ‘A man was found dead in the Bastille with a diamond in his mouth,’ says Foulon, rolling his wine glass around his hand. ‘A rebel named Gaspard de Mayenne.’ He’s watching for my reaction.

  ‘The rebels were sending us a message,’ he says. ‘Someone powerful. They were telling us: we can go anywhere we please, even inside the unbreakable prison. We have money enough that a priceless diamond is nothing. And we can even kill one of yours, an aristocrat.’

  I gauge it safest to say nothing and there’s a tense pause as I wait for Foulon to continue.

  ‘No foreigners are getting in or out of Paris,’ he goes on, ‘yet you arrive here, days after Monsieur Robespierre warns us of an English diamond smuggler. A woman. Angelina will pay for her treachery,’ he adds spitefully. ‘You shall watch. France is no place for rebels, Mademoiselle Morgan, no matter wha
t you might have been led to believe.’

  ‘Who is Monsieur Robespierre?’ I ask, playing for time. I’ve never heard that name, which is unusual. I thought I knew every significant name in Paris, even those no one else knows are important.

  ‘Robespierre is a lawyer,’ says Foulon with a slight smile. ‘A very intelligent man.’

  There is something guarded about his tone. I’m sure I detect a spark of fear in his eyes.

  ‘How can you be so sure his information is accurate?’ I enquire, my heart beating fast. This Robespierre, whoever he is, has acquired dangerous intelligence. It occurs to me there could be a link between the elusive Society of Friends and this mysterious lawyer.

  ‘Robespierre is never wrong,’ says Foulon, looking down. ‘And he is a wolf dressed as a sheep – is that not how you English say it? Such a humane man.’ He rolls the word in his mouth disgustedly. ‘Frightened of blood. Has made speeches against the death penalty. But cowards do the worst horrors, you may be sure of it. Already he winds himself tight into the heart of it all. He makes himself indispensable to all of us.’

  Foulon looks at me. ‘Robespierre says the English are plotting. They mean to use the Queen’s long-lost necklace to undermine the Crown. And now an Englishwoman arrives in my house pretending to be French, a woman who is not who she claims to be. I tell you again,’ he leans forward, ‘you’ve come because of the diamonds.’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

  His eyes lock on mine. ‘Make no mistake, this is a war now,’ he says. ‘Those commoners invaded the King’s Palace. Can you imagine,’ he says, ‘what two million francs could do in the hands of the enemy?’

  ‘By enemy,’ I say, my voice thick with contempt, ‘do you refer to the people of France?’

  ‘Those who stand against the King are traitors!’ Foulon smashes a fist into his hand. ‘If some rebel faction gets those diamonds they could buy an army!’ He grips his walking cane, consumed by this fearful scenario.

  ‘No more talking,’ he decides. ‘Let us call for Angelina. I’m sure my guards can persuade her to talk.’

  I’m pushing down my fears for Angelina, searching for a solution. Something else occurs to me: an obvious way to use Monsieur Foulon to my own advantage.

  ‘I don’t have the diamonds,’ I say. ‘You have the wrong Englishwoman.’

  Foulon lifts his stick to rap on the floor.

  ‘But I know the person whom Robespierre refers to,’ I continue, looking him dead in the eye. ‘And I can show you where to find her. But first, you must take me to the Salon des Princes.’

  CHAPTER 34

  AT THE SALON DES PRINCES, MIDNIGHT APPROACHES.

  Wine is served and Grace finds herself drinking glass after glass without meaning to.

  Emboldened by drink, she looks at the other girls from the corner of her eye. She has the feeling they are doing the same to her, assessing the mask of smallpox scars around her eyes, her dress, her shoes.

  Grace notices the girls seem only preoccupied with their appearance, straightening caps, adjusting petticoats. A troop of drunk men file into the room and her heartbeat increases. There is a look of venal expectation on the men’s faces.

  A servant arrives with a tray on which rests several covered dishes. One of the girls moves forward, takes a dish, lifts the lid and breathes in the contents.

  The girl coughs, then turns to Grace, her eyes slightly glassy, weaving a little.

  ‘Take some,’ she suggests. ‘It will help you.’ Her breath has a strange sour note to it.

  Grace looks to see other girls taking dishes. She takes one, a ceramic dish in the Chinois style, no doubt worth some preposterous sum. Her main thought is not to drop it. The lid makes a tinkling sound as she lifts it. Grace frowns. Underneath is a sponge. She sees the other girls are lowering their heads, sniffing. Grace does the same. She has learned the hard way, it is better to do as others do, in polite company.

  ‘Ether,’ she hears someone say as the smell hits her nose. She’s seized by a sensation of warm well-being.

  Nothing matters, she realizes with a surging sense of detachment. Grace takes another deep inhale. Euphoria swells. She looks up to see the other girls smiling, laughing with her.

  ‘It is good?’ asks one in halting English, her mouth soft like a plum.

  Grace giggles in reply.

  That’s when Grace sees the men pointing. The weasel-butler-man arrives at her side. He pulls her roughly, in a way she has seen men do with whores at the dockside.

  His eyes fall to her betrothal ring.

  ‘Take that off,’ he hisses, moving his hand to pull it from her finger. ‘No one will believe you’re a virgin if you wear that.’

  Shock and fear resound somewhere deep and far away in Grace. It is muffled, buffered by the warm clouds of ether.

  Grace feels the man take her ring and push it into her palm, but it is as though it were happening to someone else.

  ‘Spotless pure,’ the butler is saying. ‘Bidding.’

  Men have begun cheering, gathering in. Grace dimly notices they hold raised purses. The butler reaches in front and pulls down the top of her dress in one rough movement.

  There is a thump. Grace looks down. The pouch with the diamonds has fallen from inside her dress and lies on the wooden floor.

  Grace stands in complete shock, exposed to the crowd. Leering men eyeing her nakedness, others waving money. The haze begins to lift. Her scattered thoughts are gaining solidity and form.

  A middle-aged man in a white wig takes her hand to more cheers. He raises it in triumph.

  ‘You are mine now,’ he tells Grace, fingers closing on hers. ‘I bought you.’

  He leads her from the room and it is only when he drags her inside a bedroom that she begins to protest, pulling against him.

  The man’s grip is immediately vicelike.

  ‘You’ll be paid after,’ he says. ‘No sense changing your mind now.’

  His hold on her intensifies as he pulls her towards the bed, bringing his other hand to pin her arms to her side.

  ‘No ...’ says Grace. But he pushes her down. He is surprisingly heavy.

  Grace is too shocked to scream. And then she begins shouting, in English at first and then she switches to French.

  He lifts a hand off her arm, to pull up her skirts. Grace takes the chance to flail her free hand, smacking and hitting at him. It’s embarrassingly futile, glancing off him.

  Grace knows with a sickening certainty that this is how it’s going to happen. Not on her wedding bed, with the man she loves, under the coverlet she stitched herself. But here, in this strange house, with this wine-soaked stranger. With a kind of detachment she feels him wedge his knee between her legs, the silken cloth of his breeches on her bare skin.

  A great wave of exhaustion overtakes her. It’s the first time she’s lain down in days. Her bones are sinking against her tired muscles. She wonders if perhaps she might just fall asleep, spiral into unconsciousness and let this terrible thing happen in a realm she’s not part of. Grace is floating, dreamlike images coming to her.

  She sees her docker grandpappy in their small Bristol house.

  ‘If anyone gives yer trouble, Gracey, stick it to ’em with a hairpin,’ he would tell her with a wicked grin. She had laughed, knowing she would never need his advice.

  Then Grace remembers: she has a hairpin securing what is left of her hair arrangement.

  Grace frees the three-inch pin and insinuates it under her assailant. The pins twists around jabbing him briefly in the thigh. He yelps and pulls back slightly. His expression darkens. He slaps her forcefully enough to make her head spin, then moves to grab at her weapon, his weight still pushing her into the bed.

  Grace stabs the pin deep and hard, exactly in the place her grandpappy advised.

  The man makes a noise she has never heard before, an animal cry of despair. Grace wriggles free, her pin still buried to the hilt in her attacker.

  Grace bre
aks from the room and runs headlong into the corridor, her only thought to get out from this dreadful house. She collides with a wall of perfumed silk, then realizes she has crashed into a woman.

  ‘You poor child!’ says the woman, taking in Grace’s ripped dress and crazed expression. ‘Come with me.’

  CHAPTER 35

  I TELL FOULON’S GUARDS THEY ARE NO LONGER NEEDED outside Angelina’s door. They peel away uncertainly.

  When I knock on the door, she opens it just a crack, her pale frightened face appearing in the gap.

  ‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘I thought Foulon would have his men arrest you.’

  ‘He’s asleep.’ She sags in relief against the doorframe.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Foulon agreed to take me to the Salon des Princes tomorrow,’ I tell her, smiling. ‘He even boasted how the owner’s wife, Madame Roland, was once a great lover of his.’

  Angelina rolls her eyes.

  ‘And then?’ she asks.

  ‘Then he unwisely tried to outdrink me.’

  Angelina smiles. She looks ten years younger.

  ‘That’s my Attica,’ she says.

  ‘Angelina,’ I say, ‘have you heard of a man named Robespierre? A lawyer?’

  ‘Of course. Robespierre is a lawyer who makes speeches against tyranny. He even believes in equality of the sexes. The women line up to hear him. He is exceptionally clever. And a hoarder of information,’ she adds. ‘Those who speak against him will find contradictory things they said five years ago thrown back at them, word perfect.’

  I absorb this.

  ‘Something about how Foulon spoke of him wasn’t right,’ I say. ‘Foulon seemed ... frightened of him.’

  ‘No,’ says Angelina, ‘Foulon is frightened of no one. Like you.’ She tilts her head, smiles.

  ‘Has Foulon ever spoken of a man named Gaspard de Mayenne?’

  ‘The man who makes pictures against the old order?’