by C. S. Quinn
‘That’s him.’
‘Foulon has said nothing to me,’ says Angelina, ‘but it’s all over Paris: Gaspard was found dead in the Bastille. The governor claims he had nothing to do with it but rumour has it that the King had Gaspard tortured to death for returning to Paris.’
‘My uncle believes the murder was a warning to the English,’ I say grimly, ‘of what is planned for Grace. There was a plot and she was involved in smuggling diamonds.’
Angelina’s eyebrows lift slightly at the mention of the famous jewels.
‘Might Robespierre have reason to kill Gaspard de Mayenne?’ I ask, thinking through possibilities.
‘Oh, never! They were friends, very much in support of one another’s opinions. Besides, Robespierre is an idealist and against the death penalty. He would hardly resort to murder, even if Gaspard was his strongest opponent.’
‘Wouldn’t he want the diamonds to further the rebel cause?’ I suggest.
Angelina laughs at this, but it’s a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, Monsieur Robespierre cannot be bought,’ she says, ‘not for any price. He is incorruptible.’
I consider this.
‘I think whoever killed Gaspard is looking for the Queen’s diamonds,’ I say, ‘which means they are looking for Grace.’
Angelina’s expression darkens.
‘Then you are looking for royalists,’ says Angelina with certainty. ‘No rebel would want Gaspard dead, you can be sure of it.’
Angelina is looking at me expectantly, her hand on the doorframe.
‘Come with me tomorrow,’ I say impulsively. ‘It’s not safe here.’
She smiles. ‘Oh, Attica, you may not see it yet, but we are at war and must all fight for what we believe.’
‘There is nothing you can do about a grain shortage,’ I say. ‘No amount of fighting will put bread in those people’s bellies.’
She takes hold of my wrist affectionately.
‘I thought you of all people would understand,’ she says quietly. ‘This isn’t about food. It’s about freedom.’
A feeling of loss passes between us. For the first time ever I have a sense that she is French and I English. That we are on different sides.
‘I never did know what was happening in that clever head of yours.’ Angelina reaches a hand and taps the side of my face.
I look into the room behind her, to the large four-poster swagged with red silk.
‘I’m thinking,’ I say, ‘that bed looks more comfortable than your pianoforte. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
CHAPTER 36
IT’S MORNING IN PARIS AS FOULON AND I ROLL ALONG in the carriage. Traders are out in force: milkmaids leading their cows from door to door, coffee-sellers ladling from their rolling cauldrons, fish girls with baskets on their heads.
With every second that passes, my dislike for Foulon grows. It began when his leering driver fitted the horses with heavy leather straps to reduce their speed, so ‘his master might have a better view of any pretty girls’.
Then Foulon himself arrived, after two hours of primping, his ghost-white face slashed with deep vermillion lip-paint, eyes red rings from where his make-up has irritated. His outfit was all leaf-green and lace, from his silk shoes and suede gloves to the curling feather in his tall hat.
Foulon wedged his ancient limbs so close to me on the velvet seats he’d shed powder on my dress and begun incessantly boasting about his ridiculous carriage, an activity he hasn’t yet ceased, despite my pointedly silent responses.
‘I imagine you have nothing so high-wheeled in London,’ he crows. ‘And these glass-paned windows would be large for many homes. It took four months to have the gold frames carved and gold-leafed.’
The vehicle would indeed earn acclaim in London, but not of the kind Foulon imagines. The ornamentation is so ludicrous we could have driven straight out of fairyland. Every wooden inch from wheel to roof carries gilded carvings of flowers and fruit, ribbons and bows. Side panels have been painted rococo style with turquoise enamel. It all but drips with opulence as we roll along, like a fat little over-iced pudding.
A pamphleteer appears suddenly at the open window, waving some dog-eared booklets.
‘Wanna hear what Marie Antoinette gets up to with her ladies-in-waiting?’ he asks. ‘There’s pictures. All here, in the latest libelle.’
I eye the title he proffers: The Austrian Bitch and the Royal Orgy.
‘Get back,’ shouts Foulon, ‘before I have my driver flog you!’ He raps on the roof and a horsewhip is dangled menacingly down. The pamphleteer backs away, muttering furiously.
‘This is because of that tennis court impudence,’ rages Foulon as we jolt away from the scene. ‘Those gutter rats never would have dared approach my carriage with their treasonous filth. Now they act as though they are equals!’
Through the glass I see the pamphleteer shouting, pointing at our gaudy vehicle. Faces on the street are turning towards us. Hungry people, angry people. Foulon doesn’t seem to notice. He begins opening compartments, revealing little treasure boxes of jewel-bright candied fruit and nuts in a glossy caramel coating.
‘These oranges were sugared in Seville,’ he tells me, pushing one through his yellow teeth. He leans forward again and lifts white wine from a silver bucket. ‘Chilled with Pyrenees snow, from my icehouse,’ he explains, as frost slides from the sweating bottle. ‘Usually there is a man to pour, but I thought it better just you and I.’
He gives me a lascivious grin and I realize in shock that he imagines I have some kind of designs on him that go beyond transport to the Salon des Princes.
We’re being followed by pamphleteers now, I notice. The plodding pace of Foulon’s plumed horses makes it easy for them to keep up with us as we near the east city gate.
Something ugly is building. The spectacular carriage is whipping up a frenzy of bad feeling and dragging it along behind us.
‘No thank you.’ I haven’t taken my eyes off the Paris streets. Something is happening ahead of us, a problem at the city gate.
We are caught between a disgruntled mob and soldiers guarding the way out of Paris. Something tells me this is an explosive combination.
‘Your outfit is very becoming.’ Foulon has changed tack now, openly leering at the rather transparent layers of my dress.
Angelina has dressed me in a white calico with narrow red and blue stripes, a deep cherry-coloured silk scarf cinching my waist and a blousy sheaf of muslin in a low-cut collar at the neck. My hair is tied up with a few loose-falling curls and a jaunty little shepherdess hat tilted to one side. The dress is looser fitting than English fashions, but I’ve managed to slide in the false boning Atherton had made, in which my fire-sticks are hidden.
Foulon’s gloved hand reaches across to stroke my leg, his mouth drawn into a leer.
‘I have a purse of jewels just for you,’ he says, smiling encouragingly. His face shifts, his smile falling away, brows drawing together. Puzzlement, then fear.
He has felt rather than seen my knife at his groin. Sensing danger, his red-rimmed eyes drop to where the dark blade rests between his legs.
Foulon makes a noise between a grunt and a squeak.
‘Now it’s just the two of us,’ I say pleasantly, pressing the sharp metal where his breeches join, ‘let’s get some things very clear. My price is not worth your paying.’
‘All I need do,’ says Foulon, flushed anger peeking the edges of his white face paint, ‘is knock on the ceiling for my driver. It won’t trouble him that you’re a woman. In fact, he’ll likely enjoy it.’
I nod, keeping my hand in place.
‘You have a thick artery here,’ I explain, pushing my knife slightly against it. ‘One fast cut and you’ll bleed to death before you realize I’ve ruined your silk breeches.’ I move the blade an inch inward. ‘Here,’ I say, ‘your chances are better. Half of Italian eunuchs survive their castrations. How is your singing voice?’
Foulon smiles a rage-filled lipsticked smile
.
‘If I were a younger man ...’ he begins.
‘If you were a younger man, you’d be dead,’ I say. ‘I’d have cut your throat last night. It’s only out of respect for Angelina that you’re still alive.’
‘Who are you?’ splutters Foulon.
I glance out of the window. Something is happening up ahead. The libelle-sellers seem to have whipped up a frenzy of dislike for Foulon’s gilt-wheeled opulence. People are swarming closer in now, a great pack of them. A clod of mud hits the carriage.
Trouble.
‘Let’s just say you have misjudged things, monsieur,’ I say, glancing again at the amassing hoards, ‘in more ways than one. This wasn’t the day to drive a golden carriage amongst starving people.’
I sigh, lifting the knife and twirling it thoughtfully.
‘If you keep quiet, Monsieur Foulon,’ I say, ‘and don’t agitate me further, I may save your life.’
CHAPTER 37
ROBESPIERRE WALKS ALONG THE SEINE, OUTSIDE THE terraces of the Tuileries Palace. He makes this journey often, past the empty rooms – the King and Queen preferring to revel in preposterous splendour twelve miles away.
In the royal absence, starving women and their babies line the walkway. Robespierre gives no money. Charity sanctions inequality.
He turns things over as he walks. Reports of all kinds have been coming to him, things he has not yet made sense of. Something has been confusing him greatly and he cannot bear to feel confused. It brings back memories best forgotten.
He notices, whilst he has been considering this disturbing fact, that his fingernails have dug little grooves into the palms of his hands.
Someone has arrived in Paris, someone who could be useful in obtaining the diamonds. The woman is a translator – one of those roles the English nobles give to spinster daughters to keep them out of trouble. He pictures her, sipping wine in spectacular foreign courts, nodding earnestly.
She was raised an English noble. Yet by all accounts she was born a slave in a large cotton-farm in Virginia. He knows from documents acquired from the plantation that she was caught up in an ill-fated uprising in which a number of slaves were brutally put down. He calls to mind the list of punishments meted out. Many he didn’t fully understand, but he could guess and the guessing made his finger tremble.
She was placed in a hotbox, several times. This makes her perhaps brave, more likely stupid. Though he will settle for stubborn. Robespierre has a bit of time for stubborn.
He tries to imagine the desperate close confines of the hotbox. The American sun beating down on the tiny grave-like container sunk into the ground. He finds he cannot easily picture it.
What happened next is unclear. How the mother died is unrecorded and the daughter’s impossible voyage to England even less so. Robespierre doesn’t like this lack of clarity. Not at all.
He reaches his planned location: a large tree with a hole in the trunk, blasted black by lightning nineteen years ago on the inauspicious wedding day of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI.
During the same storm, talented schoolboy Robespierre had been honoured with addressing the newly weds. The King and Queen had arrived hours late, keeping him waiting in the pelting rain, then refused to exit their carriage.
Robespierre had spoken aloud to no one, water pasting his hair to his head, his school friends ranged behind him giggling. The monarchs had left without word or sign of thanks.
Remembering his boyhood humiliation, Robespierre leans down as though he is adjusting his shoe. When he is certain no one is watching, he stands and swiftly retrieves a sealed bottle from inside the trunk.
He pulls the cork and with a slim finger, slides out a message from the glass neck. Returning the bottle to the tree, he walks away.
At a safe distance, Robespierre unfolds the message and removes a snuff box from his coat. He opens it, loads a fingertip with dark snuff and smears the powdery substance on the paper. A single word is revealed.
Robespierre studies it for a long time.
After all the waiting for Him, the man of the unbreakable code.
He reads it again to be sure he is not mistaken. But there it is. At last, he has a name.
Le Mouron.
The Pimpernel.
CHAPTER 38
THE CRIES OF THE CROWD OUTSIDE FOULON’S CARRIAGE have escalated from insults to threats. And as the city gate comes into view it suddenly becomes clear why the atmosphere is so volatile.
Four men guard the gate in the unmistakable uniform of Swiss militia.
‘The King has posted a foreign guard,’ I say grimly. ‘He has turned on his own people for daring to request justice.’
Foulon is in a semi-trance, letting the carriage jolt him along.
‘Swiss troops,’ he says, licking his painted lips. ‘Ingenious. Those men will not hesitate to fire on Frenchmen as our own guard might. The King shows he cannot take this tennis court insult to his authority. A bold move.’
‘A foolish move,’ I say. ‘No wonder these people are riled up to murder.’
The carriage creaks and groans, iron wheels striking the cobbles, leather suspension straps creaking as they absorb the impact, turning towards the city gate.
‘You’re not a popular man, Monsieur Foulon,’ I say. ‘You’ve abused your life of privilege.’ I look out of the window. I place my Mangbetu blade on the seat between us.
He looks at me, then at the knife.
‘I’m hoping you’ll be fool enough to grab for it,’ I explain, nodding to the curved black metal. ‘Then I can kill you without conscience and getting out of Paris will be a great deal easier.’ I look into his frightened eyes. ‘Sadly for me, I don’t imagine you will,’ I deduce. ‘But if you are seized by bravery,’ I wink at him, ‘the knife is there for the taking.’
I peer outside, trying to understand what’s caused the change on the streets.
The pack of people closing in on Foulon’s carriage have moved back slightly, assessing the foreign guard. There’s a tension in the air; neither side knows which will strike first.
I’ve encountered this atmosphere before – just before the revolt in Virginia – and it never bodes well.
‘You need to get us through that gate,’ I advise Foulon. ‘Quickly.’
Ahead of us a cart and rider is being stopped. The guards search the man roughly then turn him back.
Foulon lowers the window and pokes out his wigged head.
A uniformed man approaches the carriage and bows.
‘No one is allowed out, monsieur,’ says the soldier, ‘beg your pardon. Better go back.’
‘I don’t take orders from a Swiss guard,’ says Foulon. ‘Bring me a French soldier, someone who knows who I am.’
‘Your King replaced all the Frenchmen with us Swiss,’ explains the soldier.
Foulon’s rage is building. ‘I’m an important man,’ he says. ‘If I can’t travel by this gate, then which might I leave the city by?’
‘None today,’ says the guard. ‘Come again tomorrow.’
‘I mean to drive through that gate and if you try to stop me, I shall instruct my driver to use force.’
‘You won’t get far.’ The soldier shrugs amiably. ‘It’s not just us guards. There’s more soldiers beyond the gates. No one gets out or in.’
The blood drains from Foulon’s face.
‘We’ve been instructed to go all around the wall,’ continues the man conversationally.
I turn to Foulon, furious. ‘This is your great and magnanimous King?’ I demand. ‘A man who lays siege to his own capital with a foreign guard.’
‘Likely, he only increases security for his own safety ...’ manages Foulon.
‘Versailles is twelve miles away!’ I tell Foulon. ‘Surely you are not such a fool as to imagine these troops have any other purpose than to kill every Republican in Paris?’ And he pays the Swiss to do it. Because even the King understands that a French guard won’t massacre their own people.’
; Up in front, I can see the driver panicking, flailing his whip. He’s making things worse, lashing at commoners and insulting them as low-borns. The horses are tossing their heads, unsure of their direction.
I make a decision, flipping up my knife from where it lays next to Foulon and levering out two of the bejewelled boxes of candies. Holstering my blade back in my dress, in a deft movement I open the door.
Foulon’s mouth opens in an ‘O’ of horror as the cluster of furious Parisians are revealed. As a hand reaches towards me, I launch the sugared fruit and nuts from the carriage. They scatter in a bright spray, coffers smashing in smithereens of painted wood. The children are fastest, swooping to grab the candies from the floor. They are soon elbowed aside by adults, cramming handfuls of sweets into their pockets.
In the momentary disarray, I step out of the carriage. I lift myself next to the driver at the front, holding on to my little shepherdess hat.
‘Excuse me,’ I say in my politest voice. The driver turns around in confusion. Before he has a chance to object, I push him hard from the driver’s seat. He goes flying, legs pedalling, and lands in the muddy street.
I reach forward and give the horses an encouraging pat, then slice the restraints, holding their forelegs. The effect is instant. The animals rear in joy to be free of their restrictions and break immediately into a canter.
We’re gathering speed, aiming straight at the pack of Swiss guards defending the city gate.
A pistol blast whistles past my ear as Foulon’s dislodged driver fires at me.
‘Not very gentlemanly,’ I mutter, adjusting my hat and taking the reins in one hand.
The gunshot silences the growing crowd of protestors momentarily. And then all hell breaks loose. Accusations and threats fly at the Swiss guard. People are shouting insults at the top of their lungs. Stones are thrown. The Swiss guard hold their weapons uneasily, exchanging glances.
Seeing my chance, I urge the horses faster. The carriage bounces wildly, metal-rimmed wheels sending sparks from the cobbles. There’s a muffled moan from Foulon, somewhere in the back of the vehicle.
