The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  I narrow my eyes, concentrating on the target of the city gate. It is a thick-walled bastion, a medieval-style turret with a portcullis gatehouse.

  I lean forward to touch the flank of the horses, murmuring encouragement, then flick the reins again. The carriage is gathering a speed it was never designed for and I hear a loud crack, behind me. The gold-carved decorations are coming apart.

  We’re less than twenty feet from the dark aperture of the gatehouse now, but one of the guards has evidently worked out how to lower the portcullis. It begins slowly, half a foot at a time.

  I can hear Foulon knocking desperately on the roof.

  ‘Stop!’ he screams. ‘The floor is breaking up.’

  ‘I think we can get through,’ I shout over my shoulder. I slap the reins again and we barrel for the doorway. I throw myself low as we go under, feeling the points of the portcullis touch my back.

  The carved carriage roof smashes apart on contact with the unyielding iron, tossing broken bouquets of gilded roses and shining fruits on to the dirt.

  We clear the gate, riding out into the green French countryside, beyond the Paris wall. An army of confused Swiss soldiers are milling about, but none is confident enough to halt our disintegrating carriage as we fly past.

  Soon we’re into fields and amongst sun-browned farmers bearing the same expressions of quiet confusion as the soldiers before.

  I stop the horses, jump down and open what’s left of the door.

  Inside, Foulon has been thrown to one side, his wig askew, make-up smudged.

  ‘I think I’ve bruised my hip,’ he complains, righting himself with effort.

  ‘Better if I go to the Salon des Princes alone,’ I say. ‘Your carriage will be useful to make the journey. But you have become a liability.’

  He doesn’t seem to understand my meaning, so I rephrase.

  ‘Run, Monsieur Foulon,’ I say. ‘If those people catch you, they’ll hang you from the nearest lamp-post. I won’t stop them a second time.’

  CHAPTER 39

  GRACE AWAKES IN A SOFT, WARM BED. SHE IS CERTAIN SHE has never slept so deeply.

  The first thing to hit her is the headache, which feels like it’s shrinking her skull. She puts a hand to her head and scattered memories return. The men, the girls. Nothing else.

  Quickly, Grace checks her clothing. Under the covers, she is fully dressed. The front of her dress is ripped, but has been mended.

  The diamonds.

  In a panic, she feels inside her clothing. They are gone. She remembers them falling to the ground and not caring very much to pick them up again.

  She has a terrible feeling about this. Lord Pole gave her the pouch to pass on. Grace is not from the kind of background where girls can simply lose expensive jewels and apologize. They had been entrusted to her and the idea of failing in her responsibility makes Grace feel slightly ill.

  Pulling herself up on her elbows, she takes in the room. It is lavishly decorated. A study: there are bookshelves and a desk. A long window looks out on to green grounds. The room reminds her of the library where she wrote Godwin’s speeches. She remembers him, arriving drunk, late enough that her candles had burned low and she’d fallen asleep, quill in hand.

  He’d kissed the top of her head and said what a wonderful wife she would make, rolling up the pages of close writing and tucking them in his jacket.

  ‘Your time for politics will all change once you have children, of course,’ he had added.

  ‘Surely you don’t want me to abandon my writings?’ she’d said uneasily, not liking the direction of the conversation. He really was very drunk.

  Godwin had laughed. ‘The noble tradition is an heir and a spare. But we shall have a larger family. You will nurse and tend our children yourself, as enlightened people do.’ And he’d patted her again, as if it were all decided.

  Grace has already raised most of her brothers and sisters. She can still see her Mother’s weary face, heavy with her sixth child, and knows Godwin has a romantic view of it all.

  Grace remembers something else now. Her betrothal ring. The man had taken it from her finger and put it in her palm. Grace holds up her hand. It is bare.

  She closes her eyes, trying to remember. But it is all so hazy.

  There is a click, like a key turning in a lock. The door opens. Grace’s heart begins to pound. But on the other side is not the man from last night. It is a woman. She is around forty. Sophisticated in an unmistakably French way. Dark hair, shot through with grey, handsome features and wearing a red dress. Unusually for someone of her obvious status, she carries a silver tray with a steaming bowl of broth.

  ‘Hello,’ says the woman in faintly accented English. ‘How is your head?’

  ‘It hurts,’ admits Grace, sitting up.

  ‘I brought you bouillon,’ says the woman. ‘It is the best thing.’ She walks over to the bed and sits next to Grace. ‘You poor creature,’ she says. The woman has large, rather round brown eyes, drooping at the corners. ‘Those men are rascals.’

  Grace takes the broth and sips. It is wonderful. She can feel her head clearing.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks, feeling a rush of affection for the woman. ‘Can I still be married?’ she adds in a little mouse voice.

  ‘No one touched you.’ The woman’s dark brows drop low over the drooping eyes. ‘I came just in time. You were very drunk and addled, crying, your dress torn. And some predatory fellow had tried to trap you in a bedroom.’

  She pats Grace’s hands. ‘I assume one of those young brutes mistook you for a girl from the town. They come to sell their virtue,’ she adds, looking disapproving, ‘and fetch a high price. It is their choice, I suppose. My husband allows such distasteful amusements, but he has gone to Paris now.’

  The woman smiles. ‘In any case,’ she goes on, ‘I saw your name written in the book and had come looking for you.’

  ‘The book?’

  ‘The footman writes the name of everyone who comes,’ explains the lady, ‘so I might know my guests.’

  Grace blinks. ‘You are Madame Roland?’ she deduces. ‘The owner of the salon.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say owner,’ says Madame Roland with a wink. ‘At least not in front of my husband. He likes to pretend he is in charge of things. Oh, I nearly forgot.’

  Madame Roland removes a pouch from her purse. Grace recognizes it immediately.

  The diamonds.

  ‘This is yours?’ confirms Madame Roland.

  Grace nods, not daring to speak.

  ‘It is very impressive. Paste jewellery – is that how you call it in England? False jewels?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispers Grace.

  ‘Well, you must be careful,’ says Madame Roland. ‘It might be a joke to you English, but it is dangerous to wear a necklace in this style in France. You risk imprisonment. Keep it hidden.’

  She pushes the pouch into Grace’s unresisting hand then rises suddenly.

  ‘Stay here,’ she says. ‘Sleep a little.’ She hesitates. ‘There is someone who would be very interested to meet you. A lawyer who is very invested in the plight of common people.’

  She turns in a swirl of red silk skirts and makes for the door.

  ‘Get some rest,’ she says, exiting and closing the door.

  Grace reflects on her good fortune, reaching for another draft of the wonderfully restorative bouillon.

  Then she hears the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.

  CHAPTER 40

  MONSIEUR FOULON SITS NEXT TO MONSIEUR ROBESPIERRE on a hard church bench in the Sainte Chapel. The magnificent building soars an impossible height above them, set with countless lozenges of jewel-bright stained glass and topped with an arcing sky of sparkling gilt stars on a deep blue. It makes Robespierre feel as though he is inside a lantern.

  ‘This was the safest place I could think of,’ mutters Foulon, ‘but it is not safe.’

  He is sweating, frightened, in ruffles and lace. His ancient powdered fe
atures dancing with fear. He glances to Robespierre.

  The lawyer is as calm and still as the classical statues he admires. Now they are in close quarters, Foulon notices, there is something wrong with Monsieur Robespierre’s eyes. Something missing.

  Robespierre makes a smile that isn’t a smile, more a twitch of the mouth.

  ‘I didn’t think you lowered yourself to meet commoners.’

  Foulon swallows. ‘Recollect how I helped you,’ he whispers, ‘got your common man into noble places.’

  Foulon glances sideways, but Robespierre’s expression is so icy he looks quickly away again.

  ‘You were paid in full, Monsieur Foulon,’ says Robespierre. ‘A gentleman doesn’t refer to a settlement as a debt.’

  ‘No,’ mumbles Foulon apologetically. He looks up at the altar, hands wrung in supplication. ‘I need a safe place to hide,’ he pleads, his eyes darting to the few scattered people sat in prayer. His tongue slides across his lipsticked mouth, choosing his next words. ‘I beg you. Save me.’

  ‘I?’ Robespierre widens his eyes. ‘How might a mere commoner help a great man such as Monsieur Foulon? A friend of the King, no less?’

  Tears rise in Foulon’s eyes.

  ‘Monsieur Robespierre, please. I may be great, but I am also a man.’

  Robespierre taps his fingers together. His face is pained, a man trying to understand.

  ‘Of course. Of course. Yet. An angry mob wants your head. Might this be because you have been going around proclaiming the starving peasants might fill their bellies with grass?’

  ‘I never said that,’ said Foulon. ‘It is lies, exaggeration.’

  His voice rises to a hiss, attracting the attention of a fat bishop, plush in his red robes. He looks at them for a moment then goes back to lighting an enormous silver candlestick. One of eighteen, Robespierre notes, not to mention the hundredweight of gold, precious plate and jewel-encrusted cabinets containing various magical relics to awe the populace.

  ‘And what of all the women?’ asks Robespierre. ‘You have a terrible reputation, Monsieur Foulon. Quite awful. There are several respectable men in this city who claim you have harmed their daughters. Naturally, since they are mere doctors or lawyers such as myself they have no recourse to justice.’

  ‘It isn’t true,’ splutters Foulon. ‘Girls of that class throw themselves at me. I give them trinkets and they leave happy. It is the pamphleteers who make up these stories that I trap innocents in my carriage.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Robespierre is frowning in understanding. ‘I myself know how prone the libelles can be to mistruths.’

  He drums his fingers lightly on the desk.

  ‘So, what is to be done?’

  ‘I will pay you,’ says Foulon. ‘Anything. Name your price.’

  Robespierre’s face darkens. ‘I am not for sale, Monsieur Foulon.’

  ‘I can give you more riches than you can imagine, Monsieur Robespierre. Castles, palaces. You could retire a wealthy man.’

  Robespierre raises a pale finger. Foulon stops speaking instantly.

  ‘Please, do not continue to insult me. Money is not an interest of mine. My conscience cannot be bought. If we are to make a new France, a democratic France, it must be one of ideals, of honesty, not the corruption and bribes of the old order.’

  ‘I quite agree.’ Foulon sags.

  ‘But,’ Robespierre raises his finger again, ‘there is something that has a value beyond money. A value of conscience, if you will.’

  Foulon is nodding, licking his painted lips, though his eyes suggest he is struggling to understand.

  ‘Le collier de la reine,’ says Robespierre, ‘the Queen’s necklace.’

  ‘Yes!’ Foulon all but bolts up from his bench. ‘I know where it is!’

  ‘You have it?’ Robespierre’s fists curl slowly into balls.

  ‘I ... No. But, I can give you information ...’

  Something closes in Robespierre’s eyes. ‘I see. How disappointing. As you know, I am well stocked with information.’

  ‘But this is something you don’t know. There is a girl. She is English – looks ordinary. But, but, she drew a knife in my carriage ...’

  Foulon’s eyes are desperately searching Robespierre’s pale eyes for a reaction.

  ‘Go on,’ says Robespierre patiently.

  ‘Attica Morgan,’ says Foulon. ‘That is what Angelina said her name was.’

  ‘Angelina?’

  ‘My courtesan.’

  ‘I see.’ Deep unease passes across Robespierre’s face. ‘You converse with this lady about our communications?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Foulon frowns. ‘She is a woman and understands nothing.’

  ‘What is her connection to this Attica Morgan person?’

  ‘They are old school friends, I think. But Mademoiselle Morgan told me a girl called Grace Elliott has the diamonds. Another English girl. She was at the Salon des Princes.’

  Robespierre sits perfectly still. There is no indication this information has had any effect on him.

  ‘Can you tell me anything else, Monsieur Foulon?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘The Morgan girl wields a knife, like a dockside cut-purse.’

  ‘You have told me that, already.’ The slightest rearrangement of Robespierre’s features indicate he grows impatient.

  ‘She threatened to castrate me.’

  The corners of Robespierre’s mouth twitch slightly. ‘How terrible.’

  Robespierre stands, seeming to have made a decision. ‘Monsieur Foulon, I am moved to help you. You must first go to a less conspicuous chapel. If you can walk to the Church of All Saints, you can be assured of sanctuary. From there I will organize a group of sympathetic men to smuggle you from Paris. We will put it about you have died.’

  ‘Yes.’ Foulon is crying with relief. ‘That is a good plan, a fine plan. I shall ready my guard.’

  Robespierre appears to hesitate.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Foulon.

  ‘Might it be best to go without your guard?’ Robespierre suggests. ‘You are a recognizable man; you will only draw attention to yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’ Foulon hesitates. He looks into Robespierre’s eyes and is assured by what he sees.

  ‘You are an honest man and a man of your word,’ he decides. ‘Not susceptible to bribery or corruption.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robespierre makes that unnerving expression again, not quite a smile.

  Foulon stands, leaning on his jewel-encrusted walking cane. Robespierre quietly totals how many sacks of grain the gems might buy. Three hundred, he estimates, and Robespierre’s estimates are more like facts.

  Foulon staggers out, fear and relief making him clumsy. Robespierre watches the door close.

  He lifts a little bell and rings it, a delicate tinkling.

  A barefoot boy appears in ragged trousers.

  ‘Monsieur.’ He bows.

  Robespierre produces a centime and holds it up.

  ‘Go to Les Cours des Miracles,’ he says. ‘Explain to our friends, please, that Monsieur Foulon can be found at the Church of All Saints on Rue de Honores. He is alone and unarmed.’

  The boy leaves and Robespierre’s mouth moves silently, making calculations.

  A mob is already headed to the Salon des Princes. They will be there within a few hours. Though now, of course, the mob will arrive at Madame Roland’s chateau by way of a detour, to where Monsieur Foulon believes himself hidden.

  Everything is going as he’d hoped. What’s more, he may have discovered a way to flush the Pimpernel into the open. This knife-wielding woman could be the link.

  LATER, BACK IN HIS PLAIN OFFICE, ROBESPIERRE HEARS THE roar of the crowd. Screams.

  He writes out one name, over and over, the sharpened feather driving deeper into the paper with every fresh line.

  Attica Morgan, Attica Morgan, Attica Morgan.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE ROLANDS’ GRAND CHATEAU IS SIMPLY SPECTACULAR, an enormous turr
eted castle of a building with endless slate rooftops, great glass windows and rows of perfectly sculpted poplar trees lining the broad approach.

  I pass the large gates on foot, to see a strange kind of party has spilled out on to the grounds. Amongst drunk guests, a motley-looking circus has pitched up, trying to earn a few pennies. Tired-looking horses are being encouraged to rear up on their hind legs.

  Nearby, several men are struggling with a great swathe of fabric. It’s a globe aerostatic – a silk lantern that rises up in the sky like magic. The Rolands are so preposterously wealthy they’ve bought themselves a hot air balloon.

  Currently it’s being used as an entertainment for guests, rather than making flights of leisure around the countryside.

  The limp material has begun to ripple, as though blown by a giant mouth. Two drunk aristocratic men attempt to climb into the balloon basket before it’s ready, demanding to be floated up. One sets his jacket alight. He falls out, swearing and batting at the flames.

  I walk past them, making some quick adjustments to my toilette. Since the French share the English affectation to clothe their maids in fine silk dresses, it’s simple enough to adapt.

  From my hanging pocket I remove a rolled lace-trimmed pinafore and a matching maid’s cap, fitting the latter over my long hair and tucking the black curls underneath.

  I pass by fruit trees and quickly pull down some low-hanging cherries, bundling them into my apron.

  Servants bearing wheelbarrows of food are arriving on the grass, unpacking a vast spread. Cold meats, jellies, fruits, cheeses, bread and pastries are being laid artfully on lace cloths, dotted about the lawns. The delicacies keep emerging as I pass, a never-ending disgorgement of comestibles. On and on it comes, with fruit and cakes and marzipan sweets joining the savouries. Spectacular crockery is carried out: gilded dishes flashing like suns, solid gold cutlery.

  But no one is really interested in filling the decorated plates, loading the fancy forks. The round-bellied people out on the lawn are too drunk to care for food. They signal only for wine. I pass a man drunkenly scratching at the wig-sores on his shaved head, his gigantic flowing wig lying at his feet like a pet dog.