The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  CHAPTER 56

  IN THE SALON DES PRINCES, SOUNDS OF BREAKING AND pillaging echo all around. Oliver Janssen is watching me closely.

  I try not to react as Teresa is manhandled into the room, her dress torn, the styled hair dishevelled. She’s trying to appear calm, but there’s a flash of real terror in her eyes.

  Janssen looks at me.

  ‘Madame Roland has not proved the ally Monsieur Robespierre was hoping for,’ he says. ‘It would be unfortunate for an aristocrat,’ he spits the word, ‘to end up in the hands of the mob.’

  I glance at Teresa. Her expression is unreadable but her chest is rising and falling fast. The loathing on Janssen’s face is clear. I’m guessing Teresa has never before been confronted with the hatred felt by men like Janssen for women of her class.

  Janssen moves in close to Madame Roland and does something I can’t see but I hear a strange moan escape her and she sags in horrible slow-motion, hands twitching.

  Teresa straightens with difficulty, her face drained of blood. It takes every ounce of self-control not to run to her aid.

  Janssen turns to me. He seems to have derived a particular satisfaction from his victim.

  ‘I shall ask again,’ he says, ‘who is the Pimpernel?’

  ‘Does Robespierre mean to torture his way to power?’ I demand angrily. ‘Is that a man you want to lead you?’

  Janssen pulls Teresa upright. Tears are running down her cheeks. My stomach twists.

  ‘I think you know the English plans,’ he says. ‘And I think you will tell me.’

  Janssen moves again and Teresa cries out in pain. I force myself to stare into Janssen’s eyes. I have met men like him before, in Virginia, in Russia; men for whom ‘I don’t know’ can never be enough, even if it is the truth.

  ‘I think you are all bluff,’ I say. ‘You cannot kill Madame Roland,’ I continue. ‘If she dies, the crime of the mob is no longer political,’ I say, casting a gaze to Teresa’s anxious face.

  Janssen smiles. ‘I can do what I like,’ he says. ‘As the people did with the unfortunate Foulon. They put a garland of nettles around his neck and a bushel of grass on his back, walked him barefoot for miles. They beat him, made him drink vinegar.’

  Madame Roland looks pained. Janssen glances at her, enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘When they tired of it, they conducted their own trial,’ concludes Janssen. ‘Tried Foulon for crimes against the French people, stuffed his mouth with grass and hung him from a lamp-post.’

  ‘So the people had their revenge,’ I say, ‘for the cruelty they endured. Monsieur Foulon was a corrupt politician,’ I say, ‘the people performed a public trial. Madame Roland is an innocent woman who has been careful not to overstep her wifely boundaries, despite an unfortunate marriage.’

  I pause to let my words take effect.

  ‘If the justice for Foulon became high-spirited, well,’ I open my palms. ‘A severed head is unsavoury to be sure, but there is no law against what happens to the remains of convicted criminals.’ I nod to Madame Roland. ‘An aristocratic lady. That would give the events of today a very different flavour. No one would blame the King for raising a foreign army against Paris if a blood-thirsty mob were killing women indiscriminately.’

  A glimmer of unease sparks in Janssen’s single eye.

  ‘I imagine Monsieur Robespierre would be very unhappy if his well-planned machinations fell apart,’ I add. I’m taking a chance that Janssen is afraid of Robespierre.

  Teresa says nothing, but I can see a fortitude blooming in her down-turned eyes. She knows I’m right and is switching a hopeful gaze between Janssen and his guard.

  Janssen withdraws his metal hand.

  ‘Take Madame Roland away,’ he says without looking at me. ‘Leave her at the gates of Versailles. Ensure she gets inside the Royal Palace grounds without harm.’

  Teresa bites her lower lip and gives him a hard glare.

  ‘I helped you people,’ she says. ‘How could you?’

  Janssen doesn’t even look at her as she’s taken from the room. He turns to me.

  ‘You will leave France tonight,’ he says. ‘My men will escort you outside and drive you straight to the port.’ He smiles as though this is a courtesy, whilst we both know it to be the opposite.

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  Heavy hands take hold of my arms and I feel myself roughly escorted from the house where a coach and horses await.

  Not a fine vehicle. This looks more like the black Hackney coaches of London. A dark wooden box set on unadorned wheels. There’s a parcel shelf at the back, a perch for the driver at the front and oiled leather straps holding it all together.

  The men are opening the door, gesturing I should step inside. Inside is much like outside: planked sides with a hard seat and plenty of gaps for the draughts to get in. The plain functionality of it is of small amusement to me.

  Robespierre. The incorruptible.

  Even as he rises to importance, he will not allow his men the vulgar trappings of the noble class. There’s something to be admired in such conviction, I suppose.

  I sit in the carriage, assessing my situation. There’s a driver at the front and two heavy-set men standing on the back.

  Too many men to drive one woman to the port.

  So, the Society of Friends want me dead but will keep my murder secret from Janssen. I’m building a picture of ruthless compartmentalizing. An organization where one person alone knows everything.

  I think for a moment. If I were planning an untraceable killing I would have me assassinated long before we reach the road to Paris. It would avoid the potential for witnesses and afford long tracts of countryside to dump a body.

  Two men. Three if you count the driver. I log their weapons. One is holstering a dagger. They wear a sword each and a gun apiece they haven’t troubled themselves to load.

  I smile to myself. It’s the great advantage of being a woman: to be always underestimated.

  CHAPTER 57

  JEMMY FINDS ME BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, SOOTHING THE frightened horse. He’s still in all-black attire, the long coat and dark shirt. But now there are weapons loaded in his belt and his hair is tied back with a black ribbon.

  He slides easily from his own steed and approaches, eyeing the dead men lying on the grass.

  ‘I came to rescue you,’ he says with an elaborate bow, ‘but I am too late. You had all the fun without me, Madame Pimpernel. Ah, but you are pleased to see me at least,’ he says, taking in my wide smile.

  ‘I am,’ I admit. ‘I have never been happier to see a man in civilian clothes. Uniformed men in France are not as chivalrous as they appear.’

  The horse breathes out heavily and I stroke her nose. Jemmy looks at the spinning wheel of the upturned carriage, the smashed front. His eyes cross to the corpses on the ground, each bearing a single knife wound under the ribs. He takes in the driver, the reins tight around his neck.

  ‘You were showing off, Attica,’ he admonishes.

  ‘No,’ I protest, ‘I was saving my own life.’

  ‘With unnecessary flair,’ he says, looking at the scattered men disapprovingly. ‘Now Robespierre knows what you’re capable of.’

  I open my mouth to disagree, but I see he’s right. I was so sure Robespierre had underestimated me I never thought it might be the other way around.

  ‘You’ve left Robespierre a message,’ concludes Jemmy.

  This pushes something to the forefront of my mind.

  ‘Gaspard’s death.’ I shake my head, trying to dislodge a thought. ‘Everyone thinks it is a message for them. Yet even his killer seemed to have no real idea of the purpose of it all.’

  ‘Then it is a very bad message,’ observes Jemmy, ‘and an ill-considered murder.’

  ‘It would appear so,’ I agree. ‘Yet all the evidence points to Robespierre – a lawyer who exercises great caution in all his affairs. Does it not seem wildly out of character for a man such as he to make some ill-planned
assassination?’

  ‘It does,’ agrees Jemmy.

  ‘Something is happening in Paris,’ I say, ‘something significant. Robespierre has discovered the whereabouts of a huge weapons cache at the Hôpital des Invalides.’ I put my hands to my temples. ‘It is all connected,’ I say, ‘I’m sure of it. Gaspard’s death. The weapons. It feels like two halves of the same plan.’

  ‘To be sure, you have your answer,’ says Jemmy. ‘Robespierre is for the rebels. Some faction or other will relieve the hôpital of its weaponry and our careful lawyer will have an army.’

  ‘I don’t think he wants an army. He wants ... power. Ideals.’ The solution is just beyond my grasp, as though I could touch it with my fingertips.

  ‘If I’m to rescue Grace, I must know what happens in the city. Else I walk in blind. I’m certain Robespierre had Gaspard killed. I don’t know why.’

  Something else occurs to me. How does Jemmy know so much about Robespierre? Janssen’s words come back.

  The Society work for France. As does your pirate friend.

  Jemmy sighs. ‘We should double back,’ he says. ‘Go the opposite way to the city. Throw them off the scent. I’ve got some money, we can take shelter—’ He catches my expression and stops.

  ‘I’m going to Paris,’ I explain. ‘Grace was last seen in a carriage headed to the Bastille. She may be inside already.’

  ‘The Bastille!’ His tone says it all.

  Jemmy passes a hand through his dark hair. ‘Attica, it’s a terrible plan. You want to walk into Paris as mobs are starting up, putting noble heads on sticks. Did anyone from this secret spy ring of yours warn you against impulsiveness?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I agree, thinking of Atherton, ‘all the time.’

  ‘First you’ll get past an army of Swiss troops,’ he reminds me.

  I absorb this information.

  ‘Attica, it’s too late,’ says Jemmy. ‘Robespierre has allies on every tollgate and guard house. You’ll be arrested before you pass the first village.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I glare at him. ‘Tell me the truth. Who are you working for?’

  ‘Myself. Same as you, as far as I can make out.’

  ‘I work for England.’

  ‘Do they know that? Attica,’ Jemmy says patiently, ‘did it ever occur to you that Atherton might have sent more than one person to retrieve this necklace?’

  ‘Atherton hired you? He didn’t trust a woman to make the mission?’ I’m cut to the quick. Everything Atherton ever asked of me I have done.

  ‘Put down your pride, Attica, it’s not about that. Your neutrality is compromised. If it came down to keeping Robespierre from those diamonds or saving Grace, which would you choose?’

  I look away. ‘You lied to me,’ I accuse. ‘I thought you were hunting treasure.’

  ‘You didn’t wonder why a privateer knows so much about the lost jewels of Marie Antoinette? Rather a political set of gems to be seeking out, don’t you think?’

  I am momentarily silent. He’s a good actor, I realize, slightly stung. I believed him when he said he was hunting the necklace for treasure. Now I don’t know what’s true and what isn’t.

  ‘What’s the problem, Lady Morgan,’ asks Jemmy, ‘did ye think secrets and lies were the sole talent of nobles?’

  ‘No.’ But this isn’t quite correct. Mostly I work alongside people of a certain social class – misfits, miscreants, to be sure – but the majority highborn to one degree or another.

  ‘Of course you did.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘We’re on the same side, the only difference is I’m working for money and you’re working for your country. To my mind that makes me the more trustworthy, since a country is such a slippery thing nowadays.’

  ‘What are you saying,’ I demand, ‘that you’ll help me find Grace?’

  ‘I’ll help you find the diamonds,’ says Jemmy, ‘and keep them out of Robespierre’s hands. If a man like that finds them, there’s no telling how this revolution will play out. He could end up directing it.’

  There’s a thunder of hooves in the distance. I stand, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  ‘Seems you didn’t miss the fun after all,’ I say, releasing the horse from its carriage and heaving myself on its back. I nod at a body of armed riders on the horizon. ‘Plenty of entertainment still to be had.’

  ‘Robespierre’s men,’ says Jemmy grimly. ‘I imagine he sent a larger group to murder your murderers after your body was buried. Cover his tracks.’

  ‘Surely Robespierre doesn’t fear the loyalty of his own guards?’

  ‘Robespierre fears and plans for all eventualities,’ says Jemmy. ‘That is what makes him so dangerous.’

  He points to the road to Paris. ‘We cannot go straight. I could lead us a safe way, but it would take us days. If what you say is true, Grace will be deep within the bowels of the Bastille by then.’

  My stomach lurches at the thought of my innocent cousin lost in the prison-of-no-return.

  I shut my eyes, searching for possibilities. None are forthcoming. I imagine the great wall of troops ringing Paris.

  No way in; no way out.

  I look around, looking for any means of escape. And then I see an unlikely possibility.

  The gypsy camp in the Roland grounds, with their large circus tent and band of horses.

  The globe aerostatic.

  It’s fixed to the ground by several strong ropes, its stitched silken structure billowing prettily above a burning coal brazier.

  ‘So,’ concludes Jemmy, hands on the hips of his black shirt, ‘any notion of how we get past an army of Swiss soldiers.’

  I point to the waving balloon.

  ‘There,’ I say to Jemmy. ‘We fly.’

  CHAPTER 58

  ‘I DON’T LIKE THE LOOK OF THOSE CIRCUS MEN,’ JEMMY says as we near the encampment.

  ‘Let me talk to them,’ I say. ‘I spent part of my childhood with gypsies. Anyone who speaks Romany is a friend. You go and ready the globe aerostatic.’

  ‘How do you propose I do that? I sail ships, remember?’

  ‘It works on heat,’ I explain, remembering Atherton’s little lanterns. ‘There’ll be a brazier. Get it as hot as you can. The steering must be at least a little like a ship,’ I add. ‘It’s like one large sail in the wind.’

  Jemmy vanishes away. I approach the camp, running my hands through my dark curls and working my hair into a long gypsy-style plait. I’m still dressed for the Rolands’ party, of course: the light muslin dress with flapping ribbons, satin shoes. Nevertheless, I’m confident my fluent Romany will soften any animosity.

  There’s a ring of little tents in the distance and two colourful caravans, large with arched fronts, that I remember helping make as a girl. Near to the road is a much larger tent for displays with horses and acrobat tricks.

  But as I pick across the badly tied guy-ropes my mistake becomes apparent. This is no Romany camp. The caravans are pitched all wrong, one leaning at a bad angle. A large tent is barely standing and outside it is a barrel with circus equipment carelessly flung inside. Juggling batons, long ribbons on sticks – the kind a gypsy would never make.

  There are no gypsies here any more. It’s a stolen circus.

  Of course. My stupidity hits me. Someone let the mob in through the gates.

  My stomach tightens in anger. Horses are tethered to a single post, boggy mud and sawdust under their hooves. Beyond them, around a smoky fire, sits a group of feral-looking Frenchmen who I assume murdered the original owners.

  They stand as I near, pulling knives from their belts. Seven muscled men, scarred and dirt-streaked. A knife whirls past my face. I turn and run.

  As I flee, sawdust striking up beneath my feet, more blades pass me, narrowly missing my head. I aim for a tent, plunging through a gap in the canvas on the far side and back out of the grassy campsite. Three knives lodge in the fabric behind me.

  I have a plan of sorts. I double back, making for the horses. I grab a stic
k with a long ribbon attached from the open barrel of circus equipment as I go.

  I hear the men rip through the tent behind. I fall upon the rope holding the horses, draw out my blade and slice through.

  Once the tethering slackens and drops, the animals mill uncertainly, in that way captive creatures do when given unexpected freedom.

  The men are fanning out to surround me now, assured of their prize.

  ‘Looks like a little aristo escaped the mob,’ observes one.

  I hold up the stick, letting the ribbon unfurl. It waves gracefully in the air as it circles to the ground.

  One of them grins. ‘You think you can wave us away with that?’ He continues to advance.

  I drop low and sweep the long ribbon around the horse’s legs. And as I hoped, the effect is immediate. The snakelike motion spooks them, sending them startled in all directions. There’s sudden chaos as they gallop blindly.

  I fix my sights on one, run at it, grab hold and pull myself up. The horse skitters from side to side and for a moment I swing wildly. I manage to secure my hold, throwing my weight forward. I feel my thin skirt tear revealing lace-trimmed white cotton culottes beneath.

  I see Jemmy looking at me in horror from his place at the globe aerostatic as I gallop at him with robber-men in pursuit.

  I draw my knife, grab a tight fistful of mane and dig in my heels to steer the frightened horse at the largest badly erected marquee. Sliding low to one side, I hold out the curved blade and cut clean through the main guy-rope as we charge by.

  The huge central pillar leans then slowly topples as we race away, taking with it the entire vast tent in a billow of heavy canvas. Beneath the collapsing structure I hear the shouts of the remaining robbers as they are felled by its weight, floundering inside.

  I urge my horse forwards, gripping with my thighs as I learned to do as a girl. Relief at the unlikely escape begins to wash through me. But my celebration is short lived.

  I hear Jemmy shout a warning. As we pass the last tent, a gunshot sounds. My horse’s legs tangle suddenly in an unseen guy-rope and we both tumble to the ground.