by C. S. Quinn
‘I am happy to do so,’ says Grace, a little too quickly. ‘I will not speak a word. I have hardly seen anything, in any case. I have been so confused.’ She realizes she is saying too much and stops.
De Launay thinks some more. He looks to the cell wall.
‘“Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains,”’ he reads. ‘Several philosophes were prisoners here, men who claim an absolute King on a throne is unjust. Voltaire was held in the dungeons for his opinions on monarchy.’ His eyes land squarely on Grace. ‘He fled to England to avoid second imprisonment. Tell me, is it as they say, in your country? Do jackal politicians dare to cross words with a King of the blood?’
‘They do,’ says Grace. ‘I believe we have better laws because of it.’
De Launay smiles. ‘You are young,’ he says. ‘You will learn. The King must rule his country as the head must rule the body. Perhaps you know of the famous diamonds?’ he says. ‘It was widely thought they were sold in England.’ He toys with the hilt of his sword.
Grace can feel the necklace hard under her dress. She feels colour surge to her cheeks.
He knows.
Her armpits prickle with sweat. Better to confess now, than risk his anger. Grace opens her mouth, choosing her words. But de Launay speaks over her.
‘She was a prisoner of mine,’ he says. ‘Jeanne de la Motte-Valois.’
The name sounds strangely familiar, but Grace can’t immediately place it.
‘The necklace thief,’ de Launay adds. ‘May I?’ He points to one of the comfortable chairs belonging to the Marquis de Sade. De Launay sits.
‘Jeanne was a difficult prisoner,’ continues the governor, frowning. ‘She was born into aristocracy but her family was dispossessed, leaving her penniless. Jeanne hoped her birthright would weigh in her favour; the Queen did not agree.’
Hope sparks in Grace’s chest. Perhaps, de Launay is only lonely.
The governor frowns at the memory. ‘Jeanne was beaten dreadfully, branded on either shoulder and thrown into a common prison.’ He looks keenly at Grace. She wonders what expression is best advised.
Is it a coincidence, his talking about the necklace? Or is de Launay simply playing with her?
De Launay appears to come to a decision. He stands.
‘There is some trouble outside,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping it will die down. But if not, you will be moved.’
‘Oh,’ says Grace, fear snaking its way through her limbs. ‘Where?’
‘A better place for you,’ says the governor. ‘The dungeon.’
CHAPTER 79
JEMMY AND I ARE HEADING DEEP INTO THE BOWELS OF THE earth. We’re careering at speed down a mine shaft. Our wheeled cart twists and turns down dark passages, weaving us ever lower into the vast network of plaster mines beneath Paris.
‘Look out!’ shouts Jemmy, as we fly towards a trolley being loaded by unsuspecting miners. They look up in horror to see us coming at them and run for cover.
Our little cart smashes into a rocky wall in a cloud of tinder and gypsum. We are flung from our vehicle and land in a heap.
‘You’re certain this is a mine?’ Jemmy is taking in the great scale of it as he stands, brushing pale dust from his dark clothes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’
The ceiling is vast, at least cathedral-high, but narrowing to a thin point, in a shape reminiscent of a ragged fang.
A damp chalky smell of gypsum sits heavy on the air. Every single wall and curved surface is chiselled with a thousand little pick marks, stretching away infinitely into the distance. It’s like being inside a giant fossilized shell.
Jemmy shivers slightly, closing a few more small buttons on his frock-coat.
‘We’re under central Paris,’ I say, ‘but the mines go all the way to Montmartre.’ I look to the ground, where trolleys have worn troughs in the soft floor. ‘If we work out which way is south-west,’ I decide, ‘we can get there. The deepest tracks will take us west to where most of the plasterwork are,’ I say, enjoying the puzzle of it, ‘but there are also royal works south. They would require the finest plaster, perhaps leaving a trail of the whitest dust. If we intersect the two, we could discern which way is north ...’
I look up to see Jemmy shaking his head pityingly. He takes out a compass from inside his black coat.
‘That way,’ he says, his dark books kicking up plaster dust as he strides off.
We reach our underground destination in a few minutes, but the way out presents us with a new problem. Jemmy puts out a cautionary arm and we hang back, keeping out of sight.
A group of miners and their pulleys stand between us and the route above ground. Ranged around them are a few ragged men with cudgels and a battered old musket between them: guards to stop thieves getting into the mine.
‘They’ll think we’re here to steal,’ says Jemmy, eyeing the valuable barrels of plaster.
Jemmy is taking in the rest of the mine now: the wooden scaffold, holding up the yellow-white pitched roof; beneath, the sad grey-faced workers. They chip and heave the craggy gypsum through the endless dust and half-light. To either side of us are men filling barrels and hammering the lids in place. The air rings with the sound of people coughing, like a many-toned infirm orchestra.
‘I’m going to cut that rope,’ I say, nodding to a pile of barrels stacked on their sides and lashed together. ‘They’ll roll free and we can get away in the confusion.’
‘It won’t work,’ says Jemmy with certainty. ‘You’d need a narrow passage and this mine is too big. I don’t know much about barrels, but I know that.’
‘I thought you said your brother was a cooper?’
‘Poetic licence. He’s more of a smuggler.’
‘Trust me. Just stop the foreman from getting in my way.’
I nod in the direction of a tall man with a whip in his hand.
Jemmy removes his sword. And before he can reveal any more doubts, I run at the mountain of barrels with my knife outstretched.
Men loading and shovelling halt, frozen in shock as they see me coming at them, black blade held high.
From behind me, a gunshot rings out, punching a bullet hole into the barrel I’m next to and spitting out little white dust puffs.
I grab the fibrous rope that holds the barrels in place and quickly saw through it. The hemp unravels in every direction and forty huge kegs of plaster roll free. Several cascade from the top, the gypsum shattering into a cloud on impact.
I look around to see rolling barrels and fleeing workers. Containers smash, spraying the dark ground with white rings of gypsum.
As I hoped, the air is thick with choking chalky mist. I grab Jemmy’s arm. The dust cloud hides us completely. Somewhere in the haze, the miners are shouting in alarm, unable to see us.
‘This way,’ I say, coughing hard. ‘If your compass is right, we’ll come up near to the Café de Chevaleux.’
CHAPTER 80
WE REACH THE CAFÉ DE CHEVALEUX, A WOODEN-FRONTED building with a row of mullioned windows. Inside is deceptively large, with a number of wooden tables, most of them occupied.
From behind the fug of pipe smoke, a woman at a broad counter pours an oily brew from a copper kettle. Above her and to the side are panes of glass with caricatures behind them. A low bubble of acrid coffee and seditious talk fills the air.
‘Can you see Danton?’ I ask Jemmy, raising my voice against the general chatter.
‘There.’ Jemmy points and I follow the direction of his finger.
Danton is a large man, broad as well as tall. His face is one of the most unfortunate I have ever seen, his natural ugliness further marred by a motley assortment of pockmarks and scars.
The small eyes are pale and piggy between the great jowls of his face, which are at this moment sunk low in despair.
I glance at Jemmy and see he is as dispirited as I am.
Even from here, I can see Danton looks utterly beaten. There is no fight left in him.
He lounges with
such drunken lack of caution on his small stool that his great bulk might topple off at any moment. One hand clutches the empty remnants of a red wine bottle. The table before him holds the evidence of many more. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days.
Jemmy strides across the coffee shop.
‘Danton?’ He places a hand on the large man’s shoulder.
Danton swivels his blue eyes to look at it, trying to work out what’s happening.
‘Danton?’ Jemmy pulls up a stool and sits opposite him. Danton lifts his empty bottle high, eyes glassy.
‘The cause is lost,’ Danton explains glumly. ‘Those poor fools head to the Bastille, where Governor de Launay will put them down. The thing is over.’ He sighs. ‘The King has won.’
He shakes his great head again.
‘Ca ira, ca ira ...’ He drifts off into bad singing.
‘Danton!’ To my surprise, Jemmy slams his fist on the table, sending several empty bottles shattering to the floor. The large man’s piggy eyes register him with the first glimmer of sobriety.
‘Get a hold of yourself, man,’ says Jemmy irritably. ‘You’ve a war to win and you won’t win it sat here. Robespierre plots against you.’
Danton’s eyes flick wider.
‘No, no,’ he booms. ‘I won’t hear a word against Max. He’s a strange fellow, to be sure, but I’ve known him since we were young men. His heart’s in the right place and if you’ve come to deride my good friend, you may be on your way.’
I glance at Jemmy. He shrugs, then leans in closer.
‘The protestors,’ Jemmy says, speaking quickly. ‘They hope to raid the gunpowder ...’
Danton breathes out hard, his face falling even further. ‘And they’ll die without even getting across the great moat. There is no way into the Bastille unless you have been invited by Governor de Launay.’
‘What if someone were to lower the drawbridge?’ I suggest.
Danton swivels his large head to look at me. His mouth broadens into a smile, revealing small pearly teeth.
‘This is your mistress?’ he asks Jemmy, never taking his eyes off me. ‘Why, she is delightful!’
I swallow my annoyance.
‘If there were a way to lower the drawbridge,’ I ask him, ‘would you fight?’
Danton pats my hand with his chunky fingers.
‘Don’t concern yourself with man’s business, my sweet bun,’ he says kindly. ‘It’s a lovely thought, but the governor will not simply lower the bridge, even if we ask him nicely.’
He shoots a conspiratorial glance at Jemmy, shaking his head and smiling slightly at my naivety.
Jemmy winces.
‘I don’t plan on asking nicely,’ I explain patiently. ‘I’ve an interest in forts and castles. I think I might know a way.’
‘The Bastille is impenetrable,’ he booms, something of the old Danton spirit returning. ‘Walls as thick as a man. Don’t let Robespierre’s notions of equality run away with you, mademoiselle. No man in five centuries has breached it; a woman could hardly succeed at such a thing.’
I smile politely, stand and cross the coffee house. Danton barely notices. I feel Jemmy’s eyes on my back as I approach the collection of satirical prints.
My eyes flick across them. They are mostly obscene pictures of Marie Antoinette, depicting her at orgies or attempting to rouse the sleeping King with graphic nudity. I see the image I was looking for – an artist’s sketch of the Bastille with sad peasants being dragged inside – and lift it off the wall.
It’s only when I land the wood-framed picture of the Bastille on to Danton’s table, sending his bottle of wine flying, that he registers I might be worth listening to.
‘The Bastille wasn’t built as a prison,’ I tell him. ‘It was built as a fortress.’
I tap the drawbridge in the image.
‘Forts constructed as long ago as the Bastille,’ I continue, drawing on my knowledge of such structures, ‘use rope, not chain, to lower their drawbridges.’
I raise the curved blade of my Mangbetu knife and stab it deep into the table, inches from his folded arms. ‘With your help,’ I conclude, ‘I think I can cut the rope.’
Danton looks warily at my weapon then at Jemmy.
‘Who is she?’ he asks eventually, his voice strained.
‘She’s English,’ says Jemmy with a shrug. ‘I find it better to listen to her or she becomes aggressive.’
CHAPTER 81
I’M SAT, PEN IN HAND, DRAWING A PLAN OF THE EIGHT-SIDED Bastille. Danton has listened to our hopes to further his cause and rescue my cousin with growing interest.
‘The Bastille protected this side of Paris,’ I tell Danton, as I carefully ink the thick walls. ‘The design was so successful I don’t think it has ever been bettered.’
Jemmy brings me a plate of griddled sardines and a dish of eye-wateringly strong coffee.
‘You need to eat something,’ he says as I finish my rudimentary plan of the Bastille in pen and ink. ‘Can’t save your cousin if you’re weak with hunger.’
He winks and I have a sudden feeling of elation. Jemmy believes we might actually do this. Danton, too, has an excited air. The drowsy drunkenness slid off him like snow from a sunny roof.
‘Quite a talent for drawing forts you have,’ says Danton, eyeing my detailed sketch with an uncertain note to his voice.
The fortress shape is etched in dark black lines. The deep walls are arranged in a traditional castle formation, with a tower on each corner. But extra turrets have been added, making eight in total.
‘I was very interested in military forts as a girl,’ I say, putting the final flourish on the moat. ‘My father had a great library of books on war-craft. My cousin Grace and I used to replicate bastions in mud and besiege them.’
I realize they are both looking at me strangely.
‘Don’t most little girls play with poppets?’ ventures Jemmy.
‘I did play with poppets,’ I reply. ‘They guarded the ramparts. In any case,’ I add, ‘the Bastille is a classic. One of the best fortresses ever built. The style has been replicated throughout Europe. See that double drawbridge design? It’s the reason the fort has never fallen in five hundred years.’
I point to where I’ve approximated the architecture.
‘It’s actually three separate bridges,’ I say. ‘A drawbridge connecting to Paris, another joining to the Bastille and a stone bridge in the centre, where both are attached.’
Jemmy looks closer.
‘That is wicked,’ he breathes. ‘It’s built to lure people, is it?’
‘Get them across the first drawbridge,’ I say, ‘into that central stone section. Then raise both. Your attackers are trapped in the middle, ready to be picked off or fall into the moat.’
‘The moat is dry now,’ says Danton. ‘Parisians used the water for their laundry.’
‘That makes little difference to the defence,’ I say. ‘It really is masterful.’
Danton rubs his forehead. ‘So what is the plan?’
‘If I can get on to that stone middle bridge,’ I say, ‘I can climb up, cut the rope and lower the first drawbridge. If you have the people make a lot of noise and fire off a few shots it will create a distraction.’
Danton adjusts his black lawyer’s coat uncomfortably.
‘A distraction for what? I won’t lead my people to be slaughtered.’
‘I wouldn’t ask you to,’ I say. ‘The Bastille has a weakness. It was built to repel invaders. When they changed it to a prison, large gridded bars were screwed to the outside of the windows to trap prisoners. At a certain height you can scale them like a ladder. And the top windows have no barricades.’
I tap the picture.
Danton is nodding thoughtfully.
‘So you would climb in and lower the second drawbridge from the inside? But there is still a fair distance to ascend before there are bars,’ he points out.
‘I’ll use this.’
I slip Atherton’s
secret weapon from the hiding place in my hair. The rubber slingshot.
‘How can that get you up a tower?’
In demonstration I fit a cork and fire it across the coffee house. A wine bottle on the far side explodes in red.
‘My apologies, friends!’ says Danton, raising his hands at a table of wine-soaked men. ‘We plan a revolution!’
The men seem to accept this and go back to their drinking.
Danton turns to me. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he says, ‘what is that thing?’
He reaches a finger and touches the rubber.
‘It has incredible power and range,’ I say. ‘I’ll use a skein of silk, a barb of some kind and fire it up and secure it to the first window. Once I climb that part, I’ll be up on the bars.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like that,’ says Jemmy uncertainly. ‘You’re sure it will work?’
‘It will work. Atherton made it.’ I’m holding my catapult affectionately.
‘I’ll need the right person with me. Someone who could take down guards if need be.’
I say it as a question, my eyes moving to Jemmy, and I realize I’ve grown to like him as a comrade. He nods in a way that suggests such a thing was never in doubt. I feel a surge of warmth for him.
‘How do you plan on finding Grace?’ asks Jemmy.
‘I’m not certain yet,’ I admit. ‘But if we can open the second drawbridge and Danton leads his people, there’s a good chance any prisoners will be left unguarded.’
‘Break the tower and rescue the princess,’ rumbles Danton. ‘Only the tower is a royal prison and the princess is a commoner. What revolutionary could resist such a task? If your plan succeeds, the French people will be freeing inmates, along with raiding gunpowder, you can be sure of it.’
Jemmy looks thoughtful. ‘The Bastille is as large as a town,’ he says. ‘There are eight huge towers, endless walls and buttresses, rooms in the roof, dungeons.’
‘And we will say we were there when it fell!’ There is a sudden excitement to Danton, a vibrant energy about his bulky frame.
‘It’s a ridiculous plan,’ he beams, rubbing his hands together, ‘simply ridiculous. But, mademoiselle, I think it could work!’ He frowns. ‘You still have a problem,’ he says. ‘How will you get to that stone bridge to cut the first drawbridge?’
