The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

‘A shell overhead. Nothing to signify—I hope. Tell me, what view do your upstairs windows command?’

  ‘The servants’ quarters? Come and see.’

  They hurried upstairs to a tiny attic bedroom whose two narrow gabled windows commanded a view of Montmartre. ‘Good God!’ Mme de Morne withdrew from the window. ‘I can’t bear to look. Tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘The Allies are attacking in strength. The defences will never hold. Half of them are mere boys, you know, this year’s conscripts, hardly able to handle their arms.’

  ‘I know. Marmont told me the other day that he saw a conscript standing at his ease in the thick of the fray at Montmirail, doing nothing. Why? Because he did not know how to load his gun! Marmont had tears in his eyes when he told me. And it is boys like that, is it, who are out there, dying senselessly?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. But, take heart, madame, it won’t be long now.’

  That night, the moon shone with extraordinary brilliance. Paris was strangely quiet, its squares and streets full of the French army, bivouacking on the pavements, silent with exhaustion. From their top-floor window, Sonia and Charles could see the lights of the Allied campfires on the hills overlooking the city, and even hear the challenge and counter-challenge of the sentries ringing out sometimes in German, sometimes in Russian. The town was surrounded on three sides.

  ‘Will it be tomorrow?’ asked Sonia.

  ‘Very soon. There have been meetings all day, and messengers going to and fro. Best of all, there’s still no news of Napoleon. No one knows where he is. Yes, I think very likely it will be tomorrow.’

  ‘And then—what?’

  ‘God knows. Nothing’s settled; nothing’s even planned. Talleyrand smiles that smile of his and says nothing. If only the Comte d’Artois were here!’

  ‘Or Louis the Undesirable?’

  ‘Sonia—don’t!’ He turned towards her, his face harsh in the moonlight. ‘Not now, not tonight. I can’t bear it. There’s too much already: don’t you join against me.’

  ‘Against you? Oh, Charles, may I not even try to laugh?’

  ‘Not now. Not about this. I tell you, Sonia, it’s no laughing matter. It’s the future of the world—how we are going to live for the rest of our lives—in peace, in freedom, or—slaves, as the French have been. And I…I may have some part to play. Try to understand that this is more important to me than anything. My life’s not my own any more—I’ve staked it—I’m not free…’

  ‘A slave, like the French?’ And then, as he made an impatient movement beside her, she put a gentle hand on his shoulder: ‘Charles, I do understand. Or—I try to.’

  ‘Thank you, Rapunzel.’ His hand went up to cover hers and they stood for a moment, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.

  Sonia moved at last. ‘Dear Charles, try not to take it so hard.’ And then, on an intentionally light note, ‘Well, it’s late. Mme de Morne will be wondering what’s become of us, and besides, if we are to be sacked in the morning, let us by all means have a night’s sleep first.’

  ‘There’s nothing to fear, I promise you. The Czar has said all along that he intends no harm to Paris.’

  ‘I’ve heard old Blücher talk differently. They’re not all saints like the Czar. Frankly, I wish it were tomorrow night, and all well. But you’ll be here to look after us, Charles?’ Frank appeal in her voice now.

  ‘Sonia—if I can.’

  ‘You mean, if nothing more important comes up.’ Now, suddenly, she was angry. ‘I should have known. It’s all very well to talk, but if the Bourbons whistle for you, it’s goodbye to us: we must take our chance with the Cossacks. Never marry, Charles; your wife might not quite like always taking second place to your ideals.’

  ‘Not if she cared? Not if she shared them?’ Suddenly, his hands were hard on her shoulders as he swung her round to face him and gazed down at her in the half-light as if he were trying to read not so much her face as her heart. Despite herself, she leaned a little towards him, her lips ready to meet his. But the grip on her shoulders hardened as he pushed her a little away from him. ‘Sonia, whatever happens, forgive me… Think of me, sometimes, as one who loved you too well to—’ He stopped, seeming to bite off the words.

  ‘Charles, you’re frightening me. What is it? What’s the matter?’ But she stood there quietly, intensely aware of the grip of his hands.

  ‘It will all be over soon.’ He seemed to be talking more to himself than to her. ‘You will be safe in England, happy, I hope, and I—’

  ‘Yes, you, Charles?’

  ‘God knows. Hush.’ His hands clenched for a moment on her shoulders so that she caught her breath in sudden pain, then, gentle again, he pushed her away from him. ‘Yes, Mme de Morne?’

  ‘I said’—Mme de Morne’s silk skirts rustled on the narrow stair—‘it’s very late. There will be much to do in the morning, God help us.’

  ‘I hope He does,’ said Sonia.

  She woke early, to a strange sensation of quietness. The cannon were not firing. Armistice? Or surrender? She dressed as quickly as she could and ran downstairs to find Charles, still in his greatcoat, drinking a cup of coffee in the dining room. ‘You’ve been out? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s all over. The French army withdrew in the night; the Allies enter the city at eleven.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘And where’s Napoleon?’

  ‘Ah, that’s still a question. Coming up fast from the rear—but too late. The capitulation is signed and sealed. I hope to God he recognises defeat when it’s absolute.’

  ‘It will be most unlike him if he does.’

  Mme de Morne was quite herself again this morning, and very busy making white cockades for her household. She sang as she worked, then broke off to say, ‘You see, I knew it would be all for the best. The Czar, after all, is one of the most civilised men in the world. He will not make us pay for Napoleon’s faults. When the Bourbons are safely back on their throne, it can all be forgotten.’

  ‘You think so?’ Sonia remembered her father’s death and all the other scenes of violence she had encountered.

  ‘I’m sure of it. You will see; they come as friends, not conquerors.’

  This opinion was confirmed by an early visit from an old friend of hers, the Russian Prince Wolkonski, who brought assurances of safety and protection from the Czar’s Foreign Minister, Nesselrode. Wolkonski had come to Paris in advance of the Allied armies, to probe the state of public opinion. Mme de Morne held out the cockade she was making: ‘There is your answer,’ she said.

  ‘I wonder. You are very loyal, madame, but I must tell you I saw a group of young men in the street, as I came along, wearing white cockades, and shouting “Vive le Roi!” People shrank away from them as if they had the plague.’

  ‘They’re still afraid. You must remember the long tyranny we have endured. When the Allied armies are in control of the city, it will be another matter.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You may well be right. But some enthusiasm now, when it carried a risk, would be more convincing. What hope can there be for a king replaced on his throne by foreign arms? But, forgive me, madame, I know how little question there has ever been of your loyalty. I can only hope that what I see on my way back through the city proves more in line with your views.’

  After he left, the manufacture of white cockades went on harder than ever, but rather more quietly. It was punctuated now by an anxious sending about of messengers. Mme de Morne and her royalist friends were busy arranging a demonstration that should convince the Czar.

  Charles had been out when Wolkonski called, but returned in time to escort Mme de Morne and Sonia to the Recamiers’ house in the Rue Basse de Rempart through which the Allied procession was to pass. To Sonia’s disappointment, the famous beauty was away, but her husband made them welcome and established them in a first-floor apartment, on a level
with the boulevard. The first thing they saw was the group of young men of whom Wolkonski had spoken, still waving their white handkerchiefs and shouting ‘Vive le Roi’—but still pitifully few. Significant, too, was the attitude of the silent crowds in the street, who neither molested them, nor joined in their cries, but looked at them almost with pity, as at predestined victims. It might well be true. ‘They’re as good as dead men,’ whispered Mme de Morne, ‘if Napoleon returns.’

  Charles Vincent had left them for a while to find out how the Allied armies were being received in the outskirts of the city. Now he rejoined them, but shook his head gloomily in answer to Mme de Morne’s eager questions. ‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘No white cockades, no shouting, nothing. Just silence, deserted streets, a few heads looking gloomily out of windows.’

  ‘It will be different when they reach this part of town.’

  ‘Yes, but it may also be too late.’

  There was indeed a considerable show of enthusiasm when the Allied army reached the Place Vendome and as it approached the window where Sonia sat she could see hands go surreptitiously into pockets, here and there in the road, and bring out white cockades, or white handkerchiefs. When the advance party of Cossacks of the Guard reached the head of the street, the shouting began: ‘Vivent les Rois Liberateurs!’ called the Parisians, ‘Vive l’Empereur Alexandre! Vive le Roi de Prusse,’ and most often of all, ‘Vive Louis XVIII’ and Vivent les Bourbons.’ Even some of the National Guards had produced white cockades by now, while the group of young men who had seemed so forlorn earlier were skirmishing eagerly around the Allied sovereigns, trying to make themselves seem twice as many as they really were.

  ‘What now?’ asked Mme de Morne when the procession had passed.

  ‘The Emperor and the King of Prussia are to review the army in the Champs Elysées. After that—God knows. May I see you home now, madame? The crowds have thinned already—and I am anxious to get back to M Talleyrand’s.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Charles looked more exhausted than ever, and Sonia’s heart bled for him.

  ‘Did you get any sleep last night?’ she could not help asking.

  ‘Sleep? I don’t remember. No, I don’t believe so.’

  When they reached the Hotel de Morne, Sonia urged him to come in with them and get some rest, but he refused. ‘There will be time for rest later. If you need me, I’ll be at Talleyrand’s. The Provisional Government’s operating from there. Any moment the fate of France may be decided, and you talk of sleeping.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help thinking you’d be a great deal more use to yourself and to others if you had had some rest. You look worn to the bone, Charles. At least, come in and eat something.’

  ‘Thank you, no. I’ll get something there.’

  ‘If you remember to.’

  Elizabeth was sitting in the salon. Her recovery had been sudden and rapid, but she still looked pale and wasted to an alarming degree and accepted Mme de Morne’s greetings and congratulations listlessly.

  It was so unlike her that Sonia could not restrain her anxiety. ‘Should you really be up, Liz? I’m sure it’s too soon.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it any longer in bed. There’s too much time for thinking. But, come’—with a visible effort—‘tell me about the procession. How did it go?’

  Mme de Morne launched at once into an enthusiastic description of the royalist demonstration and Sonia listened and wondered at how optimism could exaggerate.

  Philip Haverton came to call on them that afternoon. He and Denbigh, he explained, had ridden quietly into Paris after the procession was over. ‘My cousin preferred it so.’ Something petulant in his voice suggested that his own view had been different. ‘He’s at Talleyrand’s now. ‘We met Vincent there, that’s how I knew where to find you.’ There was something odd about his manner. Why was he so ill at ease? Any moment now, Sonia thought, he would be sucking the head of his cane the way he used to when they first met him.

  ‘Charles is at Talleyrand’s still?’ She broke a silence that threatened to become awkward.

  ‘Yes, along with all the rest of the world. You never saw such a scene! The Czar has moved in there, you know. He seems to think there’s a bomb in the apartments that were prepared for him in the Elysée Palace, so he’s playing safe by staying with Talleyrand. After all, no one would blow up the whole of the Provisional Government.’

  ‘Is that still there too?’ Sonia was more and more puzzled by this curiously general line of conversation.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s an absolute madhouse. The Czar and his aides-de-camp are on the first floor, Nesselrode and his secretaries on the second and Talleyrand and the Provisional Government on the entresol. The stairs are lined with Imperial Guards, and there are Cossacks fast asleep in the courtyard. My cousin says it’s as much as your life’s worth to get a word with Talleyrand himself.’

  ‘How is Lord Denbigh?’ Sonia suspected that he had regretted his reference to his cousin.

  ‘Well, thank you.’ There was an odd note in his voice. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m always well, but Elizabeth has been ill since we saw you last.’ It was becoming necessary to explain away the strained silence in which Elizabeth had listened to their talk.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’ Once again the oddly formal note.

  What could be the matter? ‘You have not asked how we contrived to get here ahead of the army.’ Sonia found her own voice constrained now, having caught his evident embarrassment.

  ‘Vincent told me a little of your adventures. I should have begun by congratulating you on your escape.’

  ‘Congratulate us on our heroism, rather.’ With an effort she recaptured the old teasing tone. ‘I never hope to be so frightened again in my life.’

  ‘I hope you may not be.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I must not keep you longer from your domestic duties.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Philip. Domestic duties, indeed! You cannot mean to run away so soon. Why, you’ve not told us half your news.’ She was angry with herself as she spoke. If he really wanted to cut his visit so short, it was not for her to urge him to stay.

  She could only be grateful when Elizabeth intervened. ‘Don’t you be absurd, Sonia. Mr Haverton has doubtless much business on his hands, today of all days. We must be grateful to him for sparing us as much as five minutes of his time.’ And then, in a tone oddly full of meaning: ‘Goodbye, Mr Haverton.’

  He exchanged a long look with her as he took the hand she held out to him. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Barrymore.’ Why did he blush and stumble on her name? ‘It is true, I have a great deal to do. I called, in fact, to explain…’

  ‘How busy you are. Yes, we quite understand, do we not, Sonia?’

  ‘Of course we do.’ Sonia had her cue now, and took it gallantly. ‘And of course we are very busy too. We expect to leave for England as soon as the roads are open, do we not, Liz?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘To England! Will you really—’ He stopped. ‘Forgive me, it’s no affair of mine.’ And still confused, he took his leave.

  ‘Well—’ Sonia looked at Elizabeth. ‘What does that mean, do you think?’

  ‘It means the masquerade’s over.’ Elizabeth leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I should never have let it begin.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sonia robustly. ‘What else could we have done? And here we are, after all, safe in Paris, with the road open at last to England.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and you saw how Haverton looked when you said we were going there.’

  Sonia laughed. ‘I did indeed. You think our guilty secret’s out? He knows we’re not cousins? And has jumped—trust Philip—to the most sordid possible conclusion.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Shall we make Charles call him out?’ And then, more seriously, ‘Darling Liz, don’t look so wretched. It will all come right in the end, I promise you it will. You only take it so hard becau
se you have been ill. And after all, who cares about Philip?’

  ‘If it were only Philip,’ said Elizabeth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The spring sun shone. Birds sang in the Champs Elysées, and under the trees the Cossacks, bivouacking, tethered their horses and went busily to work, as if they were in some country camp, mending their clothes, polishing the copper buckles and ornaments of their uniforms, and sharing out the booty which, despite every order to the contrary, they had contrived to acquire.

  And yet, to the Frenchwomen who thronged, in their elegant, low-cut spring gowns to stare at this novel spectacle, they appeared the mildest of men, and many a black-pinafored French child had enjoyed a ride on their shoulders, or even in front of them as they sat, stiff-legged in their high saddles. It was only when men loitered too near that a sudden fierceness showed them for the savages they were. And there were stories, too, of what had happened in outlying villages where householders had been so foolish as to resist them, or where they had come upon an empty house, which they considered fair game. It was no wonder if they had plenty of plunder to share.

  Aside from these stories, Paris was incredibly peaceful. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Mme de Morne had just returned from her morning drive. ‘How can those women go out and gaze at the Allied camp as if it was a raree-show? How can we take it all so quietly?’

  Elizabeth could not help feeling sorry for her. It was true that the French were hardly showing themselves in a heroic light, and though it could not be anything but a relief that there was, so far, no hint of guerrilla warfare against the conquering Allies—well, she could understand how Mme de Morne felt. Even the news that Napoleon was now actually at Fontainebleau had failed to disturb the Parisians’ curious calm. Or if they reacted at all, it was with fear that the fighting might start all over again.

  ‘They’re exhausted,’ she said to Mme de Morne, ‘that’s what it is. But I confess I wish people didn’t keep telling me that they were always opposed to the Emperor, in their hearts.’