by Carola Dunn
“But how do we get rid of them? Having rushed onto the road as if pursued by demons, they don’t appear to want to go any farther. Oh, there is their guardian.”
In the gateway, a small, barefoot girl with a dirty face and a shepherd’s crook stood thoughtfully sucking her thumb, probably equally dirty. She watched with interest but made no move to gather her charges.
“Faites marcher les oies,” Isaac shouted to her. She turned a blank stare on him.
He was about to jump down and attempt to herd the geese aside, trusting Felix to control the horses, when Miriam and Hannah appeared. Flapping their skirts, they advanced on the flock.
“Shoo! Shoo!”
The horses rolled their eyes, but the geese obediently waddled back towards the gate. Isaac tore his gaze from Miriam’s slender ankles, only to see Felix admiring the same delectable view.
Miriam turned, pink-cheeked, laughing and slightly breathless, and called, “We’ll try to keep them here while you drive past.”
Isaac gathered the reins, which he had let lie slack, then dropped them again. After Felix’s generous congratulations he no longer felt the need to prove his driving ability. “If the `foul fowl’ escape I’ll be in the suds again,” he said. “Felix, will you lead the horses?”
“Give me sheep any day,” said Felix, starting forward. “At least they don’t bite the horses’ knees.”
One goose dashed under the berline as it passed but emerged unscathed on the other side. Isaac took up the reins again and the others returned to their seats. Looking back, he saw the child shepherd her flock across the road without sparing a glance for the carriage. He shrugged and drove on.
The next posting house was not far ahead. Felix took his place on the box and Isaac joined the ladies.
“You made splendid gooseherds,” he told them. “Is it an inborn skill or have you had practice?”
To his delight, Miriam laughed. He hoped Felix heard her. “The only time I’ve been near a goose before is to eat it,” she said. “We thought we’d best take a hand as that little girl made no effort to help.”
“She didn’t seem to understand when I asked her to move them. Did I say it wrong? Oie is goose, is it not?”
“Yes, and you would think she must have understood what you wanted even if it’s pronounced differently in the local patois.”
“Patois?”
“The peasants of each region of France have their own dialect, as different from standard French and each other as Cockney is from Yorkshire. Gascon is even more different, almost a separate language. Unlike the other dialects even the educated people speak it among themselves.”
“Do you speak Gascon too?” Isaac asked, impressed by her interest as much as by her knowledge.
“Only a few words. Most of the people we met in Gascony spoke French.”
“Where exactly is Gascony?”
“It’s more or less the same as Aquitaine, stretching roughly from Bordeaux to the Pyrenees, overlapping the Basque country in the south. There is a great deal of English influence as well.”
“English! Why?”
“The kings of England were dukes of Aquitaine for three centuries and the inhabitants of the Bordeaux area, at least, were not pleased when the French kings took it over. They had been exporting wine to England in vast quantities since time immemorial.”
“And still do, do they not? Felix was extolling the virtues of claret last night.”
“Both growers and merchants would be ruined if they let a minor matter like war between France and England stop the wine trade.” Miriam smiled and shook her head. “Think how often we have been enemies throughout history!”
“Don’t tell Felix, but for someone who claims to be a true Englishman I know remarkably little about English history,” he confessed wryly, “and less about France. So the Gascons favour England? Even against Napoleon?”
“They are decidedly independent-minded. During the Revolution the Royal standard was raised at Bordeaux. They also supplied many members of one of the losing revolutionary parties, the Girondists, most of whom were guillotined. So, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say they favour England, they are hardly fervent supporters of Napoleon. That doesn’t mean that we can relax our guard. Many people in Bordeaux are Bonapartists and many would recognize English at once if they heard it.”
“You had best warn Felix.”
“Why do not you, since you are now on friendly terms with him?”
“Because I wish to remain on friendly terms with him.”
“And giving him advice would scarce be tactful,” she agreed, laughing. “I shall warn him, then. You cannot imagine how glad I am that you no longer hold him in contempt.”
Isaac did his best to hide his dismay. He was beginning to fear that if Felix asked Miriam to marry him she just might accept.
Felix was driving again when they reached Bordeaux that evening. Crossing the Garonne, Miriam noted fewer ships than ever anchored in the river or tied up at the docks. Napoleon’s Continental System had virtually destroyed the great port’s trade.
She had given Felix careful directions to the inn she decided they should stay at, for the city was the largest they had entered since leaving Paris. As the carriage rumbled through the narrow, crooked streets of the old section, she peered anxiously through the window. In the dusk, the ancient, wood-framed buildings all looked alike. She couldn’t see the towers of St. André’s Cathedral, by which she had told Felix to steer.
They emerged in the new part of town, built in the last century with imposing stone buildings, wide streets and spacious squares. Here it was easier to get her bearings, and she found that Felix had followed her instructions to the letter. A few minutes later the berline pulled up before the Auberge du Prince de Galles.
The shutter clicked back and Felix said, “There’s a very narrow archway into the yard. We had best be sure they have rooms to spare before I drive in.”
“I’ll go and ask,” Miriam said. Only yesterday, she thought, he would have driven straight in just to show off his skill.
Isaac handed her down. Turning to smile up at Felix she caught him staring at the inn sign which hung above their heads, creaking as it swung in the breeze off the Garonne River. On it was depicted a man in black armour, resting one hand on his sword, the other holding a shield with a device of three ostrich plumes and the motto “Ich dien.”
“Prinny’s insignia.” Felix started laughing. “That must be the Black Prince, and Prince de Galles means Prince of Wales. A fine welcome indeed. Already I like Bordeaux.”
“Remember I warned you,” said Miriam severely, and went into the inn.
The Prince de Galles did in fact extend a warm welcome. An ancient inn rebuilt in the seventeenth-century and now on the border between old town and new, it offered small but comfortable chambers and a cosy private parlour. They dined on local delicacies: oysters from Arcachon, pâté de foie gras de Périgueux, confit of duck, and partridge with truffles.
Felix had by now decided that French cuisine was as much to his taste as their wines, but he eyed the Roquefort cheese askance when he learned it was made from goats’ and ewes’ milk.
“And it’s ripened in a cave in a cliff,” Miriam said with mock solemnity, “not in some nice, clean dairy. That is why it’s mouldy.”
“But Stilton has blue mould and it... Oh, you are teasing, you wretch.” He grinned. “Is it really made in a cave? A clean cave, I trust.” He tasted a morsel and came back for more.
“You may be able to inspect the cave for yourself. I believe our best route will take us near Roquefort. I regret to say that we shall narrowly miss the Armagnac region.”
“A little detour perhaps?” said Felix hopefully, sipping the Armagnac brandy the waiter had brought with the cheese and coffee. “This is smoother even than the cognac I bought yesterday. Do try some, Isaac.”
“No, thank you. What do you mean `our best route,’ Miriam? Shall we not continue by the main road to
Spain?”
“We could.” She hesitated, unsure whether they would accept her argument. “It is the best road, though not the most direct to Pamplona. However, it’s the way all the French troops and artillery and supplies go, all funnelled through the narrow gap between the mountains and the sea.”
“God forbid,” muttered Hannah.
“Lord, I wager we’d be stopping to show our papers every hundred yards,” Felix exclaimed.
Isaac frowned. “It does sound as if there would be a lot of delays, not to mention the danger. What is the alternative?”
“Hannah, have you got the map?”
Hannah peered at the floor between her and Isaac. Felix reached down on her other side and hauled up her faded tapestry bag. “Is this it?”
“Thank you, my lord. Here you are, Miss Miriam.” She loosened the strings and, delving into the depths, pulled out several papers. As she handed them to her mistress, one fell on the table.
Felix picked it up, glanced at it, and broke into howls of laughter. He passed it across the table to Isaac, who studied it with a grin.
“Your work, Miriam? You have a definite talent.” He handed her the caricature she had drawn at Jakob Rothschild’s house, of Felix and himself as fighting felines. “I particularly like Jakob as a fox.”
She covered her crimson face with her hands. “Oh no! I thought Hannah had disposed of that long since. I do beg your pardon.”
“Why? I’d say it was wickedly accurate, would not you, Felix?”
“Superb,” he gasped, still laughing as he took the picture for another look. “You rival Gillray, Miriam. It’s an honour to be subjected to your pencil. May I keep it?”
“No, you may not.” She retrieved the paper and tore it up. “Now you will never take my maps seriously.”
“Certainly we shall.” Isaac started unfolding the rest of the sheets and spreading them on the table, while Hannah and Felix moved the glasses, bottles and dishes out of the way.
“Every time we went off the main highway I drew maps,” Miriam explained, arranging the papers in order. “Uncle Amos often needed to go back to the same place two or three times. They are not at all accurate for distance or direction, but if you follow them you will get where you’re going.”
“And the little faces?” Felix asked.
Again she felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. “Uncle Amos was always forgetting the names of people and places so I drew one or two of our friends in each village to remind him of who lived there.”
“Just like the puff-cheeked winds and the mermaids and sea monsters on old maps,” he quizzed her.
“Not at all. These were useful.”
“There’s Madame Daubigny,” Hannah pointed at the sheet she was poring over. “A fine dance that husband of hers led her, and her half blind, poor woman. The doctor gave her an ointment that stopped the itching in her eyes though there weren’t nothing he could do for her sight. And there’s...”
“Thank you for proving my point, Hannah,” said Miriam. “Now please, let us get down to business. There are lots of passes across the Pyrenees, but very few are suitable for carriages. The two leading to Pamplona, Maya and Roncevalles...”
“Roncevalles?” Felix interrupted. “Where Roland and Oliver died fighting the Moors?”
“Yes, though that will not help us! Maya and Roncevalles are the most direct, but they are therefore the most frequented and the best guarded. We may do better to go farther east and take one of the passes to Jaca. Besides less likelihood of being stopped, I know people in that area. In the mountains inns are few and far between.”
“I am willing to trust your judgment,” Isaac said gravely. “Better to go the long way round than not to reach Pamplona at all. Felix?”
“Jaca it is. What a disappointment! I should have liked to see the spot where Roland sounded his horn and expired. Show us on your map, Miriam.”
She showed them the route, half flattered at their ready acceptance of her advice, half dreading that she had made the wrong decision.
When she and Hannah retired to their chamber and she was brushing her long, heavy hair, she voiced her fear. “I hope I’m right. Suppose it would be better to go by Roncevalles?”
“That’s something you’ll never know, child, so don’t worry your head. If it’s fated, it’s fated. But it seems to me that now those young fools have stopped snapping the nose off each other’s face, if you give them your maps they don’t need you along to hold their hands. Monsieur Ségal could get us back to England, God willing.”
“Oh no, Hannah, I cannot desert them! They still don’t know the country or the people, nor the language once we leave France. Now that they are friends, I daresay we shall have a merry journey. You cannot imagine what a relief it is to me. I could not bear to think that Isaac was so mean-spirited and intolerant as to bear a grudge against Felix. He is everything that is generous, is he not?”
On that happy thought, she tied back her hair with a ribbon and climbed into bed.
“Considering their superb dinners, you’d think the French could produce something other than tartines and coffee for breakfast,” Felix complained. “You must admit that an English breakfast is vastly superior.”
“Indisputably,” Isaac agreed, slathering his fifth slice of bread with apricot jam. “Oh, for an omelette, or some cold beef.”
“Ham and eggs, and I wouldn’t say no to a kidney or two, or some kedgeree.”
“That reminds me,” said Miriam. “Once we leave the main road to Toulouse, we may find the inns poorly provisioned. While you two see to the luggage and the horses, I shall ask mine host to pack us a hamper.”
The gentlemen applauded, so a few minutes later, when Isaac went to direct the loading and Felix the harnessing, she sent for the innkeeper. The round-bellied, cheerful landlord of the Prince de Galles was happy to oblige. He invited Miriam and Hannah to step down to the kitchens to choose what they would like.
Though it was still early, the day’s baking was done, luncheon preparations not yet under way. The huge, snaggle-toothed chef generously stuffed a large covered basket with sausage and cheeses, preserved goose, half a ham, dried fruits, and a bottle each of claret and Armagnac. Miriam paid with the money Isaac had given her and the innkeeper, himself carrying their supplies, led them by the back way to the stable yard.
The door at the end of the passage stood open. Over the innkeeper’s head, Miriam saw a group of eight or ten men in blue uniforms beside the black bulk of the berline.
Isaac and Felix, looking wary, stood with their backs to the carriage. They were watching a short, lean man in a silver-laced bicorne hat and a black coat with a velvet collar and padded shoulders. Miriam could see little but his back and the sheaf of papers in his hands.
“La police,” hissed the landlord, stopping short.
She was inclined to go on. Their papers had passed more than one examination already. But at that moment the man in black raised his head and began to speak so she paused to listen.
“Vous êtes Messieurs Cohen et Rauschberg? Where is Mademoiselle Cohen?” His voice was high and thin and cold.
“My sister is still in the inn,” Isaac replied in his passable French.
“Good. You two go and find the sister,” his finger stabbed at two of his men, who turned away. Then he gestured at Felix and Isaac. “Arrest them.”
As the gendarmes closed in on their prey, the innkeeper set down the basket and swiftly and silently closed the door. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “They will not expect guests to leave through the kitchens.”
When Miriam, frozen with shock, did not move, he took her elbow and hustled her and Hannah back the way they had come. Few of the kitchen staff even glanced up from their tartines as they passed but the chef grinned and nodded. Miriam couldn’t manage even the faintest smile in return. They hurried on through a scullery, then a well stocked store-room, dodging plaited strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling. The innkeeper opene
d a door. They found themselves stepping out into a narrow, noisome back alley.
He felt in his pocket, produced some coins, and thrust them at Miriam. “Here, you will not be able to take the provisions. I am sorry I can do no more for you.”
The door clicked shut behind them and they were alone.
Chapter 12
Isaac stumbled after Felix into the dimly lit cell and the door clanged shut behind them. A swift appraisal told him that Bordeaux’s splendid rococo police-headquarters building boasted underground dungeons that would not have disgraced a medieval castle.
It stank, one of the stone walls glistened with moisture, and huge iron rings at shoulder height suggested they were lucky to be merely handcuffed and leg-shackled. Feeble daylight filtered down through a metal grille barring a square hole in one corner of the high, rough-hewn ceiling. The only furnishing was mouldy straw.
In the gloomiest corner, an indistinct figure sat up and peered at them.
Felix, his back turned to the apparition, opened his mouth to speak. As Isaac stepped forward to lay a warning hand on his arm, the chain between his boot-clad ankles snapped tight. He staggered, beginning to fall.
Somehow, despite the handcuffs, Felix caught and steadied him. Isaac’s expression must have warned him for without a word he swung round to peer into the corner.
Limping closer, the creature revealed itself as a man of indeterminate age, dressed in dirty rags, with several days’ growth of stubble on his chin and hollow cheeks. Lank brown hair straggled down to his torn collar.
“Who are you?” he grunted in English.
Again Felix, looking startled, opened his mouth to speak. Again Isaac stopped him. The fellow’s English was excellent yet even those three short words held a faint but unmistakable foreign intonation.
In French he said, “I don’t understand.”
Felix had his wits about him. “Nous sommes suisses.” Laboriously he repeated the phrases Miriam had taught him. “I speak only a little French. Please speak slowly.”
“I am not talking in French.” The stranger sounded impatient. “The jailer told me they have seized two English spies and I hoped they will put you here with me. I am English as you. Since three months I am here alone.”
