She lets out a grunt, staggers and slips over the side of the boat dock to sink below the water without a sound.
I stare at the water, horrified. Have I killed her? I scramble down the ladder and run to the dock. Nothing.
Flames are leaping up to lick the platform now and the wooden floor is glowing orange all around the source of the fire. Acrid smoke makes me cough and my eyes stream.
I wrench a loose plank from the wall and run to the edge of the dock again. Madame Viard has floated to the surface now but she isn’t moving. Sobbing, I lean out over the water and use the plank to pull her towards me. I’m able to grab hold of her clothing and lift her face out of the water. Blood streams from her head and her eyes are closed. I drag out first an arm, a leg and then another arm until I’m able to heave her on to the dock.
Behind me, the platform collapses with a crash, sending up a shower of sparks. The flames are roaring and I’m perspiring in the heat and choking on the smoke as I grasp Madame Viard’s ankles and drag her towards the boathouse door.
Outside, I lean over her with my hands on my knees catching my breath. She coughs and I let out a sob of relief. I’m not a murderer, after all.
I leave her there, collect my bag from the long grass and disappear into the night.
Almost every window is aglow with candlelight as I hurry stealthily past the château. The sound of drunken laughter, music and carousing comes from within but I don’t stop to peer in. My deepest fear is that Jean-Luc will have discovered I’m no longer imprisoned and be looking for me.
No light burns in the room above the stables. I cross the yard and creep inside. I stand still while my eyes grow accustomed to the shadows but there is sufficient moonlight to enable me to see that most of the stalls are empty. The matched greys and the carriage are with Colbert, but Minette, the piebald horse and the charrette are missing, requisitioned perhaps to carry away Etienne’s possessions to the village.
A rustle of straw comes from the last stall. Jean-Luc’s chestnut gelding and I look at each other in the moonlight while I decide if I dare to ride him. He’s big, far bigger than Minette or any horse I’ve ridden in Rotten Row. Tentatively, I stroke his velvety nose. He flares his nostrils.
I find his saddle and put it on, tightening the girth underneath and warily stepping back when he shifts his weight from foot to foot. I remove his halter and attempt to slip on the bridle but he tosses his mane at me and snorts so I back away to find him a bucket of water. While he’s drinking, I rummage through a variety of clothes hanging from a peg in the tack room. I find the pair of loose trousers I borrowed once before, a shirt, coat and a soft cap. Quickly, I dress in Colbert’s clothes, twisting my hair into a plait and hiding it in the cap. I bundle up my dress and stuff it into my bag. I hope that, disguised as a youth, I’ll attract less attention than a lone female.
It takes me a minute or two to persuade the gelding to allow me to put on his bridle but, at last, he’s ready. I lead him to the mounting block and climb up. He prances from side to side and shakes his head but I cling on with my knees and hold the reins firmly. A moment later we are clopping across the stable yard.
The following morning the sun is rising by the time I reach Orléans. I’m exhausted, having lost my way in the dark several times. Once I began to fall asleep in the saddle I was forced to spend a couple of cold and frightening hours dozing in a copse. Every movement in the undergrowth, bark of a fox and hoot of an owl, made me sit bolt upright, wondering if Jean-Luc had found me. I’d never felt so alone. In the end I cried myself to sleep, reliving my last moments with Sophie while she was alive, picturing the sun shining on her glossy curls and her eyes full of laughter.
More by luck than judgement, I find the inn where the diligence set me down last time and discover that the coach for Paris will leave at ten o’clock. In the hope that it will put Jean-Luc off my trail, I decide against stabling his horse at the inn but ask one of the ostlers where I might find the nearest livery stable.
An hour later I pat the chestnut gelding on his flank and leave the livery with a pocketful of coins. I didn’t get the best price for him since the owner clearly thought the horse must be stolen. I made no attempt to argue the point and took what was offered.
Returning to the inn, I spend some of my ill-gotten gains on a slice of rabbit pie and a glass of vinegary red wine. As soon as I’ve finished my breakfast, I lean my head back against the settle and fall into a doze.
A rumbling of wheels, a clatter of hooves and a great deal of shouting wakes me and I surmise that the diligence has arrived.
The courtyard is milling with passengers. By the time all the arriving travellers have alighted and found their baggage, the horses have been changed and I climb aboard.
Every seat in the diligence is taken and the passengers are tightly crammed together. I don’t stow my bag in the luggage net overhead but rest it on my feet, conscious that although I’ve changed into male attire, my shoes are decidedly feminine. It’s hot, and the stout woman pressed against my side reeks of stale sweat. She takes her embroidery out of her bag to while away the journey. A man in a frowsty wig lights up a cigar and in a few minutes the coach is filled with acrid smoke.
The diligence rolls forward and as we sway out of the courtyard and jolt off down the road, I begin to wish I hadn’t eaten the rabbit pie.
Hours later, the man in the wig pulls down the window of the diligence and looks outside. ‘Another twenty minutes, I estimate,’ he says, sniffing the air.
I remember the smell of Paris from last time: sulphur and excrement, pigs’ blood and decaying fruit, river mud and perspiration, all overlaid with smoke from a thousand fires.
The journey has seemed endless. I’ve feigned sleep for most of the time, afraid that if I speak the passengers will realise I’m not a youth. With my cap pulled down over my face I can conceal my tears. It’s impossible not to keep reliving the terrible events of yesterday. Hatred of Jean-Luc burns in my heart.
The stout woman at my side gives me a sharp look and I realise that my knee is jiggling up and down with impatience. I cannot rest until I find Etienne and warn him of the danger that awaits him.
The road improves as we approach Paris and the bone-shaking jolting of the diligence lessens. Peering out of the window some time later, I see that we have left the suburbs and are on a wide street lined with town houses.
Over the usual city noises comes the sound of shouting, growing increasingly loud. A snatch of music from a penny whistle drifts by and the staccato beat of a drum comes from the distance. The diligence slows and then comes to a screeching halt. A crowd of chanting people surges past us, making the horses rear up in terror.
A youth in a red cap bangs his fist on the half-open window and yells, ‘Vive la Révolution!’
The stout woman starts, a hand clasped to her breast. ‘There’s no excuse for frightening me half to death, not even for the Revolution,’ she says.
Another young man jumps up and down in front of the window and pulls grotesque faces at us before running off, hooting with laughter.
A thick-set passenger with a florid complexion leans out of the window, treading on my toes in the process. ‘A tumbril is coming,’ he says, ‘on its way to visit Madame Guillotine, I expect.’ He pushes his way back to his seat again. ‘I hear going to the executions makes a good day out. You can buy a programme with a list of the condemned and see what crimes they committed against the Revolution.’
Another man nods his head. ‘My neighbour and his wife took their children last week. There were pie and fruit-sellers going amongst the crowd with their baskets just like a summer fair.’
The jeering and catcalls of the rabble grow louder and then a cart with slatted sides trundles by, accompanied by soldiers. A dozen of the condemned are crammed together in the cart and one of them, a dark-haired young woman, has fainted. The tumbril passes very close and, as I glimpse her bone-white face, I feel a wave of nausea as I picture Sophie’s face
in death.
‘The Revolutionary Tribunal’s been busy again,’ says the stout woman.
‘Enemies of the state, every one of them,’ says the man in the wig.
The last of the shouting mob runs past and then the diligence jerks forward and we are on the move again.
Shortly afterwards we rattle over the Pont Neuf. The passengers begin to put away their books and newspapers and my neighbour folds up her embroidery. Very soon the diligence turns into the courtyard of an inn and stops.
There’s the usual commotion as the passengers collect their luggage and I’m able to slip away without drawing attention to myself. I’m unsure of my direction and anxious about finding the Rue de Richelieu, where Etienne’s town house is situated.
It’s noticeable that there are far fewer smart carriages and sedan chairs about than on my previous visit and more pedestrians, most of them plainly dressed. A group of young men swagger by, wearing the ubiquitous loose trousers, tricolour cockades and red caps.
Jostled from side to side, since everyone seems to be in a hurry, I try to find my bearings. A beggar, dragging his legless body along behind him on a little wheeled cart, snatches at my knee and mutters an obscenity when I pull away.
Several of the streets look familiar but I’m still not sure of my way. Eventually, I find Rue St Honoré. The dusty street is lined with imposing town houses and I pass high-walled gardens on my left before I see the Palais Royal further ahead on my right. My spirits lift as I remember that the Palais is on the corner of Rue de Richelieu. I turn the corner and, freed from the restraint of skirts, sprint up the street, hardly able to contain my impatience.
I come to a halt when I reach Etienne’s house, filled with dismay. The shutters are closed and not a wisp of smoke comes from the chimneys. Then I catch my breath as I notice the front door. A bucket of paint has been flung at it so violently that it has spattered the stonework and run down the steps in an ugly yellow waterfall. Here and there great gouges have been dug out of the door, splintering the wood in places, as if a madman has tried to smash his way in with an axe.
Hesitantly, I walk up the steps but the paint is quite dry. I pull on the iron ring and the bell jangles somewhere inside. I listen intently but there is no sign that the house is anything but empty. Disappointment and fear rise in me in a tide. In my desperate flight to warn Etienne, I hadn’t considered what I would do if I couldn’t find him.
Dread has me in its grip now as I realise the full implications of my plight. I’m alone in a strange city where the slightest suspicion that I am not what I seem could find me in a tumbril on its way to an appointment with Madame Guillotine. It will be dark in a few hours and I have nowhere to go.
Then I remember something Etienne said to me before he left to escort my uncle and grandmother to London. ‘If I should not return, go to Armand Dubois.’
I rummage in my bag and find a stub of pencil and Sophie’s sketchbook. The book falls open at a drawing of little Marianne and it makes me catch my breath with a sudden sharp stab of loss. I leaf past it to tear out a clean page and write a note for Etienne telling him that I will return but also that I shall visit Dr Dubois.
I slip the note under the door and hurry away.
Chapter 35
It’s not hard to find the Seine and follow it until I come to Pont Neuf. I cross the bridge and Rue Dauphine is directly in front of me. A young maid is hurrying towards me with a basket on her arm and I stand in her way so that she has to stop.
She looks up at me with frightened eyes and I remember that I’m dressed as a youth.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I say, ‘but can you direct me to the house of Dr Dubois?’
‘Dr Dubois?’ She points down the street. ‘The one with the black door.’
I thank her and she scurries off.
Dr Dubois’s home is a solid three-storey townhouse. I ring the bell and, while I wait, study the polished brass plate engraved with the doctor’s name.
A maid, neatly turned out in a clean apron and cap, opens the door.
‘Is Dr Dubois at home?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘But no, M’sieur.’
A blush rises to my cheeks and I speak in as gruff a tone as I can manage. ‘When will he return? It’s most urgent that I speak with him.’
The maid shrugs and sticks out her bottom lip. ‘Who can say? Tomorrow, perhaps?’
All hopes of a safe refuge flee and there’s a tremor in my voice as I ask, ‘Do you know where he went?’
The maid looks at me curiously. ‘Are you quite well, Monsieur?’
I grip the doorpost with trembling fingers. ‘May I have a glass of water?’
‘I don’t think…’
‘Please.’ I don’t have to feign dizziness. Terror digs sharp claws into me as my last hope fades.
‘Wait here!’ The door closes in my face and I sink on to the step, my head between my knees, while pinpricks of light dance behind my closed eyelids.
I don’t have long to wait. An elderly housekeeper opens the door and helps me to my feet.
‘You know Dr Dubois, you say?’ she asks me. Her face is pinched with suspicion.
I nod. ‘He treated my cousin Sophie Levesque earlier in the year when she had an infection of the lungs. We were staying with Monsieur d’Aubery at his house in Rue de Richelieu.’
‘Monsieur d’Aubery?’ The housekeeper’s expression lightens. ‘Ah, I know him. He has been here many times to visit Dr Dubois. And you are…’
‘Mmm…’ I stutter. I hadn’t prepared a new name for myself to go with my disguise. Then I have it. ‘Michel Moreau,’ I say. The housekeeper’s face fades in and out and I close my eyes.
‘You’d better come in for a minute, Monsieur Moreau.’
A short while later I’m ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a fragrant tisane at my side.
‘When you are feeling better I shall bring you notepaper and you may leave a message for the doctor,’ says the housekeeper. She withdraws from the room and closes the door behind her.
Shivering with delayed shock, I sip the tisane, my teeth chattering against the edge of the cup. I put it on the tray, bury my face in my hands and weep. I’m frightened and grief-stricken over Sophie and Marianne and terrified that Etienne is already on his way to Château Mirabelle. If he arrives there with no warning he’ll face certain death. During the past year I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved and to lose Etienne now, knowing at last that he no longer belongs to another woman, would be unendurable.
When there are no tears left, I wipe my swollen eyes on my cuff and curl up in the armchair, trying to shut out the world.
It’s dark when voices awaken me. I stretch out my cramped limbs and stand up, anxious that it’s grown late and I must still find somewhere to stay. The voices outside the room grow louder and I peer into the hall and see Dr Dubois’s broad back as he talks to his housekeeper.
‘I cannot see anyone now, Madame Brochard.’
The housekeeper catches sight of me. ‘Ah, there he is!’ she says. ‘Monsieur Moreau, I was just telling Dr Dubois that I hadn’t the heart to awaken you when you were sleeping so deeply.’
I step forward. ‘Dr Dubois, may I speak with you in private?’
He turns to face me. ‘I have a patient waiting, Monsieur. Come back tomorrow, will you?’
‘Please, Dr Dubois! I’ll not take a moment but it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘That’s very dramatic.’ A frown creases his forehead. ‘Have we met before?’
I hesitate, glancing at Madame Brochard.
He stares at me and then asks, ‘Do you have a sister?’
I shake my head.
‘I see. Madame Brochard, please will you prepare the guest room with all haste while I speak with Monsieur Moreau?’
‘Very good, Dr Dubois.’
After the housekeeper has bustled away, Dr Dubois waves me into the waiting room again and closes the door behind us. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘It
is Mademoiselle Moreau, I presume?’
I nod.
Dr Dubois smiles, humour sparkling in his grey eyes. ‘You had me fooled for a moment. May I ask why you’re dressed in this fashion?’
‘I thought it would be safer.’
‘Safer?’
‘After I escaped from Château Mirabelle I was obliged to travel to Paris alone. It’s imperative that I find Etienne and warn him that his home has been taken over by the villagers. His estate manager has denounced him as a spy.’
The smile fades from Dr Dubois’s face. ‘Is this true?’
‘Of course it’s true! But I couldn’t find Etienne at his townhouse. I was so sure he would be there by now and I’m frightened we might have missed each other on the road between Orléans and Paris. If he goes home…’ My chin begins to quiver as I fight back tears.
‘But I know Jean-Luc Viard,’ says Dr Dubois. ‘He’s Etienne’s friend.’
‘It’s a long story but we’re wasting precious time! When is Etienne expected to arrive in Paris? Or has he already left?’
Dr Dubois grasps my shoulders. ‘Stay calm, Mademoiselle Moreau! Etienne is here.’
My jaw drops. ‘Etienne is here? But your housekeeper never said…’
‘I brought him with me a few minutes ago.’
‘Thank God!’ I sigh in relief. ‘Where is he? I must talk with him.’
‘That may not be possible,’ says Dr Dubois.
‘But I’ve told you, I must see him!’
‘Mademoiselle, Etienne is in no condition to talk to anyone. I have removed a musketball from his shoulder but unfortunately the wound had already festered.’
I swallow. ‘Is it serious?’
‘He has a high fever.’
‘I must go to him at once!’ My voice is shrill with anxiety.
The doctor looks at me for a moment. ‘Come with me, then.’
I follow him along the servants’ passage where he opens a cupboard and takes his time withdrawing a long roll of canvas from amongst a motley collection of boxes, vases and old travelling capes.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 33
