by Joan Smith
“I thought a carmagnole was a jacket.”
“So it is, a black jacket with wide lapels and brass buttons, favored by the sans-culottes. Édouard had one; it was very ugly. You would admire it.”
“No, no, its being French would put me off.”
“C’est vrai, but we borrowed it from Italy.”
“It is still foreign,” he persisted, smiling.
“And therefore execrable. What provincialism, and you with a Hanoverian king on your throne. I wonder you tolerate your Farmer George.”
Conversation was difficult, nearly impossible, during the steps of the dance, and at its end Fox was waiting for Sally, apparently undismayed at her forward manners. The duchess of Devonshire approached Degan, complimenting him on his new style.
“Your new flirt is smartening you up, I see.”
“Oh, as to that, Mérigot is her preferred escort, you must know,” he disclaimed in confusion. Still he was pleased to stand accused of having attached Sally.
“Mérigot!” the duchess asked, her eyes widening. “Good gracious, I hope not!” she exclaimed in horrified accents. Then a silver tinkle of laughter rang out.
“He is not so ineligible as all that,” Degan pointed out. “A connection on the mother’s side.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about it, Degan. Still, I think you misunderstand the matter. Beware, or you will find yourself un mari. You would make a poor husband for a French lady, I fear. You are not broad-minded enough—too much like your cousin, Lord Harlock.”
Being likened to Lord Harlock had not till that moment been considered an insult by Degan. They were friends, almost intimates, despite the difference in their ages. He had always admired Harlock’s work in the party, his steadiness of character. He also deeply regretted that John had made the error of marrying a Frenchwoman, but to be told that it would be an error for himself sat very ill with him.
“I am as broad-minded as the next man,” he answered stiffly.
She laughed brightly at this claim, but always liked to leave her guests in a good humor, and calmed him down with a compliment on his jacket. He was careful to stand up for every dance, and with the liveliest, prettiest girls he could find. He exerted every effort to be merry, developing such a splitting headache with the unaccustomed strain that he thought the dance would never be over.
At two-thirty the others, Sally and Mérigot, were still dancing, and with his legs tied in knots, he went to search out Harlock to suggest they go home. Harlock was not hard to convince, and garnered up Sally. Mérigot remained behind for another hour of merrymaking, but Sally was pleasantly fagged and went away with no objection.
“What a lovely party,” she said, as Degan handed her into the carriage. “We must have a ball, Papa, when Mother and Édouard get home. Shall we?”
“Certainly we must. Marie would like it. You can begin making preparations tomorrow. It will be something to keep you amused.”
This constituted their talk on the way home. Yawning in the darkness, Degan wondered at her energy, and regretted that it was Lord Harlock who sat with her on the banquette, with her hand on his arm.
Chapter Eight
A week passed so quickly it seemed like an hour, yet so varied it contained more outings than were usually seen in a season. Degan was alternately enraged and enraptured by mademoiselle. He noticed that when he met her in company with Mérigot, she did no more than smile and nod, but when Mérigot passed Sally and himself on the street, she immediately hailed him up for a chat. For full ten minutes the two chattered on to each other, usually in French, making a rendezvous for the next day before parting.
His worst fears were confirmed when Mérigot said one day, just before leaving them, “Oh, I told you I would repay that loan you made me today, but I shall have to put it off till tomorrow. I hope it does not inconvenience you?”
“We did not use the word ‘loan,’ Henri,” she pointed out, with an indulgent smile. “Next you will want to pay me interest.”
“No, no,” he said, laughing, “I will be doing well if I can scrape up the capital. But I have some funds coming—they are overdue, in fact.”
“Don’t worry, Papa gives me lots of money,” she assured him.
“Gives you? But I thought you had money of your own, from your Aunt Deirdre?” Henri asked.
“Yes, so I have, but all that is not straightened out yet. I shall be getting a regular allowance soon.”
Degan listened sharply as they spoke on quite openly about her inheritance. He was nonplussed that Mérigot should have the poor taste to borrow from a lady, and the imprudence to discuss it before himself. That he was late in repaying the loan was hardly worse than the rest. He prepared a brief lecture while the two talked, but got no chance to deliver it.
“Don’t you dare to say a word about my lending Henri a few pounds,” was the first remark she directed to him after Henri’s departure. “I know you make ready a lecture, but I will not hear it.”
He hardly dared to give vent to his admonitions after this, but did ask, “How does Mérigot live, anyway? What does he use for money?”
“Henri is very clever. He writes reports for the government about the situation in France. He sees all the new émigrés who come over, and follows the politics there closely. He also writes for the newspapers, but under an assumed name. Dozens of very highly placed people wanted him to tutor their sons as well, but Henri would not, because it was too low a job, and besides, the women would expect him to make love to them on the side, and for Henri, love is not something for the side. It must be a grand passion for him. I feel the same.”
This speech threw Degan into sufficient alarm that her lending of money to him was temporarily forgotten. It was clear Mérigot would get the whole inheritance, and the girl along with it, if Harlock did not take steps to keep them apart. Yet the father refused to lift a finger to limit Mérigot’s visits. He ran tame now at Berkeley Square.
Himself Sally continued to treat in a cavalier, offhand manner that greatly offended his sense of dignity and decorum, yet when he dropped her a hint and she became more formal, this incensed him even more. She was careless of the proprieties that ought to be observed, offended a minister and a duchess, but was not only polite but familiar with shopkeepers and servants. In fact, she made little distinction in her manner between the mighty and the masses. He tried to explain what degree of condescension should be bestowed on the various classes, but came a cropper.
“You shouldn’t have been rude to Grenville, the minister of foreign affairs, and a very important gentleman.”
“He is a servant of the people. I am people. You told me servants are to be held accountable for doing a job properly, and I do not think he does his job properly. You scolded John Groom for not walking your horses; I scolded John Minister for his negligence.”
“I didn’t hear you scold that little parlor maid for spilling wine on your gown.”
“She had the toothache, Degan. Poor thing. A toothache is worse than anything. Have you ever had the toothache?”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Oh, how cruel, how inconsiderate you are! You think the people have no feelings? Maybe the French are right. Maybe it’s time for a revolution in England. A tooth aches as much for a servant as for a monarch. This is how revolutions are begun, Degan—treating people like dumb animals, or worse. You left your groom standing in the rain yesterday with no coat or umbrella. Your horses were covered; your groom was not. When the Revolution comes to England, you will be one of the guillotine’s first meals.”
“We use the rope in England, Sally.”
“You shouldn’t. The guillotine is faster, more merciful. You wouldn’t believe how fast a life can be taken. I saw a woman beheaded in Paris. Her mouth was open crying, and still the lips were moving when Sanson picked the head out of the basket to show the crowd.”
Degan considered it time to change the subject, but he began to have a glimmering why Sally’s ideas
were so different from his own. He also got a raincoat for his groom.
The second week wore on, and Sally was on tenterhooks for the arrival of her mother and brother in England. Every day Harlock told her it would be any time now. Fox was looking after it, but every day it was the same story, and she became uneasy. Degan and Mérigot were dining with the Harlocks that evening, before going to the play. Both the young gentlemen noticed that Sally was restless, unhappy. Mérigot tried to rally her out of her blue mood, but in truth he was highly impatient himself with the delays. While Sally went upstairs to get her pelisse, Degan mentioned the subject of the rescue.
“It will be any day now,” Harlock answered. “Possibly tomorrow. The holdup is that the stoves to go in the shipment were sent along without doors or lids or some demmed thing. Then someone took the idea that stoves could be melted down to make cannons, and with one delay and another, it is taking forever.”
“Christ, man, ten days have gone by already!” Degan exclaimed angrily. “Marie had money only till the end of July. All hell could be breaking loose in Paris for all we know. Belhomme’s place could be raided and the prisoners turned over to a regular prison. It will take I don’t know how long for a ship to get across the Channel and the men to work their way to Paris and storm the asylum.” Harlock looked surprised at the unwonted vehemence from his cousin.
“The boil is festering in Paris, but it has not broken yet,” Mérigot spoke, with authority and firmness. “As to the trip, we must count on five days at the minimum. One day to the coast of England, the better part of a day arranging for crossing and waiting for nightfall to land safely, three days from Calais to Paris—one hundred and fifty miles as the crow flies, closer to two hundred by roads, every mile of them in wretched condition, allowed to deteriorate since the Revolution. That assumes you have mounts waiting at Calais, that you have no trouble with the gardes. Throw in a tussle or two and some bad weather and you are looking at more like a week. The time draws very short, milord.” He stared at Harlock accusingly, while it occurred to Harlock that this man had been making plans of his own from the beginning. He had it down to a T.
“Fox is aware of all that,” Harlock answered. “He says three days’ grace are always allowed in any dealing of this sort. Belhomme won’t turn Marie and Edward out when he knows help is coming.”
“He doesn’t know it, sir!” Mérigot said sharply. “Nor do we know it. You leave too much up to Fox. Has he arranged for the all-important cartes civiles? His men won’t get a mile without them. Has he procured suitable outfits, horses for the other side? Has he obtained assignats to use for money? Sovereigns will draw unwanted attention to your people. Has he, in fact, done one thing but tell you a ship might be leaving at some vague future date, if it is not held back because of containing iron?”
“He is looking after it all. He assures me the day after tomorrow, unless something goes wrong.”
“It is not good enough!” Mérigot said angrily. It was unusual for him to speak with such authority, and particularly to Lord Harlock, whom he treated always with great respect. Degan wished to be on his cousin’s side, but reason was with the Frenchman.
“Fox has not been in touch with any of the émigrés,” Mérigot went on. “I know them all, know them personally, and none has been approached by him for the job. He stalls, milord. He has perhaps written a letter that sits on a desk somewhere, gathering dust. Something must be done at once.”
“He’s right, John,” Degan said. “Let Henry arrange a party. He is better equipped to do it than Fox.”
“Mérigot cannot go. I’ve already given Fox a thousand pounds to handle it.”
“A thousand pounds thrown out the window,” Mérigot scoffed. “I could have made good use of it. It’s gone to pay bills, or buy the duchess a necklace. Give me half that sum and I’ll have them safe within a week or ten days.”
“I’ll speak to Fox in the morning, and if he has not got the operation set, I’ll let you speak to him, Mérigot,” Harlock said.
“I’ll call on him tonight,” Henri said at once. “You and Degan can take Sally to the play.”
“No, no,” Harlock began objecting, but at that moment Sally entered the room, ready to leave.
“Who did you say would take Sally to the play?” she asked.
“We all will,” her father answered, with a quelling glance to the gentlemen. “We were only discussing your mother, my dear, and finalizing plans for her rescue. It will be very short now. Any day you may expect to see her.”
She looked at him, questioning, hopeful, then her eyes flew to Mérigot. The glance did not escape Degan, but if Mérigot gave her any signal in reply, he was not fast enough to read it. The two seemed to have some understanding, some agreement not to discuss it further, he thought, from the manner in which Mérigot immediately began to discuss the play, too glibly, too enthusiastically, and Sally too entered into this new discussion.
He hoped the play would cheer the girl up. It was School for Scandal, a comedy by Sheridan, some years old by now, but still often played and well accepted. It had some elements of French farce, and Degan expected to see Sally smiling, but as he sat behind her with Harlock at the back of the box, he was unable to confirm it. At the intermission seats were exchanged, Mérigot civilly offering the front seat to Degan. Sally said, however, that she would prefer the back of the box, which inclined Degan to remain where he was. He was enjoying the thing himself. There were some speeches by the old man, Sir Peter Teazle, who had married a young frivolous wife, that almost reminded him of some interchanges between themselves. He glanced at her often, hoping to catch her eye, but she sat unmoved, dispirited. At the high point of the farce, when Sir Peter’s wife was hiding behind a screen and Sir Peter in a cupboard, believing the lady behind the screen to be a French milliner, Degan and the rest of the audience were in loud gaffaws. He looked again at Sally, and saw a tear beginning to trickle down her cheek, while she bit her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I want to go home, Degan,” she said, pulling on his sleeve.
“I’ll take you,” he answered without an instant’s hesitation. He whispèred in Harlock’s ear, telling him to take a hired carriage, and they left at once. Mérigot cast one long, meaningful look on Sally before they went. It unsettled Degan, but he felt he had carried the day as he got her to himself for the trip home.
“You didn’t like the play?” he asked, taking his customary place beside her on the banquette, and waiting for her to take his arm.
“It was very good,” she said. “I am surprised at such a comic flair from an Englishman.”
“I noticed you were not smiling,” he pointed out.
“Ah, it was too French, mon ami. There is the trouble. The very same thing happened to Mama when we lived with Grandpère Augé. Very like, but it was Monsieur Béron who had to hide behind the screen when his wife came to tell Mama how he was being unfaithful to her. How it makes me homesick for Mama and Édouard! Ten days now. When do you think they will come?”
“I don’t like the way Fox is dragging his heels. I begin to think if we want to see them alive we must make other plans. The ship that was to take the men sits at anchor waiting for approval to leave.”
“You mean to say the ship has not left yet?” she asked, incredulous. “Papa said any day I might see them. I thought the ship left a week ago. They have only a little money left, and there is no saying Belhomme has not raised the price of asylum. He is a cochon, that one. Oh, Degan, what am I to do?” she asked, her voice rising in panic.
He had the experience of not one hand on his arm, but two, clutching at him as if he were a raft in the middle of an ocean. She was soon sniffling as well, and accepting a handkerchief, while he sat woodenly, wondering what comfort he might offer without being guilty of taking advantage of the situation. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, to say he would personally dash to France and bring the mother back, but prudence held him in check. He did not speak French a
t all well, had no idea how to get to France at the height of a war and an internal revolution, and would not know what to do if he could by some miracle get himself spirited across the water. There were mysterious cards required, red toques, strange outfits.
“It will be all right,” he said, patting her hands, and taking the firm resolution that he would himself go to Fox and put a rocket under him.
“Oh no, it will not be all right! Mama told me how it would be. Keep nagging him, she told me, he is a putter-offer, and I have nagged him every day till my face is blue, but he does nothing. The charrette will come and take them to the guillotine, while I, who should have done something more than talk to Papa, dance their life away. I am as bad as Robespierre. I too should be put to the national razor.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” he said, but his own impatience received a sharp boost from her gloomy forebodings. “Let us go to Fox’s place right now, talk to him tonight.”
“Pshaw, that laggard! It is not he who will save them. I see that now. It is more waste of time.”
Just as he braced himself to reach an arm out for her, she suddenly sat up straight and threw back her shoulders. Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she returned his handkerchief. “Merci bien. The tears do no good at such a time. You are very kind, Degan, but you possess the British phlegm that wants always to wait, to go through channels, instead of darting across them.”
“You’re right. Maybe it’s time to be in touch with some of those émigrés and do it ourselves.”
“Now you begin to speak sense,” she complimented him.
“We’ll get down to La Forge first thing in the morning and arrange it. Henry will know which men are the most reliable. This is what should have been done at the start.”
