by Joan Smith
“We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“No praise for the conquering hero?” Henri asked her. “The mob expect to see you reward him.”
“The mob may go to the devil!” she retorted. “Bloodthirsty! Put on your shirt, Philippe,” she said to Degan, who stood being toweled off in the proper mode by Henri, his wide chest and bulging muscles being much admired by the onlookers.
“A big man, that one,” one fellow said. “I’d like to see him take on the Butcher.”
Disliking this idea very much, Henri said, “We are in a great hurry.”
“Yes, Le Taureau can only fight men half his size,” the man scoffed.
“Le Taureau isn’t afraid of anyone!” Sally told them. “Bring on your butcher—we’ll show him how to carve up meat—his meat.”
“Temper, chérie,” Henri whispered.
“Bah!” She flung out her arms in an angry gesture, typical of the French peasant woman. “This canaille, they only want to see blood flow. Why don’t they go to Paris and gawk at Madame Guillotine.”
They left as soon as possible, to go to the inn and pile into their carriage, but before they got away, Malraux was after them, suggesting bouts at Rouen, Chartres, and other cities not too far off their route. Incredible that a man would happily make a battering bag of his body for such poor pay! His morning’s take was no more than three pounds, and that included Madeline’s probable larceny.
It was not long before noon when they drove off, with a small crowd standing to see the carriage leave. Their destination for the day was Beauvais, which would put Paris only one more day after that from them. It was hot and humid, the gently rolling countryside dusty, the leaves hanging limp on the trees and the bushes sagging.
The traffic was heavier than they had encountered earlier on in their journey, which they attributed to their getting closer to Paris. It was Henri who noticed that the traffic was mostly one-way, away from Paris. When they stopped for dinner at a roadside inn at six o’clock, they had covered roughly thirty miles, with still fifteen to go before stopping for the night. It was Degan’s task to translate kilometers to miles for Henri, who had become used to the English measure after so many years there. Henri was the official leader of the expedition, and he proved a good one. They were once stopped by a pair of gardes who demanded to see their cartes. Henri kept up such a good-humored stream of nonsense throughout that no suspicion was incurred. He was alert to any possible danger, quick to interrupt before Degan should be required to speak.
Degan observed that Sally took any command from Henri without so much as a question, and in his vulnerable position, he had no option but to do the same, though depending on another was not his customary manner of living. A wealthy peer and the sole manager of his own large estates for several years, he was used to giving orders, not taking them. It rankled to be in this subservient position, but their whole success and even life was in Mérigot’s hands. One trembled to think of trying to get along without him.
There was no private table for them at the inn on this occasion. The establishment had no such an elegance. They sat at one end of the common board, and were soon aware that some important news was being discussed, for at other places the arrival of a boxer’s party in a garishly decorated carriage had caused excitement. The words “Paris” and “Robespierre” were often repeated, and Henri turned to inquire of a table neighbor what had happened.
“Jacques here has just arrived from Paris,” he was told. “He left at mid-morning, came on horseback, and there were crowds hanging around in front of the National Convention to hear what the Incorruptible had to say. Robespierre called a special meeting. To end the Reign of Terror is the reason given.” The neighbor dared not say more till he had a hint as to the politics of the strangers.
“Sounds unlikely,” Henri risked, with a noncommittal face, as wary as the other to commit himself.
“Some people are saying he was also to ask for a suitable punishment for those members who had gone too far.”
“Death, you mean?” Henri asked.
“That is the usual punishment these days,” he was told carefully.
“I see. You think the Committee of Public Safety is in some danger, then, if Robespierre feels called on to defend it in a special address?”
The man hunched his shoulders. “Jacques left early, before any report was leaked out,” he said. “Many from Paris are doing the same. Anyone who has a barn or a friend to go to, in fact. I wouldn’t want to be there if Robespierre succeeds—or if he fails, for that matter. Either way there will be new purges, don’t you think, citoyen?” the man enquired.
“It sounds bad, very bad,” Henri admitted, then turned to discuss this with Sally and Degan. There was little real conversation at the public table that evening. The throng, usually talkative and jolly after a day’s work, were sullenly suspicious, looking with caution and saying little.
They ate a hasty meal and hired a fresh team to continue to Beauvais. With the indifferent pair of nags obtained, it was ten-thirty when they arrived, tired, worried, and eager for fresher news, and it was there waiting for them. They went into the public room even before hiring chambers. “Any word from Paris?” Henri asked the first man he met. The fellow was a sans-culotte, wearing the bonnet rouge and a large-cockade, of which they encountered increasing numbers as they drew closer to Paris.
“Citoyen Barre has just the past half hour arrived. He spent the afternoon before the National Convention Hall, and it seems there were lively doings there.”
“The Incorruptible, he had his way? The Committee of Public Safety continues?” Henri asked, anxious, though in truth he didn’t know which would be the better answer to hear.
“He hangs on by a thread. He ran into heavy opposition in debate. Some are saying... what it takes a good deal of nerve to say,” the man replied, with a meaningful nod, not having the nerve to say it himself.
“Who would replace him if he falls?” Henri asked, less cautious from having been in safe England for years.
“Chaos,” the man answered, in a voice of doom.
“Will the Convention actually ask for his life?” Henri pressed on.
“I don’t know, citoyen. I only know I am happy to be out of Paris. I’ll stay in the country till it is settled among them.”
“That is very wise,” Henri said with a sinking heart, for whatever else was going on in Paris, the safe term of Lady Harlock and Lord Édouard was rapidly drawing to a close. With a new administration, in fact, the cozy arrangement of Dr. Belhomme might come to a halt even before the money ran out. Now more than ever it was necessary for them to press on.
“The big fellow with you there—he is a bruiser?” the sans-culotte asked next, apparently eager to turn the talk to non-political matters.
“Yes, Le Taureau, my man,” Henri replied. “He had a match at Amiens with Citoyen Malraux today. Took him, of course.”
“He is a little man, Malraux. You should set your boy against the Butcher of Lozère. There would be a match worth watching.”
“Yes, but unfortunately we must be moving on. It isn’t likely we’ll run across him.”
“He fought at Pontoise today, I hear,” the man informed him. “Broke his opponent’s jaw. I didn’t see the fight, but I saw his victim being rushed to a doctor. He is well named, the Butcher. He made minced meat of today’s partner.”
Degan, listening, overheard enough to set his insides atremble. He was a good bruiser, unafraid of a man his own size or a little larger, but to hear at every town of a brutal monster, who seemed to be coming inexorably closer to him, was naturally hot reassuring. The group ate dinner and retired to their own chambers to talk over their plans in privacy.
“We couldn’t be getting to Paris at a worse time,” Henri worried.
“Maybe it’s a good time,” Sally pointed out. “With authority in some confusion, there might be fewer arrests, a sort of lull in the carnage, while Robespierre and
the Convention fight it out.”
“No,” Henri disillusioned her. “Robespierre won, and he will have a great bloody purge to prevent any farther questioning of his authority, or any possible arrest of his powers. It is a damnable time to be arriving.” He glanced worriedly to Sally and Degan. He didn’t say so, but Degan at least was shrewd enough to realize it was a damnable way to be arriving too, saddled with an Englishman and a young girl.
“It can’t be helped. We must go on. No point talking ourselves into a quake,” Degan said calmly, but of course they were all in a major quake already.
“We’re leaving early. Let’s try to get some sleep,” Sally suggested.
“No point leaving too early. We don’t want to get there in broad daylight,” Henri pointed out.
They sat silent, each envisioning arriving in the dark at a barricade bristling with gardes, while the guillotine groaned and clanged before them. The Butcher seemed suddenly less ominous.
They again hired one large room and one small, with Sally in the valet’s cupboard. It was a hot, muggy night, stifling in a room no bigger than eight feet square. To secure a draft, she opened her window, and tiptoeing silently to the door adjoining the men’s room, opened it.
“What is it?” Henri asked. He too was having trouble getting to sleep. She explained what she was doing, then crept softly back to her own bed, where she tossed and worried for a full hour before sleeping.
With the guillotine and Paris at the forefront of her mind, she suffered another nightmare that night. At four o’clock a strident scream rent the air, bringing Henri and Degan to instant alertness. They both bounded from their bed and flew to her room.
“Oh Henri, thank God you’re alive!” she said, clinging to him. “I dreamed the guillotine had got you.” He held her closely in his arms, patting her head, and comforting her for a few moments.
“Go back to bed, Degan. I’ll stay with her awhile,” Henri said.
“I’ll stay too,” Degan insisted, but as he looked around the tiny room, he saw he would have to either stand up or sit on the floor.
“Get some sleep, Degan,” Sally advised him. “I’m sorry I disturbed everyone. Stay with me a few minutes, Henri. Just till I put this out of my mind. It was all that talk belowstairs that brought it back. I haven’t had a nightmare like this since the first day I landed in London. I dreamed I was at an execution again, and when the head landed in the basket, it was yours. How awful!” She pushed her head against his shoulder in an effort to block out the image.
“Take a good look. You see this old head is still on its shoulders,” he soothed her. “It plans to stay there, too. Don’t worry. We shall speak of other things.” He began to speak in low, soothing tones of the peaceful past. “You remember the apple orchard at Grandpère Augé’s farm, chérie? Remember how we used to climb the trees long before the fruit was ripe, and I would climb to the very top, to get the best apple for you. You were always a troublesome minx.”
For two minutes Degan stood listening, not liking these remembrances at all, but finding that Mérigot’s talk was having a calming effect on Sally. As he was completely ignored by both of them, he walked back to his room, and lay with his eyes wide open and his ears straining till Henri returned, at which point he feigned sleep till it came in reality to release him from his fit of jealousy.
Chapter Fifteen
The morning had fresh problems to confront them. When they went to their carriage, the right front wheel was seen to be badly cracked from the rough terrain they had been covering. A quick trip to the local stable by Henri, always the manager in these difficulties, led him to the decision they must wait and have it repaired, for there wasn’t another carriage to replace theirs. The wheeler promised he would have them on the road by noon.
“We might as well take a walk around while we wait,” Henri decided. He took Sally’s arm with a jealous glance at Degan, and they all three walked off toward the center of the town. They saw the town hall and the church, looked into shop windows without purchasing anything, and still it was only ten o’clock.
“We ought to go to the market and hear if anyone has fresher news from Paris,” Mérigot suggested.
“We’ll buy bread and cheese too and have our lunch en route to save time stopping,” Sally added.
“A good idea. Degan, you look after Minou while I circulate and see what I can learn.”
Degan was happy to have a useful function, happier still to have some portion of Sally’s attention, as he had been largely neglected by the two during the morning’s walk. He was coming to see that a very close relationship existed between them. She turned automatically to Mérigot for help, and the help he offered was of a respectful kind that indicated a real concern and love. He had once thought Mérigot wished to marry her for her money; he still believed he wished to marry her, but money, or the money alone, was no longer held to be the only consideration. He had a genuine love for the girl. It was not the courtly love of a new suitor, but might very well be the familiar love of a man who had known for some years he meant to marry this girl and no other. All this sat heavily on Degan’s heart, because he knew by this time he wished to marry her himself. Still, when they two were alone, her behavior did not make him feel he was definitely out of the running for her affections. Almost she was more flirtatious with him than with Henry. Was it the French blood in her that caused this incomprehensible way of carrying on?
“We require new roles for the next half hour,” she told him, taking his arm and smiling impishly. “Agnès will cover her scandalous blouse and become a decorous housewife. Of course, being French, she will also turn into a haggler, and you are my skinflint husband. I think the role will suit you well, Degan. Remember to frown and say everything is too dear. ‘Trop cher—that is your line—all you have to say. Let me hear your accent, more man.”
“Trop cher,” he said, copying her trilling r’s, or trying to.
“Every Englishman has a frozen tongue. Of that I am convinced,” she told him, shaking her bead and making him repeat it.
They went to a stand that sold fresh bread, where Sally needed no help in deciding it was trop cher. The woman offered her yesterday’s bread at half the price.
“This husband of mine, he is very fussy about his bread,” she complained. “It doubles in price, like everything, but he has put the maximum on my household money.”
“Why don’t you bake your own?” the saleswoman asked.
“Bah!” Up went the hands and she regarded her supposed husband with a fiercely conjugal disdain. “You think he’ll fix my oven? Three weeks it sits with a broken top, and this vaurien is always going to fix it tomorrow.” She handed Degan the bread, then scolded like a besom that he was holding it too tightly, crushing it.
“I’m glad I’m not your husband, shrew,” he said, with a smile that told her how untrue the words were.
“So am I glad,” she replied with an insouciant air. “A bruiser who wore a black eye twice a month would not do at all for me.”
“Think how well I could protect you from all the men.”
“That too! I would not want to be quite so well protected, citoyen mari. Now, what will you want for lunch with your bread, my dear?”
“Meat.”
“I suppose I am expected to cook it in my poor old broken oven, while we joggle along in our carriage with a broken wheel. You will have cheese, and like it.”
“Is that any way to feed a bruiser?”
“Never mind, I shall pour a great deal of wine into you, and if there is any French blood at all in you, you will be happy. There—there are no flies on that wheel of cheese. We’ll have a piece of it.”
More haggling, while Degan and his wife agreed it was trop cher, and the maker insisted he wasn’t making a sou on it. Fruit and wine were purchased, with similar melodramas at each stop, till at last they had their provisions and returned to the inn, after a thoroughly enjoyable outing. Henri had not yet returned, and they went into the co
mmon room to await him, ordering coffee to pass the time. Sally, usually the first to instigate the familiarity their role demanded, sat across from him.
“Wrong chair, Agnès,” he pointed out.
She remained where she was, and he was required to move to the seat beside her. “Is my traveling companion unhappy with me? Have I offended you, that you aren’t lounging on me today?” he inquired, placing an arm around the back of her chair, just touching her shoulders.
“There is no one here to worry about. Only a few out-of-work souls. You may have your shoulder all to yourself this morning.”
“I would rather have you resting on it,” he said, taking a curl of her hair through his fingers and playing with it while he smiled at her.
“I am not tired. I had a good sleep.”
“I seem to recall you did not have a good sleep. Do you have these nightmares often?”
“No, not often,” she said, tossing her head so that the curl was pulled from his fingers.
“Take care or I’ll find myself a more tractable flirt,” he said, surprised at her lack of playing up to him this morning.
“A pity you let Madeline slip through your fingers. She would have suited you very well, I think.”
“Not so well as you would suit me, Minou,” he replied, with a caressing tone not audible beyond the table, nor were the two men on the far side of the room paying the least heed to their talk or performance.
“You don’t have to act at this moment, Degan,” she said impatiently.
“I am not acting. I find it difficult to play my role with Henry glaring at me if I touch you, and you doing the same if I don’t. I am not acting now, however. What exactly is the situation between Henry and yourself?”
“You know we are very close: Cousins, and good friends.”
“More than friends? Is he your lover?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” she said, with a warning look toward the door, where Henri was just entering, glancing angrily to see Degan’s arm around her shoulders.
