by Aubrey Flegg
‘What about other entrances, sir?’
‘We will have to take a chance on those. They should still all be closed with the government seal. The only reason the Count, sorry – “Citoyen du Bois,” is there is because he’s wangled himself the job of caretaker. He’ll want to preserve those seals at all costs. Give me five minutes, and then double back. I want the chateau surrounded. I don’t know how you will do it with just eight men, but that’s how I want it to look from inside.’
Gaston watched the soldiers move off. Then, beckoning to Marcel, he took the fork leading to the rear of the chateau. They kept to the soft margin of the road so that their horses’ hoofbeats were muffled. Gaston wasn’t aware of Louise following, but guessed she was there. As they passed a small woodsman’s hut the scent of freshly cut logs filled the air. At the back of the chateau, farm buildings extended out, facing into a courtyard accessed by a high stone arch. Gaston saw that the heavy wooden doors stood open, and leant back in his saddle to murmur to Marcel.
‘They must have someone to relay the calls inside, so look out for the messenger. I’ll take care of any guard they have set.’ Over the chateau roof they could hear the corporal cursing his men into line. ‘Come on!’ Gaston drew his pistol and spurred his mare forward. The horse’s hooves slipped on the cobbles beneath the arch. He had to steady her, trying at the same time to scan the yard. Two once fine carriages were drawn up. Their horses, tethered nearby, were still nosing hay that had been recently forked out for them. What drew Gaston’s attention, however, was a covered cart; the cart itself, its horse, and even the buckets and baskets that hung beneath it were black. Even as he wondered what that might mean, he caught the unmistakeable smell of old burned wood. Of course – charcoal burners. But what on earth was his cousin doing entertaining charbonniers? Surely they weren’t inside? The back door, the caretaker’s entrance, stood ajar. Perhaps his arrival had already been reported? Gaston leaned forward and rolled from his saddle. He landed on his feet, a pistol ready in his hand. Leaving his mare to look after herself, he ran for the door. As he did so there was a sudden flurry behind him and two objects shot past him, converging in a tangle of arms and legs at his feet. One was Marcel, the other a child of about twelve, his features soot black from charcoal. Gaston had no choice but to leap over the struggling pair. As he did so, the mounting wail of the boy’s warning call was cut short; Marcel had clapped his hand over the lad’s mouth.
‘Damn, he bit me!’ Gaston didn’t wait to sympathise; if he paused now, he would lose the element of surprise. He had been to the chateau before. He knew the way: down the corridor, through the kitchens, past a baize door. He tiptoed across the tiled hall to the door of the banqueting room – still no guard. He listened and could hear a murmur of voices inside.
‘Cousin,’ he murmured, ‘Are you keeping bad company, or are you a captive?’ Controlling his breathing with difficulty, he eased the door open. Light streamed in at the partly curtained windows and reflected off the vast mahogany table. He could see papers and maps strewn across its surface. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright light. There were eight men, all with their backs to him, staring out between the curtains, craning forward to see the last of the soldiers disappear into the forest. He felt carpet under his feet and slipped silently in. In a second they would turn and see him. He raised both pistols.
‘Don’t move gentlemen, and don’t touch anything on the table.’ Their heads turned as one; only two of them reacted with speed, sidestepping so that Gaston had to adjust his aim, while their hands dipped to their pockets, revealing where pistols were concealed. Gaston covered them immediately. ‘Raise your hands! I didn’t realise that charcoal burners carried pistols these days.’ Without taking his eyes from them, he eased the flints on his pistols back to full-cock. They, at any rate, would know that his triggers were now on a hair. ‘Pistols on the table please. One at a time.’ They placed their weapons on the table and stepped back. Gaston looked at the pair with interest. Their disguises were perfect down to the last detail, only the pink of the hands that they had washed, presumably to handle the papers in front of them, betrayed them. Gaston was impressed, what perfect cover! Charcoal burners – always a law unto themselves – migrant workers who moved through the forests, different but not alien, would never be questioned. The eyes that challenged him now were not, however, the eyes of woodsmen. Gaston had seen such faces before, gentlemen perhaps, but also fanatics. His determination hardened against them. It was people like these who, for their own ideals, had been leading poor peasants in their thousands to certain death.
The rest of the party were a strange mix; five were in the motley garb of gentlemen who were doing their best to look like ordinary citizens. He recognised several of them, members of the local aristocracy who had evaded prison and the guillotine by slipping into the mass of the citizenry and declaring openly for the Republic. He had to smile at the incongruity of these once mighty men doing their damnedest now to look insignificant. In complete contrast to all of them stood his cousin, the Count du Bois. Here, in the apparent safety of his home, he had donned a wig over his peasant crop, put on an embroidered coat, and even sported the hated culottes and silk stockings of his class.
Louise had slipped in behind Gaston and now surveyed the gathered company. The two ragged charcoal burners were a mystery to her; she would have to ask Gaston about them. The others, though they had the manners of gentlemen, seemed unnaturally self-effacing. It was the Count that caught her eye. His elaborate clothes drew her attention, but it was his face that held her. She could see a family likeness between Gaston and him. He was older than Gaston, of course – about forty – but strikingly handsome in a way that both attracted her and repelled her. For all his relaxed suavity there was something predatory about him.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Count began. ‘What a fortunate coincidence. Do let me introduce my cousin, Gaston Morteau, a lieutenant now, if I’m not mistaken? My congratulations on your promotion, Gaston,’ he gave a reassuring smile.
For a moment Louise was taken in by the voice, the smile and the hypnotic reasonableness of the Count’s delivery. Then, with a start, she remembered where she had heard such a voice before. It was the one Reynier DeVries had used when taunting Pieter on the steps of the hidden church in Delft. Reynier who had deceived her, and everyone else, with his easy charm while he schemed and lied in order to get her fortune for himself.
She could feel Gaston’s resolve wavering, just as hers had wavered under Reynier’s thrall. It was as if the Count had invoked some ancient feudal bond that Gaston could not deny. Like the poison from a spider’s bite it was spreading through Gaston, paralysing him.
She had to warn him. But she dared not distract him by speaking. She threw her mind behind her thoughts, and willed him to hear her.
‘Don’t listen, Gaston, it’s flattery. Watch out!’
Her warning worked. Gaston literally started out of his trance. For the next few minutes, while Gaston argued with the Count and the company, she prompted and supported him, their thoughts flashing silently back and forth faster than any lip or voice.
‘I don’t think names and introductions are necessary, Gaston,’ the Count declared smoothly.
‘Why no names?’ Louise asked.
‘They are Royalists, Louise. He is protecting them.’
‘So the Count’s declaration for the Revolution means nothing!’
‘Nothing, he’s a traitor.’
The Count turned to his visitors. ‘Gaston has come about a small family matter, gentlemen. Forgive us if we talk together for a moment or two. Shall we retire, Gaston? Obviously it would be nicer to do this over a bottle of our splendid 1790 vintage.’
Gaston kept his place and his silence; the Count countered with a graceful shrug. ‘Your gun is really quite unnecessary, my boy. You see, since I wrote my last letter to you, it has been on my mind that it is time that I allowed your dear mother the opportunity to exercise her marriage op
tion. I’m sure we can reach an amicable arrangement?’
‘Oh, Gaston, yes! If you accept, then we can all go home!’
Louise forgot her own resolve.
‘Don’t tempt me, Louise.’
‘But this is what everybody wants! The house and vineyards would be saved, you could get out of the army and come home.’
She couldn’t quite bring herself to say, ‘and marry Colette’.
She heard Gaston say, ‘And the price, Monsieur le Comte?’
‘My dear boy, not a louis, not a sou. I have given enough to the Revolution to feel nothing but satisfaction at giving to my own family. All you have to do is to walk out of this room, mount your steed, follow your gallant men into the forest and forget everything … everything … that you have seen here.’ The Count’s smile was confident and reassuring.
Louise didn’t care whether they were republicans or royalists. What did it matter if this motley bunch went free?
‘Go on, Gaston, accept it.’
Then she heard, through Gaston’s mind, as distant as a dream, the voices of the noyades – not the defiant cry for the king – but the pitiful voices of despair as the water rose about the prisoner’s necks.
‘Louise, I can’t. These men are plotting civil war! It is not their lives that matter, but the lives of all the innocent people that they will lead to certain death!’
He took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, cousin. You know where my heart lies.’
Immediately the tension in the room relaxed. The Count had played his cards well, the young lieutenant was as corruptible as the next man; they could breathe again. Then Gaston went on: ‘Let us review the options, gentlemen. If I accept, I become complicit in your conspiracy,’ he smiled and shrugged, ‘but then what’s another corrupt officer in an already corrupt regime? I will gain property and status for my family, and all at no cost. If on the other hand, I refuse, I sign away not just my family’s rights but their dreams and livelihoods as well.’ He laughed. ‘That’s a high price to pay for my honour.’ He had let his voice drop, as if accepting his own moral defeat.
The conspirators were exchanging secret smiles. Suddenly Gaston spoke out, and the menace in his voice was palpable.
‘Well, Citoyen du Bois, I refuse your offer. And if you have any doubts on the matter turn and look out of the window. The chateau is surrounded. There is no escape, either from the chateau or from me!’
Involuntarily they all turned and looked out to where horses were coming and going, clearly on organised business. The corporal was obviously doing a thorough job as commander of his imaginary battalion. Gaston took advantage of the diversion to draw the two surrendered pistols to his side of the table.
One by one the company turned back from the window and took their seats around the table; seeming to have lost the power to stand. Only the Count maintained the pretence of nonchalance, sitting back from the table, swinging a stockinged leg.
‘What will you do now?’ Louise asked Gaston.
‘Guillotine the lot of them!’
She winced, doubting that he meant it, but it was a slap on her hand for having tried to tempt him; she wouldn’t interfere any more.
Gaston spread his hands. ‘Gentlemen, my duty as a soldier is fulfilled. I have no doubt that on this table there is enough evidence to put you all under the guillotine. I will, of course, arrange for our Chouan friends to be shot as spies if they prefer.’ He paused. ‘However, I have a proposal to make.’
The Count looked up in surprised expectation. ‘You, cousin,’ Gaston addressed him. ‘You offered me what I most sincerely desire – house, land, and future – not out of generosity on your part, but as the blood price for your own head and those of your companions. You can keep your land. My demand is on a different scale altogether.’
He turned to the two Chouans. ‘Last year I witnessed Frenchmen killing Frenchmen, not in tens, not in hundreds, but in thousands. And why? Because you and your like led those innocent, ignorant peasants to their doom for your own ends. I will not stoop to killing you, my own countrymen, without offering you a choice.’
‘Between the guillotine and a firing squad, I suppose?’ said one of the Chouans mockingly. Gaston’s manner became factual and impersonal.
‘I will take all the evidence that I see in front of me on this table and I will hold it hostage against the behaviour, not just of you as individuals, but of all of you collectively. You will swear an oath that none of you will ever again take up arms against your fellow countrymen for any cause, neither will you induce any one else to do so. If one of you betrays his oath he brings the rest of you to justice.’
He turned again to the two Chouans. ‘I am fully aware that my evidence against you will be of little effect once you have passed out of this region. However, I believe you to be men of honour and therefore to be relied on not to break your oath. But think long and hard before you swear.’
Louise watched, fascinated. Had Gaston read his men correctly? The two Chouans were struggling with their consciences. Sweat cut pale rivulets through the charcoal on their faces. Finally they exchanged glances of resignation. Louise breathed again, Gaston was right. These men’s perverted sense of honour would never let them break their oath.
‘Now, place your hands on your hearts and swear.’ The five local conspirators could hardly get their hands to their hearts quickly enough. The two Chouans dropped their heads, but their words were clear.
‘We swear.’
It was only later that Louise realised that she hadn’t seen the Count’s lips move.
Louise thought that she never would understand men. The group who only seconds earlier had been looking at certain death were now apparently relaxed, laughing – in relief perhaps – but still laughing.
‘Tell me, Gaston,’ asked the Count. ‘Why did you come here? Did you know I had visitors? Or was it to beg for your land? Surely you haven’t been able to raise the price I asked?’
Louise could feel Gaston weakening. ‘I can’t do it, Louise, I can’t sell you like some … some concubine.’
‘You are not selling me, Gaston,’ she responded. ‘This is my choice, so I give myself. Don’t think about it any more, just give him my picture – now.’
The Count’s eyebrows were rising in an elegant arch as his question remained unanswered.
‘On the contrary, I can meet your price,’ said Gaston, ‘and have indeed come to buy our land.’ Everyone was alert again; there was just a frisson of tension in the air. Could this in some way let them off their oath? Gaston continued, ‘While on active service in Holland I had the good fortune to acquire the company of a young lady of beauty and breeding.’ There were knowing smiles in the company. ‘Unfortunately, the roaming life of a hussar is not a suitable life for such a refined young person. In return for the land that is our due I plan to make over this young lady to you, cousin.’ The Count glanced at his friends; he sensed a trick, at best a joke, but he wasn’t sure.
‘May I be introduced to this young lady?’ he asked. Gaston moved to the door, opened it a crack, and called out.
‘Beauchamp, kindly hand in Mistress Louise, will you.’ Marcel was back in a moment. He handed the case to Gaston who took it from him and firmly closed the door on him. Gaston set the case down on the table, and carefully freed the painting. ‘Count, I think some of these gentlemen are familiar enough with great art to affirm that this picture is full and adequate payment for our land.’ Gaston turned the picture around and placed it on a chair facing his audience. ‘Gentlemen, let me introduce Mistress Louise Eeden.’ There were murmurs of appreciation, and a sharp intake of breath from one of the charcoal burners.
‘Oh … what a gem!’ he said. ‘The Dutch School. I have seen pictures in Holland that are so perfect that you feel that you could walk into them, but this one is special. Look, it is as if she is about to step out.’ He laughed with delight. ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he called, ‘I do declare this little lady must be worth more than that pot
ter’s field you were offering the lad. Come Count, where will you hang her?’
In the hubbub that followed, Louise slipped over to where Gaston was quietly sweeping the papers off the table and putting them into the empty picture case. She felt a sudden pang; the boys had had that case made for her back in Holland. She wanted more than anything now to stay with Gaston, to take to the road with him again, or go back to Colette and the grape harvest that she had never seen. She watched sadly as he tightened the straps. While the men were hanging the picture in pride of place beside the chimney, Gaston passed the case out of the door to Marcel, with instructions to guard it with his life. He had just returned to the table when the Count hurried over. For once the suave aristocrat was having difficulty in expressing himself.
‘Gaston please, I …’ then he blurted, ‘I can’t take your picture.’
‘Why, what do you mean? You have no choice.’
‘I don’t want her …’
Louise was amazed and a little hurt; there were beads of sweat on the Count’s forehead. He was plucking at the lace on his collar.
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ the Count snapped. ‘She’s captivating, but there is something about this picture … even I can see that. I don’t trust myself with it. Take her away and you can have your land, I don’t want anything for it. I can see that this girl has cast a spell on you. This Louise, is she a witch?’
Gaston turned on him: ‘How dare you! Look, cousin, I’ve had enough. The currency for your escape from the guillotine is honour, not gold. You know full well that the only thing that will keep these men’s swords in their scabbards is respect for their oaths. If you refuse my payment, the land you make over will become a bribe. My honour will be in tatters and they will be free to do as they will. Keep your “pieces of silver”. You will take this lady and you will treat her with honour and respect, but I warn you – she will watch your every move. Should you deviate from your oath in any way, you will find out the sort of power she has!’
