The Terror Time Spies

by David Clement-Davies

  “H-h-hello,” whispered Francis, getting his stutter back and blushing deeply, as he seated himself too.

  “And this is Armande…”

  “Count St Honoré,” corrected Armande, bowing his head in a most adult fashion.

  Geraldine Bonespair turned imperceptibly and her glassy eyes cleared, as Armande blushed. He still looked like a common fisher boy.

  “But we know each other, Count?” said the old lady. “I met you that delightful Summer’s day at Les Jardins Royale. With your lovely wife, Constance.”

  The fifteen year old looked suddenly very anguished indeed.

  “Ma pere,” whispered Armande sadly, “That must have been my father, Madame. And my mother. Mother’s safe in England now though. The Eighth Countess.”

  The old lady looked rather confused, at the head of the table.

  “And the Count, your father?”

  “The Revolution, Madame,” said Armande bitterly, “it swept papa away too.”

  “Dead?” hissed the Countess, glaring at the Death Mask as if it had just opened its eyes, but sighing too. “Well, no matter. It comes to us all.”

  The children sat there silently.

  “Yet here we will keep it out, Count. Their Revolution. They don’t bother an old lady, dying in the house of her dead husband. They couldn’t find my fortune.”

  The Pimpernels glanced about and caught each other’s eyes. Spike’s were glittering excitedly.

  “So I have my little pleasures, and my servants still, although we can’t really call them that, now everyone is equal. But what a coincidence, Count.”

  Suddenly Geraldine’s tiny eyes narrowed.

  “Mais, non,” she hissed. “Don’t be a fool, woman. Nothing is coincidence, ma Cherie always said. Life, it is bound together, always, in strange and intricate patterns, like the finest Huguenot lace. But Marius, begin the meal.”

  Grandma had lifted a feeble hand regally and Marius stepped out of the shadows once again, this time carrying an ornate silver platter, made all the more overblown by what was lying on it.

  On to the fine, dusty china plates on the table, the servant boy began to place very feeble looking pieces of limp lettuce, and a single stick of mouldy asparagus.

  Then Marius poured some vinegary wine for the old lady, into a high goblet, and water for the others.

  Justine hovered in the background too and Spike almost wanted to giggle, as they began to eat in silence and Geraldine sipped her thin wine. Hal kept casting his sister stern looks, between his grins, to make her behave.

  Armande wished more than ever that he was back in England, although heartened by the fact that he was so near to his sister Juliette, even in a horrid French prison.

  The first course was finished more quickly than a first course should be, and Marius presented Geraldine and the Club with a small piece of cold mutton each and a single boiled potato, sprouting half cooked roots.

  “EAT,” the crone commanded grandly, as if they were at some State banquet. “Justine will read the News.”

  The spotty maid stepped forwards and held up a French noosepaper.

  “En Anglais, girl, for our guests.”

  The quiet but rather pretty child, so like Juliette St Honoré, although taller and not as self possessed, with her terrible spots too, blushed a very deep pink.

  “Zoo to ouvert - to open,” she read haltingly, feeling horrible in front of these other children, “In the Jardin Du Plante, Madame. Many animaux – animals - of interest publique, are to be shown there…”

  “Non,” snapped Geraldine, and Justine moved on.

  “Citizen Roux speaks for Les Enrages, Madame?”

  Geraldine Bonespair nodded, as firmly as she could.

  “For the Enraged,” translated Justine. “Again Citizen Roux spoke eloquently in the Paris Convention of the Government’s unfairness to the ordinary man. Of the need to act against the rich, corrupt, hoarders, speculators, profiteers and…”

  “Corrupt?” hissed granny Guillotine suddenly, “But those fools. Corruption is all around. As certain as the dark. Or Death. It is that not what we all come to, in our poor bodies, no? Mere corruption. Non, girl, not the common man either. Not tonight.”

  Justine turned hurriedly to another section in the French paper.

  “Debate still rages over fate of Widow Capet?” gulped the poor servant girl and the Pimpernel Club looked up immediately, as Geraldine nodded coldly and Justine went on.

  “After the execution of the treasonous Louis Capet, many calls have come for a sim….similar justice to be dispensed to the woman called Marie Antoinette,” read Justine, clearing her throat, “Some are saying that she may be…er, exchanged for French prisoners of war, to help La Patrie, or even a ransom from the so-called Holy Roman Emperor, to aid the Revolution. The great Englishman, Citizen Paine, a true friend of France, has suggested that the traitor be exiled to the Americas.”

  Henry thought of the plot around the Queen, but Spike of balloons and that funny man from Boston too, as she swung her little legs in her seat and her stupid dress.

  “The Capet Woman’s little son is also of interest. Since the Committee of Public Safety has suggested that he might be retrained to understand Revolutionary Ideas.”

  “Enough , Justine,” snapped Geraldine suddenly.

  “Les Libelles then, Madame?”

  Geraldine Bonespair’s eyes flickered angrily, but very suspiciously too, and she looked around the chamber sharply, as if they were all about to be attacked.

  “Libelles?” she grunted. “Spreading slander, rumours and lies, everywhere, dreamt up by pamphleteers and filthy newspaper men. History is only what those liars tell you it is.”

  Geraldine suddenly reached out her hand and clasped Henry’s, pressing it down on the table.

  “Take my word, ‘enri,” she hissed, “never stand out. Never be seen. Never try to be different, or remarkable, or they will just….”

  Geraldine grinned and let go, then turned back to the maid.

  “No, Justine, now we shall have the Lists, girl.”

  Poor Justine nodded, well used to this part of the daily reading ritual. She opened another page and started to read again.

  “Upcoming trials of the Committee of Securitee Publique. Citizen De Fosse, June 29th, Formerly calling himself Count. Citizen BelleMonde, June 29th. Formerly calling himself Marquis. Citizoyenne Du Coeur, July 1st. Formerly calling….”

  “July,” interrupted the Countess though, “but not for long, girl.”

  “Madame?” said Justine, quizzically.

  “Don’t you know, girl? These damned Revolutionaries will call it Thermidor now, not July at all. The Tussaud woman told me. They plan to abolish the calendar itself.”

  Francis Simpkins swung his head.

  “Ten days of the week they will have,” said Geraldine, with a scowl. “Ten hours in every day. Only ten. Nothing is sacred, as I said.”

  The Pimpernel Club were amazed. Wasn’t time a thing after all then? How could you change dates and times, just by decreeing it?

  “This year shall be the year two,” said the old lady, with a scowl. “Since to them the World itself began again with their filthy Revolution. But continue, girl.”

  So it went on, the sinister lists of names, and former Aristocratic titles, until Justine read out a name that made all the Pimpernels sit up sharply.

  “Citizen St Honoré, Juliette. Niece of Charles St Honoré. July 9th. Revolutionary Tribunal. Champs de Mars.”

  The young heroes were looking hard at Armande now, but the old lady hadn’t registered the name at all, despite the fact that Armande St Honoré was dining at her own table.

  Indeed, Geraldine seemed to be enjoying the meagre, tasteless meal all the more, for what she was hearing of other’s terrible misfortunes.

  “They’re doomed, of course,” she whispered, with a grin, “When those murderers have your name, it’s all over. Dead, for certain.”

  Geraldine s
miled fondly at her own Death Mask and Armande went pale.

  “But it comes to us all,” she said again. “Except perhaps moi, with my special Mask of Immortality, in my Fortress of Loneliness. Keep them out, mes enfants, always keep them out. And we must all hide now, children, from the Devil himself. He’s loose in Paris too.”

  They were speechless, Henry suddenly thinking of the Evil Eye, as Marius cleared the plates, while Spike wondered if there would be some desert, or some smelly French cheese to eat.

  Geraldine got up instead though and hobbled back to her enormous death bed.

  “Now I sleep again,” she groaned painfully, as she lay down. “Enjoy the house, mes enfants, and the dear ghosts too. Many ghosts are welcome here, children, just like the endless past. It is so good to have visitors though. We will luncheon again, if I’m alive in the morning.”

  The Pimpernels filed out obediently, wanting to run, and leaving Marius and Justine to clear up.

  On the chequered marble floor in the hall, as soon as they closed the doors, and Henry saw Skipper coming up the stairs, the leader of the Pimpernels address his band.

  “July the 9th, Armande. Just over three weeks time. Her trial.”

  “But why didn’t you mention my sister, ‘enri, when they read it?”

  Henry shrugged.

  “Dunno, Armande. I’m sure now that granny isn’t all there.”

  “It’s just a trial though,” said Francis hopefully, taking out his notebook and pencil to record the date. “And you heard what Mr Guttery said about the Law. Maybe the Frenchie lawyers here will find her innocent.”

  The no longer so innocent Pimpernels turned to Francis Simpkins and raised their eyebrows, as one.

  “All right then,” he said, as he blushed. “Then we’ve got to rescue her, somehow.”

  “Or get her a message in the Temple,” suggested Hal, at a loss now.

  “And the League of the Gloved Hand?” wondered Francis, “The letters and this plot to save the Queen, H?”

  It was something about the place, the dinner and a memory of firelight too, those strange visions inside the flames, that made Henry Bonespair blink and say it now, in a very strange voice indeed.

  “Their plot will fail,” he hissed, like someone in a trance. “The Queen of France will die. She’s doomed. But not Juliette. Not yet.”

  The others suddenly wondered if Henry Bonespair was possessed.

  Inside the terrible Fauberg prison, for poor Juliette St Honoré a week and a half had passed, in no time at all, although it felt like a year to Juliette, in that horrid, cramped cell, as she stood on the bare paving, holding a rusty tin plate, and looking up desperately at the iron bars and the little window of light above her, feeling more alone and terrified than ever.

  Around her were other wretched prisoners, mostly of aristocratic or middling stock, foolish enough to show their sympathies in ‘interesting times’, although several real criminals were lodged here too.

  Most looked utterly desolate in their filthy, torn clothes, starved from the horrible slop that passed for prison food.

  Juliette St Honoré did not look so dishevelled, for her mother had always taught her to bear herself well, and with pride, and to keep herself clean and neat too.

  She was thinking of her mother the Countess now, and of her brother safely back in Peckham, missing them both bitterly, when she heard the jangling of heavy prison keys and the cell door swung open.

  That female jailor appeared and stepping inside, looked around contemptuously, until her hard gaze fell on Juliette herself.

  “You,” she grunted coldly, “You’re to come with me, Citizeness. Now.”

  Juliette wondered if her time had come. Her trial, or even death.

  “Where are you taking me, please?” she asked politely, holding herself as straight as she could, as they stepped outside, while the jailor eyed her angrily.

  “You’re to come to the Capet Woman, girl.”

  “To the Queen?” cried Juliette, in astonishment.

  “Mind yer tongue,” snapped the jailor. “We don’t ‘av Queens no more, Citizeness. They’re abolished now. That’s the new Law. Even if she was brought up as a little Princess, just like you.”

  “But what do you want with me?” asked Juliette, who had never thought of herself as a princess at all, and never acted like one either.

  “She needs a maid in waitin’, or somethin’,” answered the woman. “I thought you might do. Can’t get no sense of her now, ever since they lopped his bloomin’ head off. Her stinking husband, Louis.”

  “The King,” said Juliette respectfully, and the jailor scowled again.

  “She won’t eat. Takes no unforced exercise. Hasn’t for months. Sometimes I’m even a little sorry for her.”

  The warder didn’t look sorry in the slightest.

  “Oh, the poor lady,” said Juliette kindly.

  “Poor? And what of the people, starvin’ to death in the streets,” hissed the woman furiously, “as she dressed up as a Shepherdess, and danced around that blasted palace? Versailles.”

  “Was it her fault though?” said Juliette, and the woman looked a little confused.

  “Well, she’s learning some real life, now. Keeps coughing blood too.”

  Juliette St Honoré was deeply shocked, but they had come to that corridor that they had passed when she had first arrived and they suddenly heard an awful wail.

  Juliette saw two guards marching towards them, with a little boy between them. He looked terrified and stared appealingly at Juliette, as they swept by.

  “Who was…”

  “Little Louis Charles,” sneered the woman, “The heir, if there was any blasted throne to inherit anymore. They’s taking him to be properly cared for now, by an honest cordelier. A cobbler. For the boy’s re-education.”

  “Re-what?” said Juliette.

  “Education. To train him to understand the Truth, as one of the People now.”

  “They’re taking him from his own mother?” said Juliette, wondering who exactly the People were, “But they can’t. It’s terrible.”

  The woman stopped and looked keenly at Juliette.

  “Look, you seem decent enough,” she said, more softly. “A head on yer shoulders too. An’ this could be good for you, girl, if you keep an ear out, when you’re in there, with her. Know wot I mean?”

  Juliette St Honoré’s frank blue eyes narrowed.

  “You’re asking me to spy on the Queen of France?”

  “An’ why not?” cried the woman, forgetting to correct her, “The Temple’s full of Muttons. Just pass on anything you ‘ear and I’ll make sure that it gets to the Committees, and you’re looked after too. More straw, clean water, and extra mutton. It would go well for you too, at your trial.”

  Juliette wondered who in her own prison cell had played such a wicked role, but her heart sank at the mention of her trial.

  The thought of betraying the French Queen to save her own neck was horrid too, even if she was suddenly vaguely tempted, out of poor Juliette’s mounting fear.

  “They’re looking for something,” whispered the wardress suddenly, “to condemn her, and so chop her royal head off. Although I reckon it’s off already. They says there’s lots of plots to get to her. And we’ve all got to survive, aint we?”

  Juliette looked at the wretched, angry woman coldly.

  Little did she know that the peasant woman’s younger brother had died under the carriage wheels of a French aristocrat called Evrimonde. They had not even stopped in the street to look at the broen body.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Achhh, yer young yet,” spat the woman. “So you think all that loyalty stuff matters. You’ll soon learn, girl. About real life.”

  They walked on and at last came to that door at the end of the dank corridor.

  “The Honoré girl,” explained the turnkey, to the guards, “Searched already. Harmless.”

  The guards nodded, pulled back a heavy bolt a
nd swung the door open.

  “Citizenesses,” one cried and stepped aside, as Juliette St Honoré followed the warder in to the cell, to meet the Queen of France herself.

  Marie Antoinette - Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Hapsburg-Lothringen, born the Archduchess of Austria, later the Queen of France and Navarre, now the thirty eight year old Widow Capet - sat in the corner of a middle sized cell in the Temple Fauberg.

  The prison cell was rather like a sitting room, as her Majesty held a slightly blood stained handkerchief to her pale lips, and sobbed.

  There was another girl at her side, about fourteen, and trying to console her poor mother.

  The small woman’s head was covered in a neat lace bonnet, topped with a black headscarf, lost in the folds of her sombre black dress. It was the same mourning dress that she had put on back in January 1793, after her husband’s execution in the Square.

  She had a long face, with a prominent forehead, while age and sadness were beginning to show heavily in the lines around her weeping eyes.

  Juliette was at a complete loss, as she stood in front of the Queen of France, and her pretty daughter Marie Therese. Juliette wanted to cry too.

  “Your new maid, Citizeness,” grunted the female jailer, “though why they allows such slavish things as maid servants, I dunno. I trust she’s to your liking, your Graciousness.”

  The woman sneered, turned and walked straight out again, as the prison door slammed behind her.

  Juliette just stood there, unable to speak, heartbroken that this poor woman should just have had her son torn from her too, then gave her deepest, most elegant curtsey.

  Marie Antoinette looked up slowly.

  “You forget where we are, child,” she said, with a sigh. “This is not the place for etiquette.”

  “I would never forget who you are though, your Majesty” said Juliette gracefully.

  Young Marie Therese’s heart went out to Juliette immediately, while the Queen’s tired, wary eyes flickered with a sudden light of gratitude, then filled with suspicion again.

  “They’ve sent you to spy on us, girl?”

  “No, your Highness,” insisted Juliette warmly, “I’d never do such a terrible thing. Although that woman wanted me…”