Daughters of the Storm (30 page)

‘Forgive me, William, but I cannot,' she said through her interlaced fingers.

From outside came the noise of a coach's arrival. A door banged and there was the sound of impatient feet, but Sophie paid no attention. She was fighting her anguish, struggling for composure.

‘You cannot mean it,' William said at last.

Sophie raised her head and flinched at his expression.

‘My parents and Ned must come first,' she said. ‘Forgive me. I should never have allowed you... I should not have permitted.'

At that, William caught her to him with such force that she cried out.

‘I shan't let you, Sophie. You are my life. Do you hear me?'

Through her confusion and misery came the sound of another voice.

‘Sophie,' it said, and the inflection was all too familiar.

Goaded beyond endurance, she raised her lips to William's for one last guilty kiss, and then broke free.

‘Sophie,' said the voice again.

With a muttered exclamation, William released her, so abruptly that she staggered.

‘Sophie,' said the voice for the third time.

Sophie looked up through eyes now blinded with tears and saw Ned, booted and spurred, standing in the doorway. ‘Good God...' With a sigh, she crumpled into a heap on the floor.

William ripped off his coat and swooped to pick up Sophie's inert form. He cradled her close to his breast and brushed his lips through her hair.

‘My poor Sophie,' he whispered, before laying her on the sofa and ringing the bell.

An interested witness to this scene, Ned swore under his breath. He bent to pick up William's coat, which he tossed angrily on to a chair. As he did so, he spotted the corner of small sealed packet poking out of the cuff. With no hesitation at all, he eased the packet out of its hiding place. What he read on it made him glance up with narrowed eyes. Then, without a second's hesitation, he pocketed his find and went over to help William.

Chapter 9

Citoyenne Marie-Victoire Bonnard

At the house by the pump

Ma chère amie,

Are you well? Have you sold the things that we chose? I think of you every day. I am sitting in a barn writing this to you and I am told that we are near to the forest of Mormal. Today our detachment surprised the troops of Monsieur le Prince de Coburg. He is aiming to take Le Ques-noy, but we will try to prevent him. If we fail, we shall have to fall back on Landrecies or even Mauberg. Do you know where they are? I am not sure, but not too far from here. It is strange being under fire. I get very hot and my eyes become bloodshot with the smoke. My pay each day is fifteen francs and three décimes. The corporal gets twenty-three francs and eight décimes. I must see to it that I am promoted. I enclose an
assignat.
Use it well.

Marie-Victoire, I miss you. My teeth ache and I must have the back one drawn. We live well, for the land is filled with good wheat and vegetables. We drink beer mostly, for wine is expensive, and there is plenty of milk and cheese. It is said that the enemy is trying to cross at the river Sambre, but these Austrians are cowards really.

I long to hear from you. If I had a letter I would read it again and again. Do you remember me like I remember you? Are you faithful? Somehow, I feel that you are. The women in this area are very plain and do their hair in thick plaits under straw hats and their heads are as big as three-month-old calves. So, you see, I have no temptation.

I don't like being a soldier. It is hard and boring and I long to be back in Paris with my cart. We volunteers (‘volunteers' is the wrong word, don't you think?) are known as
culs blancs,
or cornflowers. That is how I think of you, Marie-Victoire, so perhaps it isn't so bad. My friends Lafargue, Devismes and Duquet are with me and we look after each other. The musket they gave me is in bad order and I am searching for a trigger. Let us hope I find one before I need it.

Marie-Victoire, has that man Maillard come to find you again? If he has, you must tell me and I will deal with him when I return. Remember your promise to me, won't you? Hide your money where we agreed. If you want more stuff, go to my friend in the Rue de la Harpe. He knows about you.

I am trying to arrange a wound. But I must be careful as it is not easy. I think I shall have to break a toe, or perhaps I will pretend to have the bloody flux. No matter, I will come home as soon as I can.

I send you my greetings and a great deal of my heart.

Pierre Labourchard

Day by day the news filtering in from the battlefront became worse and French pride took a battering from which it was going to take years to recover. In Paris, the authorities in the commune responded by decreeing that any man who possessed a pike should enlist as a National Guardsman. The result: Paris turned into a city under arms, a seething mass of sans-culottes, among them bullies, killers, madmen and fanatics.

First set up in April 1792 in the Place de Grève, and intended as an instrument that would dispatch criminals to a decent, humane death, the guillotine was beginning to assume an importance that its inventor never envisaged. It was now perceived by those quick to take advantage as a convenient method to eradicate enemies of the state. Its huge, bloodied blade began to rise and fall with increasing rapidity.

In Koblenz, Monsieur le Comte de Provence proclaimed himself regent and formed a ministry-in-exile. In addition, the Duke of Brunswick, commander of the royalist army, signed an important document in which he threatened to put Paris to the sword if the royal family were placed under any further threat.

The last proved to be the spark that lit the conflagration. When it heard of the manifesto, Paris erupted to the call of
‘Aux armes, citoyens'.
The
Marseillaise
burned a new rhythm into files of marching feet on the cobblestones and injected white-hot fervour into patriots' hearts. It was sung everywhere: in the Palais Royal to the sound of cheers and rattling weapons; in theatres; in the opera house; in wine shops and countless drinking dens. Filled with anxious and frightened men, and riven by deep and bitter political divisions, the National Assembly struggled to keep control over the city. They failed.

On August 8th a huge crowd collected once again on the Champ de Mars to demand the abdication of the king. This was the moment the Jacobins had been waiting for.

On the night of August 9th, Jacobin supporters made their way to the Hôtel de Ville and announced that the Paris Commune was now dissolved. In its place, they installed a new Insurrectionary Commune composed mainly of artisans whose revolutionary zeal was unquestioned.

The Jacobins had prepared the ground well. There was no one brave, or rash, enough to contradict them. Spread out through the city, their agents provocateurs worked feverishly to whip up sentiments in the
quartiers.
All through the night of August 9th the people continued to gather until there were 20,000 or more.

As August 10th dawned, a day that promised to be of searing heat, the second march on the Tuileries Palace by the citizens of Paris began.

Chapter 10

He got drunk again. It was the one licence that he permitted himself. It did him good to feel the coarse wine surge through his veins and turn his legs into heavy pieces of wood. He liked the sensation of the world distancing itself, and his visions, so often lonely and fear-ridden, growing big with importance. It was when he was drunk that he worked out his next move – and thought about Marie-Victoire.

He often wondered why she was so important to him, why his obsession for her had, even after all these years, such a hold. He had tried to get her out of his head, but it never worked. Marie-Victoire was there , living with him. If anything his desire for her grew greater.

He was an unlovable, and unloving, man – but he knew that and he didn't, so he thought, much care. Perhaps it was because Marie-Victoire
had
once loved him, in her fashion, that he refused to let her go. Or was it because she had thwarted him? It didn't matter. Maillard knew that he held one priceless advantage. He was willing to wait for Marie-Victoire and he wasn't going to give up.

Maillard was doing well. He had taken trouble to cultivate friends in the Jacobin club and frequently attended their meetings, where he shouted louder than anyone else. His Jacobin connections had promised to help him to a position in the new commune. Nothing too important, but enough for him to get a toe in the door. Maillard knew it was because they found him useful. There was nothing he wouldn't do, no area of the city too far-flung for him to traverse, and they came to rely on his willingness. With his extra duties came knowledge. With knowledge came power. It pleased him that people were beginning to grow frightened of him. It made up for many things.

Best of all, he would soon be in a position where he could sort out the de Guinots and he looked forward to it. Getting rid of them would purge the world of those it no longer needed or wanted. That revenge would be sweet was certain. But that revenge would be enduring had not occurred to him until this moment when the old assumptions were being torn up, one by one.

At dawn he planned to join his associates and march on the Tuileries. He had spent all day in the streets, whipping up his listeners into a frenzy with his impassioned exhortations. It had proved thirsty work. It was very late, but no one seemed able to sleep. The streets were as crowded as at midday and the summer night hardly seemed to arrive before it was gone. Maillard drank one last glass, heaved himself to his feet and set off in the direction of the Rue des Sts Pères. He was going to allow himself one last look at Marie-Victoire, just in case he did not come back.

He had discovered where she lived by looking up the recruitment records at the section headquarters. The clerk had obligingly recorded Pierre's place of residence along with the others. After that, Maillard often went to spy on Marie-Victoire. He never revealed his presence, and it proved no trouble to keep out of her sight.

Tonight, the door of her shop was open in an attempt to introduce some air into the stifling room. He could see her outlined by the light of a cheap taper, moving around and arranging her things. She looked very small and her waist had thickened, and once or twice she straightened up to rub her back.

The wine talked to Maillard.

‘Go and take her, you fool,' it said.

‘Wait,' counselled his more prudent side. ‘It is better to wait.'

‘Take her. Lift those skirts. You have done it once. It won't matter again.'

Maillard stepped forward and, as he did so, Marie-Victoire looked up and saw who it was. Quick as a thought, she banged the door to and bolted it.

‘Let me in,' he pleaded.

‘Go away. Get out of my life. Leave me alone.' She sounded close to tears. ‘Go and ruin someone else's life. You have done enough. You and I are finished.'

Maillard rested his head against the door and belched.

‘You're wrong, Marie-Victoire,' he announced to her and to anyone who cared to listen. ‘We are not finished and I shall carry out my promise. Not now, not tonight, my pretty, because I have other things to do. You won't mind waiting, will you, Marie-Victoire?'

His voice caressed her through the door. Marie-Victoire shrank back against the wall and did not reply. She remained motionless until she heard him heave himself upright and stagger down the road. Only then did she dare move. She sat down on a chair and fumbled for her rosary.

Maillard negotiated the streets with varying success, determined not to yield to his drunkenness. By the time he reached the Pont Royal, his head had cleared sufficiently to allow him to remain upright without swaying.

The crowd was dense and angry, and the heat so thick you could have cut it with a knife. All at once, Maillard felt completely at home. This was what he was born for: to be carried by a tide of revolutionary excitement, to feel the blood quicken in his veins, to fondle the sharp point of the pike that someone had pushed into his hands, to hate, to hate so badly that he was willing to thrust it into the body of anyone who thought differently from him.

It was like this that men such as Jacques Maillard spent that long, hot August night before the dawn tocsin summoned the people of Paris to battle and the sound of running feet filled the streets of the city.

Chapter 11

All day Louis d'Épinon had worked frantically to brief and position his troops, and by nightfall the reports were coming in thick and fast – the mob was marching, it was armed, the Duc d'Orléans rode at its head – and he needed to check what was false and what was true. The order had gone out to the two thousand known nobles still left in Paris to come and defend their king. So far only one hundred and fifty had chosen to answer the call, many of them elderly and infirm.

Louis cursed at the heat and the stupidity of the situation. Uniforms and weapons were slippery with sweat and the gunpowder was hot to the touch. Concerned as always about the loyalty of his men, he was almost sure that many of them would defect to the revolutionaries, and needed to know, above all, what the king planned to do. Would he stay and face the invaders or would he take a more prudent course and leave Paris?

Louis was doubly worried. Héloïse was in attendance on the queen and she had insisted on remaining on duty, despite the queen's express wish that she should return home to her husband. Louis, snatching a brief moment to talk to her, begged her to go, but Héloïse was firm. Her duty, she told him, lay here. Louis had time only to press a kiss on her wrist before, alarmed for her safety, he had returned to his work, where he tried, unsuccessfully, to banish her from his mind.