Daughters of the Storm (34 page)

Ahough it was difficult to tell in the cell, she sensed it was light. There was movement inside the building – voices were calling out orders – and outside feet pounded in all directions. She knew it was time to move, but she wanted to savour for one last minute the feel of Louis. His heart beat on hers and his breath caressed her skin in a gentle sighing. She felt so close to him, blood of his blood and bone of his bone, and despite the fear and uncertainty she had never felt so alive.

Louis groaned and stirred, pressing his face deeper into her breast, as if willing himself not to wake. She reached out and stroked his hair.

‘Are you all right?' she enquired tenderly.

Louis was instantly awake.

‘Dieu.
We must get out of here at once, Héloïse. I must get you to safety.'

Sleep had shorn him of his defences and his customary sophistication, and he looked so young and worried, so unlike she had ever seen him before, that she could not answer for a moment, but touched instead the curve of his jaw where the stubble now showed through.

‘And you? You
will
go to Neuilly as we planned?'

‘Of course.'

It did not take them long to dress, and before long they were retracing their steps of yesterday evening. The door to the royal sleeping quarters remained closed. They walked past it without a backward glance.

‘Curses.' Louis stopped once they were outside the convent. ‘I forgot, this uniform will act as a beacon.'

He tugged off his coat and stuffed it hastily under a nearby bush, and with it his sword. He stood for a moment looking down at the latter.

‘I was fond of that sword,' he remarked, before turning to help Héloïse, who found herself weaker than she had supposed.

Their progress seemed interminable. Héloïse could only walk slowly. She was dizzy from lack of food and water, and clumsy from the night on a hard floor. With every step the light grew stronger, and Louis grew more anxious.

‘We must cross the gardens,' he said. ‘I know the gate that opens near to the Pont Royal. From there it is a quite easy walk to the Rue de l'Université and the Hôtel de Choissy. But we must hurry.'

Fortunately, there was no one in the passage that led into the gardens and they were able to pass through the gate and down the steps without hindrance. But instead of turning left and walking up the
allée
– the way Héloïse had come the day before – Louis led her through the trees towards the river wall opposite, stopping frequently to watch for signs of life from the huddles of sleeping revolutionaries under the palace walls. They reached the formal parterres and stopped appalled at the sight of so many bodies littering the ground. Héloïse gagged at the stench.

‘Oh God,' she whispered. ‘Is it possible?'

The presence of so much death was almost too much to take in. At first it was only its physicality that impressed itself: the smell, the horrible sights and the sound of flies. Only later did the details of faces and limbs come back to worry her, and with them the knowledge that each of these men belonged to someone and would do so no more.

A corpse blocked their path. Louis stopped and ordered her to stand behind one of the trees.

‘Don't look,' he told her abruptly. ‘Turn away.'

Héloïse disobeyed, and watched with horror as Louis crouched down beside the body and rifled through its coat pockets.

‘Bien,'
he said, holding up a packet of papers. ‘These will be of use.'

Grimacing with distaste, he pulled off the dead man's coat and shrugged it on. It was too large and there were bloodstains on the sleeves, but it would have to do. Louis pulled the cuffs over his torn shirt and adjusted the neck.

‘Come on.' He held out his hand.

No one challenged them as they made their way out through the gate and turned towards the Pont Royal. Louis was just heaving a sigh of relief when he saw a group of National Guardsmen walking north across the bridge in their direction.

‘Héloïse,' he whispered urgently. ‘Listen to me and do exactly what I say. Cross the road and continue walking. Do not look back. You must find your own way to the Rue de l'Université. Do you understand? I am a danger to you.'

Héloïse nodded.

‘Of course,' she said calmly – although she wanted to cry out with the pain of leaving him. ‘Remember...,' she tried to say, and her voice sounded thin and scared, but there was no time.

‘Good,' he said, understanding what she was trying to say. ‘And I will. Now go,
chérie,
and God go with you.'

He pushed her hard towards the opposite side of the bridge, and waited until the guardsmen were within three yards or so of him. He began to run. Slowly at first, until he was sure they realised what he was doing, and then with increasing speed. The shouts of the men behind told Louis they had taken the bait. He put on a spurt and headed west along the quay which ran the length of the gardens, praying that his path would be clear. After a while the shouts grew fainter as, one by one, the guardsmen decided to abandon their chase. It was too early and too hot, and many of them were still groggy from the night before.

Louis slowed to a walk. He fought to regain his breath, and tried to work out where next to go. At the end of the gardens by the orangery, the wall curved round and ran north before running into the Place Louis XV. Louis shrank against the brick while he debated the wisdom of crossing by the opening into the square. He edged forward. All appeared quiet. There were a few weary-looking people clustered round the statue in the centre of the square, but none of them seemed to be looking towards the river. Louis decided to risk it. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he edged into the open space and headed for the wooded area that skirted the Cours la Reine. Once under the trees he kept under cover, turned north, crossed the Champs Elysées and slipped into the orchard that ran alongside the Faubourg St Honoré.

Safe, if only for the moment, he slackened his pace. His strength was draining, Then, his knees buckled and he fell down on to the grass beneath a tree. He tried desperately to fight off the dizziness which was felling him, but failed, and with a groan he fainted.

Louis lay as if dead for many hours while the sun described a scorching arc, almost burning through the foliage and sending dry leaves whirling down over his body. He was fortunate in that he lay under a group of the thickest trees, and their shade protected him from the worst ravages of the heat.

Towards late afternoon, the air stilled even more, and mirages rose up in front of the few who ventured outdoors. Thus, the streets were almost empty until evening and Louis was granted a few extra hours of safety. When night fell, bats flew out of their hiding-places, weaving in and out of the trees where thirsty swallows dived and swooped in search of water.

Conscious at last, Louis watched them until the dark sucked their small forms up into the night and the stars shone hard and brilliant over the city. A strange lethargy had him in its grip – no doubt brought on by hunger, tension and fatigue. Gazing up into that sky, Louis felt that he had known no other existence, that the events of the last few days had never taken place and that he would lie dreaming, like a schoolboy, in the orchard for ever.

At last he roused himself and tried to neaten his appearance. He knew he must look an extraordinary sight – bloodstained, crumpled, unshaven and hollow-eyed. Searching his looted coat pocket for a handkerchief, he encountered the packet of papers. His hands were unsteady as he unfolded them and tried to read but it was useless. It was too dark and Louis was too tired. He stuffed them back for later consideration.

Moving cautiously, he weaved from tree to tree, making for the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. It wasn't long it came into view, running north-west in a straight line towards its
barrière
gate and south-east towards the junction where it turned into the Rue St Honoré. As far as he could make out, it was quiet. With a bit of luck he could cross it and take cover in one of the meadows that lay to the north, even perhaps raid one of the market gardens for some vegetables or fruit.

‘Diable.'
Louis shrank back under a tree.

Coming down the road in the direction of the Place Louis XV was a posse of National Guardsmen, holding their pikes erect. They moved slowly, keeping watch to the right and the left.

Louis made rapid calculations. What were they doing at this hour? Who were they searching for? Were they searching from house to house?

The posse moved on, weapons clanking.

Louis began to despair. It was going to be harder than he had thought to reach Neuilly. If he went west or north, sooner or later he would hit the
barrière
and that was sure to be guarded. If he went east or south to the river, he would find himself back in the city and his bloodied coat would arouse suspicion. He knew well enough that a battle-stained man wandering the streets would be fair game for both sides. Louis had no illusions as to his fate if he should be caught.

Even now, he spared a thought for Héloïse. Was she safe? Perhaps, after all, he should have made for the Hôtel de Choissy with her?

De Choissy!

Then it came to him. Of course! There was one alternative, a risky one, but worth trying. Running almost parallel to the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré was the tree-lined Rue de Chartres. Only two or three hundred yards from the north end was the house that belonged to Adèle de Fleury. Louis knew it by repute and had traded greetings with Adèle once or twice at Versailles.

It took him a long time, and his progress was erratic. Every so often he was forced to stop, either because he needed to rest, or because he there were armed men. But, at last, the wall enclosing the house came into view. Keeping well into the shadows, Louis skirted its perimeter towards the gates which were locked fast. A dog barked. Louis turned on his heel and retraced his path, hoping to find a breach in the wall.

He did not have far to go: a couple of bricks in the grass directed his gaze to a place where the wall had caved in very slightly. Panting with the effort, he pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He inched forward, accompanied by the howls of the unseen dog, and steering well clear of the direction from which they came and was rewarded by the sight of a light. Gradually the outline of a house took shape. It was, so the Versailles gossip went, a beautiful house, built at the turn of the century for a favoured mistress of a royal prince who had decided to colonise this more unfashionable part of Paris. Louis acknowledged its distinctly feminine aspect – the lines and curves which had been charmed into elegance by a skilful architect. He saw also that candles burned in the big window on the first floor.

Selected a stone from the gravel path, he took aim. Careful, he instructed himself: too hard, and he ran the risk of a nosy anti-royalist servant discovering him; too soft, and Adèle would not notice.

The stone arced up towards the window hitting the glass with a ping. Louis waited and then sent up a second. A shadow appeared at the window and the casement was thrown up with a jerk. Someone clad in white held back the drapes and peered out.

Louis strained to see who it was.

‘Madame,' he called softly.

The figure froze, and then moved to obtain a better look below.

‘Madame de Fleury,' Louis repeated.

‘Who's there?' The voice was low and uncertain.

‘Louis d'Épinon.'

‘Who?'

Louis repeated his name.

‘Ciel!
What are you doing in my grounds?'

Adèle disappeared and returned holding a lighted candelabrum which she raised up high. Louis' tired, dirty face glimmered up at her.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I am in need of food, shelter and a bed. Can I come up? It is too dangerous to stay here.'

Adèle hesitated and rapidly reviewed the situation. Her husband was conveniently away, and she had just sent her maid to bed.

‘Can you climb up?'

Louis grasped the iron drainpipe and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed firm enough. Then he summoned his last ounce of energy and began to inch his way up. Halfway there, the humour of the situation struck him – he was hardly the gallant and dashing lover – and he laughed.

‘Shush.'

Adèle stepped on to the balcony and leant over to help him up the remaining inches. Then he stood in front of her, swaying slightly, and even managed a sketchy bow.

The room behind looked infinitely welcoming and he sighed with relief. Adèle pushed him inside, checked down below to see if they had been seen, and shut the window.

‘Now, monsieur, just what are you doing?'

Louis told her, and as she listened to his account she looked by turns horrified, frightened and aghast.

‘I suspected something had happened when I returned from Versailles yesterday. I was visiting friends in the town and the road to Paris was strangely quiet.' After a pause, she continued. ‘I will of course help you.'

He managed a second bow. After all, it would be fair to assume that Adèle was not in the habit of giving refuge to men on the run.

‘It will be difficult,' she said – but she had recovered her composure. ‘I am not sure that I can trust my maid, but I suppose I will have to have faith in the stupid wench if I am to hide you here. But I am forgetting,' she said quickly, ‘you will be hungry and thirsty.'

She poured out a glass of water and Louis gulped it down. ‘Here, you'd better have this too.' Adèle filled a second glass with wine. It burned its way down to Louis' lurching stomach and sent welcome sparks through his veins.

Adèle paced around the room, the muslin wrapper that framed her neck and bosom emitting soft swishes. Delicate, feminine, pampered sounds, a world away from the Tuileries and Paris. Her loosened hair tumbled down over her shoulders and her lace nightcap offered a perfect frame for her features. In the candlelight, she looked almost a girl.