Daughters of the Storm (38 page)

Héloïse retied Sophie's sash, which had come undone.

‘Nous verrons,'
she said. ‘Now we must go.'

The road to the prison was choked. Filled with anxious relatives, carts, diligences and coaches fought for a passage through the streets. Inside the de Choissy coach, Sophie became increasingly anxious. The streets were worse than she had imagined.

‘Perhaps, we shouldn't have come,' she said.

William reached for her hand and held it reassuringly. Privately, he agreed with Sophie and was angry with himself for being foolish enough to allow them to accompany him.

‘But we must find out,' said Héloïse. .

‘Good God.' Sophie, who had been looking out of the window, jerked back and covered her eyes.

‘What is it?' cried Héloïse.

‘Bodies. A pile of bodies. They were in a cart.'

‘Close your eyes, both of you,' ordered William sharply, and pulled down the leather blind.

Then, it is all true, thought Sophie. Panic threatened to overwhelm her and she struggled for mastery. I must stay calm, she told herself.
I must stay calm.

Dear God, thought Héloïse, not again.

The coach drew to a halt by the Rue des Ballets and the prison came into view. The three of them alighted.

‘Leave this to me,' said Héloïse.

They picked their way over the cobbles towards the prison entrance. William tensed, ready to spring forward if there was trouble, and watched warily while Héloïse engaged one of the guards in conversation. A coin passed between hands before disappearing into the man's pocket. Héloïse beckoned, and they continued without hindrance through the lobbies and into the courtyard.

A guard showed them through yet another lobby into a second, inner courtyard and, as he did so, instinct warned Sophie to go no further. She stopped abruptly, grabbed Héloïse by the arm and tried to drag her back.

‘Don't,' she begged. ‘I think it would be better if we go back and leave Mr Jones to do the rest.'

Héloïse shook Sophie off. ‘I have to,' she said.

She moved onwards and, her heart battering like a ram in her chest, Sophie watched her cousin as though she was viewing Héloïse through a thick lead-flecked glass, each of her one steps blurred and obfuscated, each second longer than the previous.

The scene that unfolded before Héloïse in the courtyard was to burn into her memory for the rest of her life. She staggered, and William ran to support her.

‘Get back,' he shouted to Sophie, who was behind them. Too late: Sophie, like Héloïse, was rooted to the spot.

Heaped against the stone wall in the courtyard were thirty or more corpses. They had been dead for some hours and rigor mortis had already set in. Their wounds gaped exposing expanses of bone and entrails. Their blood still seeped through the paving stones and congealed in pools on the ground. Sophie noted clinically that the only noise was the incessant buzzing of flies.

Near to the top of the pile lay the marquis. His head at an unnatural angle and masked by blood and dirt, it was hard to tell who he wasbut Héloïse knew him from a scar that snaked up his arm, a legacy from a battle fought in his youth. A grimace distorted his face which was turning black in the September warmth. Héloïse clutched at her stomach as she fought for her breath.

‘
Citoyenne
de Choissy.'

The voice which addressed her from behind was full of confidence and authority. All three of them looked up. Jacques Maillard was observing them. He looked exhausted and sweat ran down his cheeks and into his neckband.

‘How do you know my name?' Héloïse searched his face. Surely she knew him? The stranger awoke memories of La Joyeuse. Surely it was not...?

‘Maillard,' replied the stranger. ‘Jacques Maillard.'

Maillard was enjoying picturing what was passing through
Citoyenne
de Choissy's mind.

‘Have you come to take your father's body?' He fingered the three-day stubble on his chin. ‘I will give you permission to do so.'

Héloïse looked up. She looked down. She thought
:
are my sins so great that this place, this terrible place, and this terrible man are my punishment?

‘You don't have any choice,' said Maillard with satisfaction. ‘If you don't have my permission, then you can't take him.'

‘Mr Jones, I must sit down,' said Héloïse faintly. ‘I don't feel very well.'

‘Come with me,' Maillard commanded, and they followed him towards the prison office.

Maillard swept a pile of documents off a stool to the floor and indicated that Héloïse could sit down if she wished. He went over to the door and barked out an order. A guard appeared carrying a bottle and glasses. Maillard offered it around. All three of them refused. Maillard shrugged and drank himself.

‘We shall remove the body of Monsieur le Marquis and then go,' William curtly informed him. ‘If you would be good enough to allow the ladies to remain here, I will see to it.'

Sophie shot him a glance. William's tone was not conciliatory.

‘As you wish,' said Maillard. ‘You have my permission.'

William left the room. Héloïse raised her head.

‘Who did this... this evil thing?'

‘I was in charge.'

A look which mingled cunning and pride sat on Maillard's face, and his eyes – and if eyes could burn his did.

‘I don't believe it,' whispered Héloïse.

Had she got it so wrong? All the assumptions with which she had been reared? Her certainties that everyone had their place in a society, and should observe it? Perhaps, she had?

‘They were enemies of France.' Maillard relished the words.

On the other hand, she thought. It was too late to change.

‘If you believe that, monsieur, then you are a fool...' said Héloïse, and Maillard stiffened at the contempt in her tone.

‘France requires protecting,' he repeated. ‘And it's “citoyen” not “monsieur”.'

‘Monsieur le Marquis worked all his life for his country,' Héloïse replied.

Maillard leant over the table towards her.

‘Your father was a parasite, like the others of your kind.'

Sophie twisted her handkerchief round and round her fingers and prayed that William would return so that they could leave this and stop Héloïse from saying anything incriminating.

‘Where did you learn to think like this?' Héloïse was asking.

‘At La Joyeuse,
citoyenne
,' replied Maillard, and observed her face with satisfaction. ‘I watched you,
citoyenne
. I watched you very carefully. You and your big, greedy, careless family, and I saw the misery you made around you. Did you ever think of us,
citoyenne,
or were you too busy eating your fine meals?'

‘Everyone who worked at La Joyeuse was well cared for.'

‘You know nothing, and care less.' Maillard was in full flow. Spittle flecked his mouth. ‘Did you ever give a thought to the hovels that existed by the side of your big house? Or see the hunger of mothers with their children? Or understand the exhaustion that came with work, work, and yet more work? Do you know what it is like to give up the best of your crops, or shiver in winter because you haven't got a coat? No, of course not.'

Héloïse shook her head in disbelief.

‘Oh, I watched you
, citoyenne
,' continued Maillard. ‘And I learned. I taught myself a great deal while I watched. Then I came to Paris and found that my friends thought like I did. They believed in me and now I am in a position to call the tune.'

With difficultly, Héloïse rose to her feet.

‘You're nothing but a murderer,' she said. ‘A common murderer.'

Maillard looked at her and Héloïse found herself pinioned by those burning eyes .

‘I would be very careful,
citoyenne
, if I were you,' he told her. ‘You no longer have any authority. I have two scores to settle.' He sat down at his desk and pulled scattered papers towards him. ‘A beating, and Marie-Victoire.'

Malice. Fanaticism. There was no mistaking either. They were becoming familiar stock in trade in their lives.

Héloïse slumped back down onto the stool. Now, she remembered events at La Joyeuse and, now, she understood.

Sophie was by her side in an instant. ‘Enough,' she said to Maillard. ‘Leave her in peace.'

Maillard's gaze travelled up and down Sophie.

‘If I were you,
Citoyenne
Luttrell – yes, I do know your name. I would be very careful,' he said. ‘We don't like strangers in our city. We don't trust them.'

Sophie ignored the threat. ‘Put your head down as far as you can,
chérie,'
she admonished Héloïse.

Héloïse allowed Sophie to wipe her forehead, then she straightened up. ‘I'm all right,' she told her.

She put out her hand to William, who reappeared in the doorway, and he helped her upright.

‘Monsieur Maillard,' she said, looking remarkably like her father, and Sophie knew what the effort must have cost her. ‘You are not the only one who can be vengeful. We de Guinots do not forget. We shall not forget you. Do you understand?'

Maillard coloured up violently, but he chose to laugh. ‘Your time has passed, citoyenne. Nothing you can do can hurt me now. I have it in my power to finish the de Guinots.'

‘Come,' said William. ‘At once.'

‘You can only go if I say so,' said Maillard.

‘No,' said William. ‘
We
say.'

The two men stared at each other. Maillard blinked first. ‘Don't come back.'

William shepherded Héloïse and Sophie from the room. ‘Look straight ahead and hurry,' he said. ‘It's dangerous in here, and there are men outside I don't trust the look of. Anything might happen.'

They walked out of La Force and into the street.

‘Madame – Héloïse...' William put his arm gently around Héloïse. ‘You understand, we are taking the body of Monsieur le Marquis with us. Can you bear it?'

‘Oh God,' she said.

The coachman cracked his whip and the coach began to force its way back through the streets. Héloïse supported the marquis' head between her hands and stroked his bloodied hair back from his face. She held him thus throughout the long journey to the Rue de l'Université.

*

On return to the Hotel de Choissy, Ned's horror and disbelief warned Sophie that trouble was brewing. But she would have to deal with Ned later. There were more important things to do first.

Strangely enough, it was de Choissy who assumed charge and who brought order into the confusion that greeted their return. He took one look at Héloïse, whose pallor was alarming, and swept her up into his arms. He carried her up the grand staircase to her bedroom, laid her on the bed and sent the maids scurrying for water and wine.

It was de Choissy who arranged for the marquis' body to be laid out in a manner befitting his rank. It was de Choissy who knelt by the body among the black velvet and candles and prayed for hours, his face set with grief and bitterness. It was de Choissy who sent one of his servants running at top speed through the night to fetch a doctor for Héloïse. It was de Choissy who kept a midnight vigil over the feverish body of his wife and commanded Sophie to get some sleep.

Héloïse lay in bed, alternately soothed by a sensation of quiet nothingness and racked by a pain that invaded her body. Sometimes she heard herself crying. Sometimes she was aware of voices above her. Once she was sure she heard Sophie calling her name. But it was a long way off and she did not have the energy to answer.

‘Héloïse,' pleaded the voice. ‘Héloïse, listen to me. You must try.'

Sophie's voice trailed away into a place that she, Héloïse, could not reach. After that came de Choissy. He was bent over her and his hand gently cupped her chin, or so it seemed to her but she could not be sure. Everything was confused, and confusing.

‘Madame wife. You must pull yourself together. Try harder.'

The voices swelled and merged, until they formed a monstrous cacophony – begging, cajoling, angry and pleading. Héloïse wished to hear none of them. She was too tired and weak. From somewhere else, her dead father, the marquis, added his urging.

‘Héloïse. You must listen to them. Go back.'

She felt the marquis push her away. Standing beside him was Maillard, his brown eyes oddly gentle.

‘I will be even with you,' Héloïse promised him, and buried her head in the pillow because Maillard laughed and she couldn't bear the sound.

Someone was missing. Héloïse tried to search for him, running down long grey-stone passages and through the Parisian streets. Where was he?

‘Louis,' she moaned.

‘She's delirious,' said de Choissy to Sophie. He bent over his wife.

‘Héloïse,' he said.

Her hot, flushed faced stared up at him.

‘Oh, it's you,' she whispered desolately.

‘Yes,' said the count grimly. ‘It is. Do you feel any better?'

But Héloïse was too far away to answer.

When she was better Sophie sat with her for much of the time and Héloïse spent hours staring at the carved bedposts and tracing the line of panelling in the room. She gazed at Sophie's golden head bent over her writing and studied the dreaming look that often replaced a tense little frown. Héloïse knew what put that frown on Sophie's face and resolved to try to help her when she felt better. Though what she would say, she wasn't quite sure.

Once, her hand wandered down to her belly and discovered a bandage swaddling it flat. She let it rest there until she understood that she had miscarried. Sophie comforted her as she wept for Louis' child.

‘There will be others,' she said.

‘That's so easy to say.' Héloïse bit her lip. Then, she remembered something. ‘Madame la Marquise. Is she alive?'