Daughters of the Storm (47 page)

His appetite for power having grown with his influence, he appreciated how his political ambition had so neatly dovetailed with his private vendetta and took enormous pleasure in explaining the ironies of it all to Marie-Victoire.

Poor Marie-Victoire. She had not stood a chance and she was foolish to have imagined otherwise. How naive had she been to think that he would give up the idea of persecuting the de Guinots?

In the courtyard of the Palais de Justice, known as the Cour de Mai, he stopped to talk to one of the women who sold cheap souvenirs from her booth. On entering the building, the guardsman on duty in the
greffe
greeted him with an oath. Maillard replied in kind. It was as well to keep these people in good humour. He made his way up the stairs.

The tribunal sat in the Grande Chambre, a gloomy room which overlooked a dark courtyard, and even in summer its tall windows let in only a little light. The floor was paved in black and white marble and the room still bore traces of its recent despoiling by the authorities. The beautiful velvet draperies had been ripped down, the oak ceiling roughly plastered over and the carved wainscotting destroyed. At the north end were arranged the judges' table and chairs. To one side of those were four wooden benches for the accused and on the other sat the stocky, pock-marked figure of the prosecutor-general and the clerks who had been up since dawn transcribing names and filling in indictments.

There was an air of barely suppressed excitement in the room. Anxious not to miss one minute of the spectacle, spectators jostled for space in the public gallery and squabbled audibly.

Before assuming his seat, Maillard conferred with Fabricus, the chief clerk who reported on the latest happenings. Then he embarked on the task of reading the pile of documents stacked on his desk. He read slowly and hesitantly, forced more often than not to skim over the legal terms and was thus absorbed when the first prisoners were ushered to the benches.

‘Prisonnier de Clinchamp,'
announced the clerk, and a ripple of expectation broke out in the public gallery.

‘Prisonniers Luttier et Gaveaux...
' The roll-call of names mounted. There was plenty to do today. Maillard into a more comfortable position and motioned to a clerk to fetch a glass of wine. The president got to his feet and read out the indictments. On the prisoners' benches a woman sobbed.

It did take long to sentence the ex-prior, Jean de Clinchamp.

‘Ah, mon Dieu!
I shall at last see your face,' the condemned man repeated again and again.

Luttier, a soldier, lost his temper when he heard his fate and cursed his executioners. Gaveaux begged to be allowed to spend a few moments with the woman he loved. Maillard reflected, thought the better of it, and indicated a curt negative. Accompanied by some sympathetic cries from the gallery, the prisoners were ushered out to take their last walk through the Conciergerie where they would wait for the tumbrils to arrive at the end of the session.

Yes, this will be a good day, thought Maillard as he drank his wine, a very good day.

Chapter 4

The waiting room in the Hôtel de Ville was unbearably hot and crowded and William had been sitting for a long time. He glanced at his watch. Only two hours left.

The section authorities had given him permission to leave the Hôtel de Choissy in order to obtain his travelling papers, but he had been sworn to return by four o'clock. As he, Sophie and Héloïse were under house arrest, and had been since their enforced return from Neuilly, William felt he had no option but to comply terrified as he was of jeopardising Héloïse's position which grew daily more precarious. An almost permenant frown was etched into his forehead and he puzzled for the thousandth time how to resolve the impasse. Their movements were limited, a guard was posted permanently at the gate of the Hôtel and Héloïse was forbidden to leave the house under any circumstances. By the order, they had been informed of the special surveillance committee.

Naturally William did not seriously consider abandoning Héloïse and, anyway, Sophie would not hear of it. His frown deepened. They had discovered that Sophie was pregnant and the baby was due to be born – almost certainly - in December. William was determined to get her out of France before it became too difficult for her to travel. Héloïse, too, if he could arrange it. Where Louis was, no one knew. As far as they could tell, he had avoided arrest at Neuilly by hiding in one of the outbuildings and they prayed he had made it to the border. Privately, William felt rather doubtful. Louis had had neither money nor papers on him when he left them, nor was he properly dressed, and it was unlikely he had managed to return to the house without incurring serious risk. Héloïse, however, surprised both of them with her – in William's opinion - stubborn optimism

‘He'll manage,' she said. ‘We hid some papers and clothes in the woods at the back of the stables for just this possibility.'

But her face grew more drawn and, at night, Sophie could hear her pacing her room into the small hours.

William shifted on the uncomfortable bench and watched while a young woman tried, unsuccessfully, to reason with a clerk who was smoking a villainous-smelling pipe. After a while, the woman gave in, gathered her children and departed. William was struck by the look of desperation she cast at him. He looked round the room at the selection of anxious and exhausted men and women. He supposed that some of them might be queuing for their own life, others for someone they loved, and the toll on their emotions was obvious from the profusion of nervous coughs, snapped comments and whispered conversations. He passed his tongue over his lips.

What were the odds of getting out of Paris alive?

Not so great.

The clerk sat at one end of the room at a desk from where he would issue summons from time to time. Cramped and aching, William stretched out his long, breeched legs and rested his chin his cane. His apparently nonchalant attitude attracted the attention of the clerk, who sent over his aide. William rose, adjusted his hat and sat down in front of the clerk.

It was obvious that the passion for dirt affected by revolutionary extremists reigned supreme at the Hôtel de Ville. The man had not been near water for months. Layers of grime rimmed his fingernails and he sported a tidal mark where his collar met his neck. His hair hung in unwashed locks down to his shoulder and the Phrygian cap jammed onto his head was equally dirty.

‘Yes?' His voice was redolent of heavy consumption of cheap wine and tobacco.

. William explained that he wanted a passport in the name of Mr and Mrs William Jones, for America, via passage to England. They would be accompanied by his bride's governess, a Miss Edgeworth, and he wished to obtain papers for her too. William hoped that Héloïse's English would be up to the deception. The clerk's hostile eyes flicked at him, noting the quiet elegance of William's dress and his composed bearing.

‘Your reasons?'

‘I wish to return home with my bride.'

‘A French
citoyenne
?'

‘No, English.'

‘Name of?'

William supplied further details and watched the clerk scrawl them on to a long roll of parchment. He disliked giving out so much information but there was no help for it.

‘When do you wish to depart?'

‘As soon as possible.'

The clerk scraped back his chair and went into another room where William could hear him conferring with a colleague.

A second and, apparently, more senior clerk emerged from the back room, holding a bundle of documents. On top of them protruded a familiar-looking packet with its seals undone. William recognised it at once. He leant over and pretended to wipe at some dust on his boot while he thought. When he straightened up, ready to bluff his way through any questions, his face was as bland as he could make it.

The senior clerk stank as badly as the first and was even less accommodating.

‘Your request is refused, pending some investigations,' he informed William. ‘You and the English woman are not to leave Paris until your purity as a friend of
la patrie
is proved. We wish to consult a citizen patriot on some details of your case. Meanwhile, you will remain where you are until further notice.'

William inclined his head. His relief was so overwhelming that he was sure it must register in his face. He had a little more time.

‘As you wish,' he replied politely. ‘But I am sure it will not be long before the citizen clerk will be making out our passports.'

The clerk spat a stream of yellow tobacco juice into the straw on the floor.

‘Perhaps,' he offered. ‘Perhaps not.'

*

Back in the Rue de l'Université, William hustled Sophie into the bedroom they now shared. Most of the house had been sealed up by the officials – de Choissy property now being declared a possession of the state on account of his suspected
émigré
status. The only rooms available to live in were the smaller salon and three bedrooms overlooking the back of the house. The servants had fled, all of them, even the ones that Héloïse had trusted and counted on, and it was proving impossible to employ a girl from the neighbouring streets. As a result, Sophie and Héloïse were contriving to live as best they could, sending out for meals, fetching water and struggling to heat it.

‘Miss Edgeworth would approve. She always maintained I needed to work harder,' Sophie had said when it became obvious they would have to look after themselves as, between them, they tackled the unfamiliar tasks with more energy than skill. She had evoked a rare laugh from William.

He was not laughing now, as he explained to Sophie the latest position.

‘There is nothing else for it,' he told her. ‘We must leave. I will make use of Sir Robert. I only wanted to as the very last resort, and the time has come. I managed to arrange a pass to the Rue de Richelieu.'

Sophie held up a pair of red and blistered hands.

‘You had better make out that we are humble farmers,' she said. ‘I am the part to the life.'

‘So is your swelling belly,' said William, running an ardent hand over her stomach. He grew serious.

‘I must take care of you, my Sophie, and I must find a priest who is willing to marry us.'

‘I wish this had not happened quite so soon,' said Sophie, looking down at her waist. ‘I'm worried that this makes me an extra burden.'

‘A scandal, you mean,' said William, smiling, and tilted her chin up towards him. He smoothed down an odd strand of her golden hair with careful, tender fingers. ‘When she hears of it Miss Edgeworth will shudder in her bombasine.'

‘Miss Edgeworth might surprise you,' countered Sophie.

Neither of them mentioned the painful subject of her parents.

Sir Robert Brandon was reached on the Rue de Richelieu. An Englishman who had chosen to reside permanently in France, he had lived in the same house for the past twenty years, from which he ran a successful wine-exporting business. Tall and inclined to embonpoint, he was a shrewd businessman and a generous host whose sleepy air hid a mind of exceptional sharpness. William knew him to be successful, prudent and adept at survival. Sir Robert counted both revolutionaries and royalists among his friends, even though William suspected that he was involved in secret political intrigue of a very dangerous nature. But Sir Robert was a kind and honourable man who kept his promises and had never been heard to utter an opinion that was remotely political. So convincing was his persona that the authorities left him alone; indeed, some of them came to his house to mix with bankers and financiers of all persuasions. Thus it was that Sir Robert's drawing room was the centre of many gatherings where financial matters were discussed and acted on and – if William was correct – royalist fugitives secretly gained help.

No, thought William, there was not much that escaped Sir Robert's benevolent eye; details that would be welcome in
émigré
circles. William had never dared tax him on the subject, nor would he do so. But, after all, it was in the interests of counter-revolutionaries to make the republicans appear as corrupt and greedy as possible. However they orchestrated it, he reasoned, and the ways were many and devious, counter-revolutionaries would be united in their efforts to undermine the republic's social and political programmes by hastening a financial crisis. Sir Robert's house was a perfect forum into which they could feed rumour and speculation – and obtain an excellent meal to boot.

Sir Robert was only too glad to receive him. He liked the tall, serious young American and, being childless himself, had rather taken to fancying William as the son he might have had. Over a glass of excellent port, he agreed to obtain the documents for the three of them.

‘Is it necessary for you all to leave?' was all he asked. ‘It is difficult contriving for so many.'

William nodded. ‘I could not leave Madame la Comtesse alone,' he said. ‘But your price, if you please, for this favour?'

Sir Robert smiled at William's directness, and refilled the glasses.

‘An excellent vintage,' he remarked, holding it up to the light. ‘Are you of the opinion that your fellow countrymen would enjoy such a wine?'

‘Indeed, sir,' replied William, savouring the bouquet.

‘Well, then, my boy, that is my price. I shall look to you when you are back in America to further my interests. Is that fair?'

‘Perfectly,' said William.

‘Now,' said Sir Robert, suddenly very serious as he opened a concealed drawer in his bureau. ‘This is what you must do.'

Two hours later, William slipped into the courtyard at the Hôtel de Choissy and made his way to the stables, a little surprised that the guard had left his post at the gate. The stables now lay empty, their horses dispersed by the local section, and most of the equipment had been stolen or removed. But some sacks of bran and oats still remained, partly hidden at the back of the building. William went over to them and, plunging his hand deep into the feed, deposited some documents inside the sack. Then he dragged the sack against the wall so that it was concealed by the others. He dusted his hands and checked to see if the guard had returned. He was preparing to slide noiselessly back into the house when he stopped in his tracks. A party of National Guardsmen were descending the steps of the hôtel, holding Héloïse by her arms. Behind her followed Sophie.