Daughters of the Storm (56 page)

‘Madame should be wearing her diamond necklace,' she remarked as she did so, but Héloïse only smiled. ‘I don't think so.'

Marie-Victoire stepped back. ‘Monsieur will be pleased.'

Héloïse stretched out her arms as if to embrace the walls. It was mad. It was insane but, in truth, nothing before had ever made her feel so beautiful or so exquisite as her prison toilette. From her fragile fingertips to her feet shod in a pair of shabby, black high-heeled shoes, she was alight with throbbing, insistent life.

Death to the spectre of death.

Already the gates were closing, each one sending an echoing note into the evening air. Crash, crash; followed by the thud of many keys and the isolated oaths of turnkeys in haste to finish their job. The two women listened to the footsteps in the passage outside and the clanging of cell doors, each one nearer than the last. Footsteps stopped by their door and they heard the turnkey's dog panting outside but, after long seconds, the feet moved on up the passage. Héloïse gave a sigh of relief and went to stand by the window.

An hour passed. The Conciergerie lay quiet. Two shadows loomed briefly in the light of the torches burning high up in the embrasures, and melted back into the dark. Each of them was making their way towards Héloïse's cell. The taller reached the entrance to the passage first and, after checking over his shoulder, melted into the dark. The second followed a little later.

A torch hissed and spat in the passageway, sparking onto the stone walls. Clogs in hand, Louis edged along the corridor, searching for the handkerchief. There it was. Pushing open the wooden door, he stepped inside the cell.

Héloïse raised her face to Louis' and Marie-Victoire slipped quietly into the corridor – and ran slap into another figure. She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Monsieur,' she faltered. ‘You're here.'

‘That's right, Marie-Victoire,' replied de Choissy, bearing down at her out of the dark. ‘Now let me pass.'

She flung her body against the door.

‘No, monsieur,' she said. ‘It is not for you in there.'

‘You are mistaken, Marie-Victoire,' said de Choissy. ‘Madame la Comtesse is my wife.'

‘I won't let you.'

‘Don't try me, my dear, this is neither the time nor the place.' He sounded dangerous. ‘Get out of the way.'

Pushing her roughly to one side, he opened the cell door to reveal Héloïse and Louis. ‘Get out,' he ordered.

The two men faced each other.

I should have known,' said Louis. ‘I should have known that you would trouble Héloïse as long as there was breath in your body.'

‘Louis, no.' Héloïse interposed herself between the two men. ‘Remember, no noise.'

‘He was too strong for me, madame,' said Marie-Victoire. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It does not matter,' replied Héloïse, and turned to her husband. ‘What do you want?'

The rage died out of de Choissy's face. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

‘Why, you, Héloïse. Who else? Is that not obvious? I had planned on spending a little time on what might be my last night on earth with my wife.'

Héloïse stiffened. ‘You have been called, then? The same as I?'

‘Of course. It's obvious we would go together?' He stepped closer. ‘Didn't you think, Héloïse, that I might wish to see you? That, indeed, I mattered?'

‘No, Hervé. Why would I? I know what you said yesterday... but what reason do I have to imagine that your presence here is anything more ... ‘ She shrugged. ‘I'm not clear what it would be.'

At this point, Louis took charge. ‘Close the door, Marie-Victoire,' He turned to de Choissy.

‘Monsieur le Comte. You do, of course, have the right to see your wife, that I must concede and I must give you time with her. But I ask you, as an honourable man, then to leave us.'

De Choissy paused. Then he said: ‘Monsieur le Capitaine is in error. It's not for him to decide the rules of this matter.'

Héloïse suppressed a hysterical laugh. The scene was absurd. Did neither of them remember that they were no longer in Versailles but in a prison, and that time was running out?

‘Enough,' she said. ‘Go, Hervé.'

De Choissy stood quite still. ‘Héloïse,' he said. ‘It's not too much to ask?'

Her precious minutes with Louis were ticking away. Now, that she faced death... and she did... politeness and manners and form were slipping away. What she faced in herself, and in the courts tomorrow, was so elemental that anything else but a search for the truth was pared away. She had not wanted to think about her husband, or to be reminded of him. But things had happened differently and she knew it was up to her to salvage some dignity out of this strange and embarrassing encounter.

‘I cannot pretend that you haven't surprised me, Hervé,' she said. ‘And I think I must believe you. If you had told me something of your feelings earlier, our lives might have been different. But you did not. Instead, you did your best to hurt and humiliate me.'

‘My dear, it is so unfashionable to love one's wife,' said de Choissy mockingly, and Marie-Victoire was shocked by the bitterness in his eyes.

Héloïse held out her hand.

‘Can you take this in friendship?' she asked. ‘That is all I can offer. I bear you no grudge – what would be the point? But that is all.'

De Choissy took her proffered hand and held it in his.

‘Touché,'
he said wryly. ‘You have developed a fine line in put-downs, my dear. However, I am accounted something of a fighter by those who know me best, strange though this may seem to you, and I won't give up. Nor, though you would not admit it, do you wish me to.'

He caressed her fingers and, despite her resolutions, the skin on the back of Héloïse's neck crawled. ‘Go back, Monsieur le Comte,' she said. ‘We will meet soon enough tomorrow.'

She felt for Louis' hand and slipped her hand into his.

‘I am yours in name only, you must understand that.'

Marie-Victoire opened the door cautiously and waited for de Choissy to leave. Ignoring her, de Choissy pulled Héloïse to him.

‘You belong to me,' he said, lacing his fingers hard around her wrists. ‘Whatever you think, and whatever monsieur here tells you. Both in law and by affection. As you know very well, I do not permit my heart to be worn on my sleeve and I fully appreciate it is as difficult for you to believe as it is hard for me to tell you, but it is the truth.'

‘You bastard,' Louis cursed under his breath.

De Choissy released his wife.

‘Spare me your invective, Monsieur le Capitaine,' he said, with more than a hint of menace.

Héloïse shook her head wearily. ‘You never loved me, Hervé. Perhaps it wasn't your fault, but I was only a vehicle for your strange desires. That is all.'

He searched her face. ‘Not entirely true, my dear, and I think you know it.'

Héloïse leant against the wall and closed her eyes. ‘If you love me, you will go,' she said, desperate that he should do so.

De Choissy flicked his finger over the sash of her dress. ‘I once put a rose in there, did I not, my dear? I am afraid there are no roses here to give you.'

‘Hervé, please.'

He straightened up with the expression that she knew so well, and bowed to Louis.

‘It seems, monsieur, that you win – for the time being. But consider, my dear Capitaine, tomorrow you will be gone – unless you wish to play the martyr as well as the lover, which I assume you do not – and I shall have her. You see, your triumph will be short-lived. It will be me who stands with Héloïse in front of the tribunal, not you. It is I that will ride with her to the guillotine, if we must. Not you.' He moved slowly to the door. ‘Remember that, my brave Capitaine.'

With that, he was gone. Marie-Victoire closed the door on Héloïse and Louis and resumed her self-appointed place outside the door.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace....'

‘Hail Mary...'

Her whispered Ave Marias rose softly into the night.

The prisons filled up. L'Abbaye, Madelonettes, Porte-Libre, La Force, Sainte-Pelagie, Les Anglaises, Bicêtre, the Luxembourg, the Plessis, Ste Lazare, Les Carmes.... Having being moved to and from various sites, the guillotine now took up permanent residence in the Place de la Révolution, and each day the tribunal sent it more victims.

This was the era of the forger. Wishing to save their money and property, many of the richer émigrés had returned to France. Others needed certificates, issued by the commune, attesting to their ‘civism'. White ones for Parisians. Red ones for strangers. Or they might require the cards to nail on their doors stating the name, age and vocation of every inmate. The forgers were not choosy and Paris housed many. Forged residence certificates, false passports, forged
assignats –
an industry sprang up overnight. Speculation was rife: from the bargains struck on street corners to transactions involving staggering sums. The
passeurs,
men who purported to be merchants or traders and who ferried money and jewels across the border, became legends, and the sympathetic notary was someone to be cultivated.

As the Jacobin republic strengthened its grip, the tribunal speeded up its work. At first, Fouquier-Tinville concentrated on the émigré, but as the Law of Suspects began to bite, his dragnet threw up a motley of men and women. Young, old, rich, poor, royalist, anti-Jacobin. Guilty and innocent. Fear began to roam the streets, suspicion was the order of the day and there were many old scores that were settled by the simple act of denunciation.

Some went to their deaths in bewilderment, others tossed defiance into the teeth of their enemies. Others impressed Sanson, the chief executioner, with their courage. But all of them faced the ride in a tumbril through crowds not yet sated by blood. If any escaped their fate, there are no records to show it.

Chapter 12

In the Rue de Richelieu, Sir Robert was anxious for them to go.

‘You must forgive this haste,' he said, ‘but it's in your best interests.' He indicated the serviceable wooden cart in his yard on which were stacked several wooden wine barrels. ‘Behold your going-away carriage,' he said, as he helped Sophie up into the seat in front and settled her.
‘Voilà,
Madame Lacroix, you are the picture of a wine-trader's wife.'

Sophie leant forward and held out her hands, very conscious of William's ring that now reposed on her left hand.

‘You have been so kind,' she said. ‘We can never properly thank you.'

Sir Robert nodded. ‘I will receive my thanks in due course, I have no fear of that,' he said, adding: ‘You had best remove that ring, madame, it does not fit the part.'

Sophie exclaimed, removed the tell-tale ring and tucked it into her bosom. Sir Robert gave a few last-minute instructions to William and held out a roll of coins. ‘You must take this,' he said, ‘it is all in small coinage.'

William grasped his hand warmly. ‘My wife has expressed my thoughts. I cannot thank you enough.'

He swung up into the driver's seat and took the reins. Sir Robert stepped back and the cart swung out of the yard and into the road. Sophie looked back over her shoulder at Sir Robert. He lifted his hand in farewell.

Sophie suppressed a giggle.

‘You look so strange,' she told her husband. ‘I am not used to seeing you dressed like that.'

It was true. After the wedding, William had changed into the disguise provided by the thoughtful Sir Robert, and instead of his neat breeches and tight-fitting tail-coat, he now sported a pair of velveteen breeches, rough white stockings and a short corduroy coat. Round his neck he had wound a scarf of a particularly virulent hue, and on his head was a hat that had seen better days. William grinned, flashing his white teeth, and wagged his finger at Sophie.

‘Not as odd as you, madame wife. I can highly recommend that gown; you resemble nothing so much as a fishwife.'

Sophie gasped.

‘How dare you, sir?' she expostulated. ‘The impoliteness.'

William leant across to give her a kiss.

‘Madame wife, you have never seemed so beautiful.'

It was true. In his eyes, at any rate, nothing could take away from Sophie's beauty, not even a badly cut gown and a frayed cap. She grinned back at him, allowing herself to enjoy their adventure while it still remained in the realm of a game.

Their mood quietened as they approached the
barrière.

‘Remember,' warned Sophie. ‘I shall do the talking.'

They had decided that, even though William's French was now excellent, it would be better if he remained silent, just in case a trace of his American accent betrayed him.

More by luck than by skill, William negotiated his way up to the gates and reined in the horse. It clattered to a halt. He jumped down and went to its head and busied himself with the harness. Sophie waited until one of the guards approached her, and then proffered her documents, her heart beating hard. The guard took them and began to read. After a while, he scratched his head and called out to his colleague.

‘Where to?' he addressed Sophie.

Sophie named a town to the north of the city.

‘Why?'

‘To deliver the wine. The citizens have need.' She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The republic makes for good business; we are constantly being asked for more.'

Too late, she realised her mistake.

‘Then, why have I not seen you before?'

The guard spat out a stream of yellow tobacco on to the road, narrowly avoiding the cart.

‘I can't say I know your face,' the guard said suspiciously, thrusting his into Sophie's. The blast of his breath hit her and she willed herself not to recoil in disgust.