Daughters of the Storm (61 page)

By the time Maurice returned for a second time with food and water, Sophie had managed, with William's help, to sit propped up against the wall for a few minutes. Maurice stayed only to tell them that his arrangements were still being made, and that they must be patient. William felt in Sophie's dress for his ring and gave it to Maurice, and asked him to sell it if possible.

They would need money to pay for the crossing. Maurice took it without a word. Left alone once again, William began to pace up and down. Two paces up, turn, two paces down, his impatience and anxiety infecting the frowsy atmosphere. Once, he beat his hands against the wall and bit his lip at the consequent pain which streaked through his hands.

Sophie watched and willed herself to stay awake.'William,' she whispered at last through the fuzziness that had settled over her brain.

He looked up and his heart contracted as he saw how the baby jutted out from her thin body.

‘Come here,' she said.

He dropped on to the mattress beside her and took one hand in his.

‘Courage,'
she said haltingly, every word requiring enormous thought. ‘You remember how you told me that. Now it is my turn. Do not give up. We will make it to Calais.'

The effort drained her feeble strength and she could say no more, but her words appeared to have some effect on William, for he quietened.

‘You're right,' he said at last. ‘Oh, Sophie,' he went on, and his voice shook, ‘to think I might have lost you. I don't think I could have gone on.'

‘Kiss me,' she said, and he bent to do as she asked. Her breath was foul with fever, and her body was so wasted that he feared it would break at his touch.

‘If I loved you before,' he said, drinking in every line of her gaunt features. ‘I love you so much more now.' He sat up. ‘Now I must concentrate on making you well.' He settled her more comfortably on the mattress. Sophie sighed and fell asleep.

They remained in the closet for six long days.

During the day, the printing press clanked away below them and the yard resounded to the sound of vehicles. They kept very quiet at these times and spoke little. By the end of the week, both of them knew every crack and cobweb in the room and every line of the rough wooden floor. Sophie vowed to herself that she would never voluntarily enter such a place again.

Maurice came for them at dawn on the seventh day.

‘Get up,' he ordered them, ‘and follow me.'

William had just enough time to snatch up Sophie's cap, his jacket and cravat.

‘Take these,' he told her, swept her up into his arms and carried her down the stairs to the cart waiting in the yard.

‘Put her in the back,' said Maurice.

William deposited Sophie carefully against a couple of sacks and the two men arranged bundles of vegetables around her so that she was partially hidden from view. Sophie lay, on her side, without comment, letting the blessed cool of the outside fan her cheeks and breathing in great draughts of fresh air. William got up beside Maurice, who flicked his whip over the horse, and the cart made its way out into the street.

Long afterwards, Sophie thought of that journey as one of the most important events of her life. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she had been so close to death, perhaps it was the calm and silence of the autumnal countryside, bathed in life-giving sun and awash with colour and the scent of ripeness, but every slow, jogging step brought relief and peace, mingled with deep thankfulness.

Sometimes William got out to walk beside her. Once Maurice swung off the road to avoid a posse of soldiers. Yet, another time they were forced to take refuge in a field for a whole afternoon. It was then that Maurice told them a little about his work helping royalists and escapees from the new regime, but refused to divulge where he got his funds to carry it out. Neither William nor Sophie pressed him on the subject.

At night they slept in the cart, huddled together, and awoke under dew-damp sacks. Each day brought Sophie new strength, and a colour back into her cheeks, and each day took them further and further away from the nightmare. They would make it to safety, she was sure. It would not be easy, because danger was still apparent on the roads and in the streets of some towns and villages, and would be like that until they boarded the ship for England, but she knew in her heart that she and William were survivors. Sophie was content, for she had been lucky and, in the end, far more richly rewarded than she suspected she had a right to be. She could ask no more.

When at last Maurice stopped to point out the first rooftops of Calais, Sophie was able to sit up and gaze her fill.

Chapter 16

Attired in his customary tightly buttoned riding-coat and English-style hat, Sanson made his way through the Cour de Mai. The preparations in the Place de la Révolution were completed and the guillotine stood ready and waiting. He consulted his lists and gave the order for two extra carts. At his word, his assistants went running in all directions.

It was half-past three and word had been passed that the carts would leave within the hour. Already the crowd was massing outside the big wrought-iron gates and overflowing on to the quays. The mood was excited and volatile. Paris had still not become inured to the carts rolling through her streets, and the spectacle was irresistible.

Once it was known that the tribunal had given its verdicts and the executions would take place that day, Parisians took to the streets and fought for the vantage points on the Place de la Révolution (the best seats went for five sous). The better-off took their opera glasses and made sure they ordered a meal at the restaurant sited opposite the guillotine where, it was rumoured, the names of the condemned for the day were printed on the back of the menu.

Louis had been busy. His mission had not been easy and he had set about it with a bitter heart for he had to prepare for the worst. It had necessitated him activating a contact about whom he was none too sure, but the risk was necessary. The contact had proved helpful and, after money had changed hands, directed him to the home of a woman located in a small street beside the Palais Royal. The woman was young and frightened but courageous enough, and when Louis gave her the password she led him up to a small attic located under the eaves. Louis' knock was answered by a middle-aged man dressed in ordinary clothes but whose close-cropped head bore the traces of a tonsure. He listened, blinking short-sightedly, to Louis' request, and then sighed.

‘Assuredly, my son, I cannot refuse you. I shall be on the corner of the Rue de la Monnaie and the Rue St Honoré at four o'clock. As soon as the carts have passed on their way, I shall go, without saying anything further.'

When Louis tried to press some money into the man's hand, he refused.

‘My work is for God,' he remarked mildly. ‘But if I ever have need, I shall call upon you.'

With that Louis left him and returned as fast as he could to the Cour de Mai. When he reached the Pont Neuf the towers of the Conciergerie loomed into his view, jutting above the haphazard jumble of buildings scrambling up to its walls.

Louis' heart tightened as he thought of what lay inside.

The crowd was thicker and his progress slower. But he persisted, determined to be there when the gate of the Conciergerie swung open. It was a small gesture, but it was all he could do. It was impossible to reach a position close to the prison door, and so he contented himself with waiting by the wooden tumbrils lined up in the Cour de Mai. The
tricoteuses
had already rolled up their knitting, packed up their baskets and were waiting. At the foot of the steps was a medley of officials, lawyers, sightseers, children and guards in Phrygian caps. Louis bowed his head and, for the first time in a long while, sent up a short prayer to a God who appeared to have deserted the land.

Inside the Conciergerie, Sanson's assistants were at work. The male prisoners were being made ready. Two of them sat on stools while the assistant, Desmorets, hacked at their hair with a pair of scissors. As soon as he had finished he handed them over to his colleagues, who bound their hands behind their backs. De Choissy watched impassively, only calling out for a glass of brandy which he downed at a gulp. Desmorets turned to him.

‘Alors,
citoyen,' he said, and gestured to the stool.

De Choissy sat down and his cravat was wrenched from his throat. The scissors were cold and unforgiving against the nape of his neck. For a second, the fear rose and almost choked him. As he strove to master it, the first of his hair fell to the ground, leaving him feeling curiously light-headed. With every further snap of the scissors another layer seemed to peel away from the wrapping that enclosed his wayward and complicated heart and, for the first time in his indulged life, de Choissy felt liberated. It pleased him that he had won his last battle over his flesh – something he had never managed in his life. De Choissy smiled to himself, a smile so quixotic that a fellow prisoner checked the words of encouragement he was going to utter and turned away.

The two priests sanctioned by the authorities waited to offer the condemned their services. De Choissy ignored them. They were priests who had taken the constitutional oath and he wished to have none of them, but some of the men, craving words of comfort, knelt for their blessing. De Choissy allowed his hands to be tied behind his back and joined the group which stood waiting to be taken outside.

It was very dark in the room set aside for the women, and the smell of excrement that emanated from the
griaches
in the corner almost overwhelming. The pale faces of the women swam in and out of the gloom. There were so many emotions - fear that stifled all else, bitter sorrow, regret, and a desperate desire to cling to life. ‘My children,' wept one. ‘They are so young.' ‘I must pay my debts,' Athenée de Thierry told the gaoler. ‘Can I ask you to accept responsibility?' ‘May I have paper?' asked Héloïse. ‘I must write a letter.' Fortunately the gaolers were not entirely without pity and they granted Héloïse's request. And as Marie-Victoire sat on the stool and submitted herself to the rough ministrations of the executioner's assistant, Héloïse balanced a piece of paper on her knees and wrote.

My Sophie,

Soon it will be all over. I want you to know that I die free from Fear or Hatred. De C. will be with me, but I carry L. in my Heart. I go proudly, my regret only for my Dearest of Friends and Cousins. Remember me sometimes, without Sadness, and know that you came to mean more to me than anyone else. It will be your Face with Louis' that I carry on the Ride that awaits.

I owe Three Livres to the gardener at Neuilly and certain other Sums to the servants of the House. I charge you to see to these, on their Discharge my Honour rests. I know You will not Fail me. I will ask for this to be sent to England.

Your Friend and Cousin, Héloïse

September 27th, 1793

Her next letter was for Louis. It was infinitely harder and more painful to write.

Mon cher ami

I die Loving you more than Life. You are the one who gave it Meaning and Reason. For that I Thank You. De C. will be with me, but I shall watch for you until the very last Second. If you receive this Letter, keep it in memory of me. I shall enclose with this a Lock of my Hair, and I shall ask for Them to be sent to Neuilly. My debts will be attended to by Sophie.

Louis, my hand trembles a little, but it is not entirely Fear. It is so Dark and Close in here and there is so much Sorrow, but rest assured I shall be True to us when the Time comes. It approaches. I understand pain, and I know this instrument is swift, and Death is ever present, so why should mine be difficult?

Nevertheless, my Beloved, it hurts to say Goodbye. And I must. Live Long and Happily. My tenderest Feelings and Passion have been given only to you. I am sorry our Child died.

Your Héloïse

September 27th, 1793

Héloïse folded the papers and tucked them into her bosom. She raised her hands and slowly removed the combs from her hair, which tumbled down over her shoulders. Marie-Victoire rose from the stool. They had made her dress in the red shirt of the parricide and her face, shorn of its curls, appeared elfin but for the violet shadows under her eyes. She touched Héloïse's hair.

‘Madame's beautiful hair,' she said.

‘I am sorry, Marie-Victoire,' replied Héloïse . ‘It is I who have brought you to this. If only I had not taken you to Paris.'

Marie-Victoire understood. She touched her fingers to Héloïse's mouth. ‘Please,' she said. ‘There is no need. I'm glad to die, for I have nothing and I feel so tired.'

‘The three of us, you, Sophie and I, have made our journey,' said Héloïse, ‘and now it's the end.'

The assistant grasped her hair and twisted it into a rope. The scissors clicked and snapped, sawing away and pulling unmercifully at her scalp. Released from its customary weight, her head fell forward on to her breast and it took her a moment to raise it again, so unfamiliar was the sensation.

Héloïse stooped over and, gathering up a fistful of her hair, extracted a lock or two. The assistant snatched the remainder and tossed it into an overflowing canvas-lined basket where it joined a pile of gold, white and brown locks.

Héloïse took the letters from her breast and sealed her hair into the one for Louis. She turned to the assistant. ‘Monsieur, if I pay you, will you see that these are delivered?' The assistant had heard this request many times before, and he had grown used to the extra source of income. Without a word he proffered his hand, grabbed at Héloïse's last
louis
and pocketed the letters and the money. It cost Héloïse her greatest pang so far to see them disappear. She held out her hands to be tied. ‘It is on your honour, monsieur,' she said, ‘to see that they are delivered.'