Daughters of the Storm (62 page)

The assistant nodded and continued with his work.

The odours of the little room grew stronger and the scent of fear sharper. ‘How dark it is in here,' said Maire-Victoire. ‘I shall be glad to be outside.

One of them laughed. It was Athenée de Thierry. She came over to Héloïse. ‘I'm sorry I did not know you better,' she said. ‘But perhaps we will share the same cart. I had expected a little more for my funeral, but one must be philosophical.'

Again, she laughed and Héloïse found herself joining in. It pleased her to do so – a small gesture in the face of death.

The guardsmen had arrived to check over the names. They took some time because the lists contained errors, but at last they were ready.

‘Forward,' shouted their sergeant, and the women began to file out of the room, through the
guichet
and out into the courtyard.

A storm of cat-calls, jeers and whistles greeted them. Blinded at first by the clear afternoon light, they stood and endured rotten vegetables thrown at them by the
tricoteuses.
Marie-Victoire had the impression of a monstrous confusion of colour and light, of noise and turmoil, and she turned giddy from the suddenness of it. Her stomach contracted, for she had seen the waiting carts.

‘The
griache,'
she murmured to the guard.

‘Help her,' begged Héloïse beside her, and the guard, prompted by some humane impulse, untied Marie-Victoire's hands and led her to the wall. Héloïse stood over her, shielding her from the stares of the crowd, as Marie-Victoire made use of the bucket.

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘I'll be all right now.'

The women were shoved into the tumbrils and made to stand with their backs to the horses. Héloïse and Marie-Victoire stepped in turn on to the uneven planks and stood pressed together.

De Choissy was the first to appear of the men. He walked quickly towards the cart and climbed in beside the two women.

Héloïse regarded him in some surprise, for his shorn head gave him a very different appearance. He was still handsome in his way, superbly so, but younger-looking, and the dissipated lines that customarily marred his face were not so marked.

He looked down at his wife. ‘I would hold your hand, Héloïse, if I could. Just as I would hold your heart if I could.'

Her raw and heightened emotions did nothing to help her when she raised her face to meet his gaze. But for the first time, there was an understanding between them, and she did not look away.

‘Is your lover here?'

‘Somewhere. I know it,' she replied. There was no longer any need for deceit.

‘Well, then, so be it. But he cannot share this with you. I shall do that. It's how I predicted. You shall not, nor can you, deny me that.'

‘No, I shall not,' Héloïse replied quietly. ‘I owe it to you, Hervé, for all that is past. We did not deal very well together in life, but perhaps we shall in death.'

He smiled at her words and appeared to be satisfied.

‘Well, then,
ma femme,
we shall show the
canaille
how to die.'

De Choissy said no more. The carts were now full and the order was given to move. The whips cracked over the horses' backs and, with a growl of wood, the rough wheels of the tumbrils ground over the stones. Héloïse was knocked back against the rail and strove to stay upright while she searched the sea of faces for the one she longed to see.

The carts were forced to pause at the gates while the guards endeavoured to manoeuvre outside. But it was impossible. For fifteen minutes they were suspended between movement and stillness, and the baying of the crowd ebbed and flowed like a sea in their ears. The faces came and went – angry, menacing, awe-struck, dirty, red, disease-ridden, young and old. A panorama of humanity, roaring for their death.

He was there! To her left.

‘Héloïse,' he cried, to the figure dressed in her white dress. ‘Héloïse,' he said, to the flawless head and fragile neck now exposed to the onlookers.

Louis forced his way through the packed bodies and tried to reach out a hand but he was too far away. ‘At the corner of the Rue de la Monnaie,' he shouted. ‘As I promised.'

‘A letter, to Neuilly. Send for it there,' she cried back and, with a jerk, the cart rolled forward out of the gates and turned to the left.

Louis waited to see which route they would take. The first cart rolled towards the Pont au Change, so he sprinted towards the Pont Neuf, over the bridge and down a small street that ran parallel with the Rue de la Monnaie, emerging at the corner that turned left into the Rue St Honoré. Once there, he stood vigil, and his eyes lit on the figure of the priest, who waited by a stone set into the street. They acknowledged one another with a nod and Louis edged his way over beside him.

They did not speak.

Are you there, Pierre?
asked Marie-Victoire, gazing over the faces, her face lifted to the sky.
It is strange, but I really don't mind this at all because I know I am coming to join you. Perhaps, after all, God is merciful and he will grant me some time with you and our daughter. I have one more thing to face, Pierre, so be patient.

The slanting sun kissed her face. She could almost smell through the heat and rankness the fresh, wild scents at La Joyeuse and see the calm green of the fields that enfolded the house. There ... yes... there was the orchard, the splashes of field flowers and the magic of a summer evening deepening into dusk.

‘These I knew and understood
,' said her heart,
‘and they were true, just as my feelings for you, Pierre, and my child are deep and true.'

Héloïse pressed up against her, very pale like the other faces in the cart.

To die like this is not so very terrible
, Héloïse thought.
I am loved. I have loved. I reached reconciliation with the man I thought I hated and he travels with me in strange partnership.
She moved slightly to avoid being jolted by the woman in front of her.
I have been muddled and wrong, but somehow it does not matter, just as all of this noise and hatred does not matter. I feel only pity for them, because they do not understand what they are doing
. De Choissy was pressed up against her.

But I shall be free. I love you, Louis, and to love you brings me so much happiness that I can hardly bear it.

In the Rue de la Monnaie a horseguard joined the procession and tried to clear a path, but the tumbrils' progress was still pitifully slow. One of the women was close to fainting, but her companions laughed and joked with admirable composure, among them Athenée de Thierry. A small boy ran alongside the leading cart, beating a drum in a parody of a soldier's march. Rattle, boom, went his drumsticks, rattle, boom.

The air ruffled the shorn hair on the nape of her neck.

‘Patience,
ma femme,'
said de Choissy, but the sweat stood out on his forehead.

Héloïse pulled her thoughts back from Louis and glanced at her husband. ‘Are you frightened?' she asked.

De Choissy swallowed. ‘Of dying, a little,' he said, the confession costing some pride.

‘It will be over soon,' she said, offering the only comfort possible.

De Choissy laughed harshly, but his eyes signalled he appreciated her effort, and they remained fixed on her.

At the corner of the Rue de la Monnaie, the carts prepared to turn into the Rue St Honoré. Héloïse looked around her – there was so little time. Was he? Yes, he was there, and she understood at once the significance of the man standing beside him.

‘Marie-Victoire, look up,' she said very softly. ‘He has brought the priest.'

The two of them watched as the little man raised his hand in a silent gesture of benediction, and they bowed their heads.

‘I am free now, madame,' Marie-Victoire said, ‘I can die shriven.'

Héloïse felt a peace steal over her, flowing through her veins and calming the pumping of her heart.
‘Merci, mon père,'
she whispered, and looked away, fearful that she might expose the brave priest.

The curé wrapped his cloak around him, and melted away.

Louis began to run towards the Tuileries Gardens and the guillotine. There, he forced his way through the rows of spectators ensconced on the terraces overlooking the Place de la Révolution, and headed for the area to the south of the scaffold.

The carts continued their journey.

A crowd, drawn from the nearby market, were free with their insults. Héloïse noticed a wrought-iron balcony on a fine Louis Quatorze house and pointed it out to de Choissy. A little later the procession ground again to a halt by the Arbre Sec fountain and yet again by the Oratory.

The crowd had massed on the steps of the Church of St Roche, and as they passed a woman held up a fair-haired baby. Marie-Victoire's heart contracted with pain. She determined to look no more.

In the third cart a prisoner began to sing. He was young and handsome, and his tenor managed to rise above the noise.

Pour nous quel triomphe éclatant

Martyrs de la liberté saintée

L'immortalité nous attend...

he sang, and there was something in the words full of courage and regret that shamed the onlookers into silence and wrenched at the hearts of the prisoners who listened. Tears spilled down many of their faces, even the strongest. Héloïse met de Choissy's eyes, and into hers sprang forgiveness, pity and farewell.

An hour had passed since they had left the Conciergerie. The tumbrils turned left and lumbered down the Rue Royale and the sun, lower now in the sky, flooded the open space that lay in front and the waiting guillotine was brought into sharp relief. A sigh from several greeted the sight and one of the women cried out. The rail banged against Héloïse's bruised arms and she struggled to remain upright. At last, the carts drew up in front of the scaffold and a shout went up from the watchers.

‘A good batch.'

‘Look at the women.'

‘To your work, Sansfarin.'

There was no time any more to think. The assistants worked quickly and efficiently, lining up the pale and shivering prisoners with their backs to the guillotine. Marie-Victoire stood quiet and absorbed, driven deep into herself. De Choissy was placed next to her. Beside him, Héloïse searched for the face that she wanted to see. Louis made one last gigantic effort and reached the front rows behind a gaggle of women who had come to eat, gossip and knit. He dared not push past them and risk these last moments. Drawn like a magnet to her white dress, he locked his gaze with hers.

Remember, said her eyes. You were the only one I loved. You gave my life meaning and shape. You have given me courage, too, for I die loving you.

Go in peace, his answered. I shall live with the memory and nothing shall take it away or spoil it. It will be with me always.

De Choissy saw their interchange and understood. Making a supreme gesture, he turned his head and allowed them a kind of privacy., In doing so, he gave Héloïse the unselfish love which he had so unaccountably denied her in life.

It was beginning. The crowd swayed and muttered its excitement. Sanson consulted his list for the final time. The assistants helped the first victim up the wooden steps. Thud. The sound of a body thrown on to the platform. Thud. The sound of the neckpiece being swung into place. Thud. The sound of the huge knife swishing down. The crowd moaned. The assistant threw the head and body into the waiting basket and a second victim was led towards the steps.

Marie-Victoire stirred.

‘Adieu,'
she said, and smiled at Héloïse so sweetly and confidently that Héloïse could not prevent her tears.

‘Goodbye, Marie-Victoire,' she whispered.

They came for Marie-Victoire next. She was helped her up and steadied on the dizzily high platform. Already the floor was slippery with blood. Someone took her by the right hand, another by the left and threw her down. The wooden neck piece clanged over her, shutting her out from the world. ‘Pierre,' she cried. ‘It is over.'

The knife came down with a crash. The blood ran in pulsing streams on to the ground. Marie-Victoire was dead.

‘We will meet soon,' said de Choissy, smiling his familiar smile, but this time something deeper was hidden within in. ‘I won as I promised, but it is not entirely my victory, is it,
ma femme?'

‘Adieu,'
Héloïse said for a second time. ‘God go with you.'

‘Can you not give me something more, my dear? I think I have need of it.'

‘I can give you something of myself, ‘ she said. ‘Is that enough?'

‘It is enough,' he said, and bent to kiss her on the forehead before he was taken away.

Louis remembered afterwards that De Choissy shook off the hands that made to throw him down and gazed back at his wife. Then he allowed himself to be taken, and died without a sound.

The crowd were inflamed by de Choissy's obvious contempt, and they bayed like so many animals for more.

‘Give her peace,' Louis prayed.

Héloïse's feet slid on the steps and she stumbled. An assistant helped her. Anguish tore through him when he saw how her poor pinioned hands shook, and the weary gesture with which she straightened her shoulders once she had gained the platform.

There are so many of them
, Héloïse thought, the faces blurring before her dazzled eyes. But, as if in answer to Louis' prayer, the watchers nearest to her quietened, shamed into silence by her youth and beauty.

In the seconds Héloïse had left, she saw rows of houses and trees and the sky arching above. She felt the pain of her bound hands and the air prickling at her neck. Her stomach lurched with a terror that went as quickly as it came. A drum beat into the silence. She took one last deep breath. Her arms were seized. The wooden platform rose up to meet her and she smelt the acrid odour of blood. She shut her eyes, and the memory of Louis kissing her at Neuilly one wine-flushed night mingled achingly with the scent of roses – and vanished as the knife brought about the darkness that enfolded her for ever.