Paris: The Novel (124 page)

And perhaps a transition to limited monarchy or to a republic might have been possible. But it seemed to him now that none of the parties in France were ready. Perhaps Europe itself wasn’t ready.

So they had stayed, and endured five years of increasing misery. Five years of confusion, failed governments, intrigues, invasion from the angry monarchs of Europe, the king and queen executed, even risings in parts of rural France itself. And now, driven by fear of all these enemies, within and outside France, the Convention had approved a fearful purge, the witch hunt of the Terror.

It was the most radical of the Jacobins who had conceived it. Robespierre, their guiding spirit. They had vowed to destroy one category of people. But it had turned out to be a large category.

Enemies of the Revolution. They were all sorts of folk. Aristocrats were suspect first, of course. Their servants, too. Tradesmen. Peasants. Conscientious Catholics. Members of the liberal Girondin faction, who had opposed the radical Jacobins in the Convention. Even other Jacobins, who’d fallen out with Robespierre and his clique.

No one was safe. Anyone might be accused. And if the Tribunal judged that they were guilty, then execution followed rapidly, by the guillotine.

Month after month, using several guillotines in different parts of the city, the huge bloodletting had continued. Nor were there any signs that it would cease. It seemed that Robespierre and his friends were determined to purge France of every enemy and every error.

So what chance had a well-meaning young aristocrat who had believed in justice, and kindness, and compromise? Probably none.

Could they, even then, have escaped? Virtually impossible. All the ports were watched. To be caught in the attempt would mean instant execution.

By the previous autumn, Étienne and Sophie had been expecting to be thrown in jail on any day. And perhaps that would have happened, if
it hadn’t been for the help of a wise friend who had shown them how to survive.

How innocent they were, even about that. For whatever its horrors, Étienne had still assumed, somehow, that the new republic would be different from the governments of the old regime that had gone before.

But Dr. Blanchard had known better. He’d shown them how to save their lives.

He was a sturdy, kindly figure. If Blanchard was successful, it was not only that he was a good doctor, but that his patients trusted him. They felt safe in his care. He’d been the family’s physician for a decade now, and had become a trusted counselor and friend.

“You need a protector,” he’d explained. “And I have the perfect man for you.” He’d smiled. “He’s a patient of mine too, and I know him quite well. Would you like me to arrange something?”

Danton, the giant. Danton the Jacobin. Danton the hero of the
sans-culottes
in the streets. Danton, whose stentorian voice carried all before it in the Convention. Danton, who set up the Committee of Public Safety.

“You mean he’d help us?” Étienne asked in astonishment.

“Yes. Probably. For a price.”

“Danton the Jacobin takes bribes?”

“His loyalty to the Revolution is total, I assure you,” Blanchard continued. “But he has huge appetites. And no self-discipline.” He grinned. “The poor fellow’s always in debt.”

“How do we go about this?” Étienne asked.

“I’ll tell him you’re a good fellow. No threat to anyone. You’re not planning to threaten anyone, are you?”

“Heavens, no.”

“He’ll give you protection. He’ll put out the word you’re not to be touched, and that should do the trick. Then you give him a present. Make it a good one. I’ll guide you, if you like.”

“I wish you would.”

So Danton had received his money, and all through the previous autumn and winter, Étienne and Sophie de Cygne had received no harm.

Then, in March, came the blow.

The fall of the mighty Danton had been sudden and spectacular. He’d fallen out with Robespierre. Suddenly, he was accused of being an enemy
of the Revolution. It was asserted that his management of the finances was chaotic and that he had taken bribes—both probably true. He was a popular man and he defended himself, but Robespierre had outmaneuvered him. And to Étienne’s horror, Blanchard had arrived at his house to warn him.

“They are taking Danton to the guillotine. You have lost your protection.”

“What can we do?”

“Stay out of sight. They may not even remember you. Above all, stay away from anyone who could get you into trouble. Remember, they’re looking for conspiracies.”

Since then, Étienne and Sophie had lived almost like hermits. They stayed mostly indoors. They had liked to go discreetly to Father Pierre’s little chapel of Saint-Gilles, but they stopped doing even that. Apart from the housekeeper and a few old retainers in the house, who’d known them all their lives, they saw no one. To all intents and purposes, for the last four months, Étienne and Sophie de Cygne had disappeared.

They came to a crossroads. They had been meaning to go straight on, but a small crowd had gathered outside a house ahead of them. It looked as if someone was being denounced. They turned off down another street. It was only when they had gone a dozen yards that they realized this route would take them past old Father Pierre’s little chapel to Saint-Gilles.

All the same, they hadn’t expected to find the old priest at the chapel door. Seeing them, he insisted that they step inside. With a quick glance up and down the street, they followed him in. It would have been discourteous and unkind not to do so.

The widow Le Sourd watched. She had only just come to the end of the little street. When the young couple glanced furtively back, she did not think they had noticed her.

A priest. It might mean nothing. Or it might be a conspiracy. She turned to Claudie.

“Go into that chapel down there. Pretend to pray. See if you can hear what the priest and those people are saying. Can you do that?”

Claudie nodded. Claudie was good at doing things like that.

Father Pierre was so glad to see the two de Cygnes. He had wondered what had happened to them. Of all the loyal Catholics who came to his little chapel, these two were his favorites.

He had gone to their house a couple of months ago, and the housekeeper had told him that they were away in the country.

“I am so delighted to see you,” he cried. “But what terrible events are happening all around us. Have you heard about the Carmelites today?”

They hadn’t. And he was just about to inform them when a skinny young girl with a limp came in. Moving to a bench only feet away, she sat down, and seemed about to pray.

Father Pierre looked at her. No doubt she was harmless, but in the awful world in which they were living now, one had to be careful. He moved to her side.

“Are you all right, my child?”

“Yes, Father. I was passing, and I came in here to pray.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “It is a house of God. Do you pray often?”

“Each day. I pray that my leg may get better.”

“And what caused you to come into this chapel?”

“I cannot say.”

“Did you know that this chapel was dedicated to Saint-Gilles?” As she looked uncertain, he continued. “Saint-Gilles, my child, is the patron saint of cripples. You have chosen well to pray here.”

He turned back to the de Cygnes, and they moved a few feet away.

“Did you hear?” he murmured to them. “The child was passing, and did not know that this is the chapel of Saint-Gilles, nor that he is the patron saint of cripples. Voilà. Even in such times as these, the providence of God is manifested. Perhaps the saint himself summoned this child to his church.” But now he turned to the matter in hand. “Oh, my dears,” Father Pierre began, “what terrible news I must share with you.”

Claudie listened carefully. The priest was very upset. Sixteen women from a Carmelite religious house had just been executed today, near the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. They had refused to obey the Clergy Law. They had declared that they would sooner be martyred for the faith.

“They went to the guillotine chanting,” the old priest declared. “They were martyred every one.”

“Martyrs indeed,” said the man, and the young lady agreed with him. And they both said it was a disgrace, and that it should not have been done.

Then they asked the priest to come home with them for a little while. The lady said the old man needed a hot drink. “Laced with brandy,” said the young man.

Claudie went back to where her mother was waiting, and told her exactly what she had heard.

“Follow them, Claudie,” said her mother. “I’ll keep a little way behind you. Let’s find out where they live.”

Following them was easy. The old priest couldn’t walk very fast. The place they went into was a mansion with a courtyard in front of it, in the Saint-Germain quarter. A regular aristocrat’s palace, her mother said.

After that, it had taken only a few inquiries along the street to discover who lived in the mansion. A tavern keeper said that the family owned a château in the Loire Valley, down in the west.

“That is interesting,” her mother said. “You go home now,” she told Claudie. “I’ll be back later.”