Voices in a Haunted Room (7 page)

“Months ago!” echoed my mother. “What did Jeanne say? Did you ask about Sophie—and Armand?”

Madame Lebrun looked at my mother sadly. “She said that Armand had died in the
château.
At least the mob had left him alone. I think she said that the young man who was with him recovered and went off somewhere.”

“And what of Sophie?”

“She was still at the
château
with Jeanne.”

“At the
château
! They didn’t destroy it then?”

“No, apparently not. They took the valuables and furniture and such. Jeanne said it was a shambles. But she had some chickens and there was a cow and they managed to live in a corner of the place. That was how it was then. People did not seem to bother them. Mademoiselle Sophie was an aristocrat, daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné, but she was almost a recluse… badly scarred. In any case they were living at the
château
unmolested. Jeanne was uneasy though. She kept lifting her eyes to the skies and murmuring: ‘How long!’ Perhaps even now the mood has changed. Now the King is dead, it will become worse, they say.”

“Poor Sophie,” said my mother.

The following day the Lebruns departed and, true to his word, Dickon went with them as their guide; naturally my mother went too.

After they had gone the whole mood of the house seemed to have changed. The Lebruns had brought into it a threat of what could happen to disrupt people’s comfortable lives. We had known, of course, what was going on over there, but this brought it home to us forcibly.

I soon discovered what was in Charlot’s mind.

It was naturally at the dinner table that we all gathered together and there the talk as usual turned to France and the plight of those refugees who were left behind.

The guillotine was claiming more and more of them every day. The Queen was in prison. Her turn would soon come.

“And our aunt is there,” said Charlot. “Poor Aunt Sophie! She was always so pathetic. Do you remember her, Claudine, in that hood she used to wear to cover one side of her face?”

I nodded.

“And Jeanne Fougère. She was a bit of a dragon. But what a treasure! What a good woman! She would not let us in very often to see Aunt Sophie.”

“She always liked you to go and see her though, Charlot,” said Louis Charles.

“Well, I do think she had a special fondness for me.”

It was true. Charlot had been a favourite of hers, if she could have been said to have favourites. It was a fact though that she had actually
asked
Charlot to visit her on one or two occasions.

“Those people who are helping aristocrats escape the guillotine are doing a wonderful job,” went on Charlot.

He looked at Louis Charles, who smiled at him in such a way that I knew they had discussed this together.

Jonathan was attentive too. He said: “Yes, it is a great adventure. My father went over there and brought Claudine’s mother out. It was a marvellous thing to do.”

Charlot agreed, though he had no great love for Dickon. “But,” he went on, “he just brought out my mother. Just one person because she was the only one he was interested in.”

I defended him hotly. “He risked his life.”

It was a good thing that Sabrina was not present; she would have grown hot in her defence of Dickon; she often did not come down to the evening meal when Dickon was away, but had something in her room. Yet if he was there she usually made the effort to join us.

“Oh yes, he did that,” said Charlot lightly. “But I think he enjoyed doing it.”

“We usually do well what we enjoy doing,” said David, “but that does not detract from the virtue of the act.”

The others ignored him.

Jonathan’s eyes were shining. They blazed with that intense blue light which I had thought I aroused in him. Obviously other matters than the pursuit of women could make it shine forth.

“It must be exciting,” he said, “rescuing people, snatching them from prison at the last moment, depriving that hideous guillotine of another victim.”

Charlot leaned across the table nodding and they started to talk about the escapes which the Lebruns had mentioned. They talked with great animation; they seemed to have created a bond between them from which David and I were excluded.

“What I would have done in those circumstances,” Jonathan was saying; and he went on to outline some adventurous stratagem. They looked boyish in their enthusiasm.

Jonathan explained in detail how my mother had been taken by the mob to the
mairie,
where she was kept while the people screamed outside for her to be brought out that they might hang her on the lanterne.

“And my father, disguised as a coachman, was in a carriage at the back of the
mairie.
He bribed the mayor to let her out and he drove the carriage right through the mob in the square. At any moment something could have gone wrong.”

“He never believed anything could go wrong,” I said.

There was silence at the table. They were all lost in admiration for Dickon. Even Charlot seemed to think he was rather splendid in that moment.

Then he said: “But he might have brought others out at the same time.”

“How could he?” I demanded. “It was difficult and dangerous enough to get my mother out.”

“People
are
being brought out. There are brave men and women who are giving their lives to this.
Mon Dieu,
how I wish I were there!”

“I too,” echoed Louis Charles.

And so they talked.

I continued to be concerned with my own problem. Jonathan or David? This time next year, I thought, I shall be eighteen. I shall have decided by then.

If only I did not like them both so much. Perhaps it was after all because they were twins—in a way like utterly opposite sides of one person.

I thought frivolously that when one was attracted by twins one should be allowed to marry them both.

When I was with David I thought a good deal about Jonathan. But when I was with Jonathan I must remember David.

The day after that conversation I went riding and I expected that Jonathan would come after me as he usually did. He knew what time I left.

I rode rather slowly to give him time to catch up, but he did not appear. I made my way to the top of a small incline where I could get a good view. There was no sign of him.

I finished my ride and went back considerably piqued. As I entered the house I heard voices in one of the small rooms which led from the hall and I peeped in.

Jonathan was there with Charlot and Louis Charles. They were deep in conversation.

I said: “Hello. I’ve been riding.”

They hardly seemed aware of me… even Jonathan.

I came away distinctly annoyed and went to my room.

That night at dinner the conversation took the usual trend: the events in France.

“There are other places in the world,” David reminded them.

“There are ancient Rome and ancient Greece,” said Jonathan rather contemptuously. “You’re so steeped in past history, brother, that you are losing sight of the history which is being made all around you.”

“I assure you,” retorted David, “that I am fully aware of the significance of what is happening in France at this time.”

“Well, isn’t that more important than Julius Caesar or Marco Polo?”

“You cannot see history clearly while it is happening,” said David slowly. “It is like looking at an oil painting. You have to stand back… some years. That particular painting isn’t finished yet.”

“You and your metaphors and similes! You’re only half alive. Let’s tell him, shall we, eh, Charlot, Louis Charles? Shall we tell him what we propose to do?”

Charlot nodded gravely.

“We are going to France,” said Jonathan. “We are going to bring out Aunt Sophie… among others…”

“You can’t!” I cried. “For one thing, Dickon would never allow it.”

“Do you know, little Claudine, I am no longer a child to be told do this… do that.” He was looking at me with a teasing indulgence. “I am a man… and I will do what I will.”

“That’s true,” agreed Charlot. “We are men… and we are going to do what we think fit, no matter who tries to stop us.”

“Our father will soon put a stop to those plans,” said David. “You know very well he would never give his consent to your going, Jonathan.”

“I don’t need his consent.”

Charlot smiled complacently at Louis Charles. “He has no jurisdiction over us.”

“He will prevent it, you’ll see,” said David.

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“Well,” I said practically, “how are you to set about this great adventure?”

“Never trouble your head,” replied Charlot. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh no,” I cried, “
I
am quite stupid… but not so stupid as some who indulge in wild fantasies. Remember the stories of Uncle Armand? How he made some plan to descend on the agitators? What happened to him? He was sent to the Bastille… and there a strong and healthy man was turned into a pitiable invalid. And… according to the Lebruns he is dead now. He never recovered from his incarceration in the Bastille.”

“He must have been careless. He made mistakes. We should not do that. This is a noble thing to do. I refuse to stand aside any longer while these things are happening to my people… my country.”

David said: “It is indeed a noble idea, but a great deal of careful planning is needed.”

“Of course it needs planning,” retorted Charlot. “But how can we plan until we get there… until we know what we shall find?”

I said: “I believe you are serious.”

“Never more so,” answered Charlot.

I looked at Louis Charles. He nodded. Of course he would go where Charlot went.

I forced myself to look at Jonathan, and I saw the blazing blue of his eyes, and I felt hurt and angry because that flame was there for a project which did not concern me… and he could so impulsively risk not only his own life but those of Charlot and Louis Charles.

“You would surely never go with them,” I said.

He smiled and nodded.

“But you are not French. It is not your problem.”

“It is the problem of all right-thinking people,” said Charlot a little sententiously.

He was motivated by love of his country; but it was different with Jonathan, and he had wounded me deeply. He had shown me clearly that I was only of secondary importance to him.

He wanted this adventure more than he wanted me.

All the next day Jonathan was absent and Charlot and Louis Charles with him. They returned in the evening and did not say where they had been; but there was a certain smug satisfaction about them. The next day they went out riding again and did not return until late.

I talked to David about them and he expressed some anxiety as to what they were planning.

“It must be all talk,” I said. “They could not possibly go to France.”

“Why couldn’t they? Charlot is a zealot and Louis Charles would always go along with him. Jonathan…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Jonathan has often made wild plans and I can assure you that many of them never materialized. He likes to imagine himself on a magnificent charger riding into danger and riding out again victorious. He has always been like that.”

“He is very like his father.”

“My father would never have quixotic ideas about rescuing strangers. He always said the French brought the revolution on themselves by their own folly—and now must pay the price for it.”

“But he went over there magnificently and came out victorious.”

“He would always have a purpose. He went solely to bring out your mother. He would plan coolly and efficiently. These three appear to be allowing their emotions to get the better of their common sense.”

“That is something you never do, David.”

“Not willingly,” he agreed.

“What are we going to do about them? I feel they are reckless enough to attempt anything.”

“My father will soon be home. He will deal with it.”

“I wish they would return.”

David took my hand and pressed it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There is so much going on. We are almost at war with the French. They wouldn’t find it very easy to get over there in the first place. They would find the obstacles… insurmountable.”

“I hope you are right,” I said.

I was greatly relieved when the next day Dickon and my mother returned home.

“All is well,” said my mother. “We have delivered the Lebruns to their friends. It was a happy reunion. They will find the refuge they need, but it is going to take them some time to recover from their terrible experiences.”

The storm broke at dinner.

We were all seated round the table when Charlot said almost nonchalantly: “We have decided to go to France.”

“You couldn’t possibly do that,” said my mother.

“Couldn’t? That’s a word I don’t accept.”

“Your acceptance of the English language is immaterial,” put in Dickon. “I know you have an imperfect understanding of it, but when Lottie says that you could not possibly go to France, she means that you could not be so foolish as to attempt to do so.”

“Others have done it,” Charlot pointed out.

He looked defiantly at Dickon, who retorted: “She means it is impossible for you.”

“Do you imply that you are some superhuman being who can do what others can’t?”

“You may have a point there,” said Dickon aggravatingly. “I’ll have a little more of that roast beef. They do it well in the kitchen.”

“Nevertheless,” said Charlot, “I am going to France.”

“And I,” put in Jonathan, “am going with him.”

For a moment father and son stared steadily at each other. I was not sure of the look which passed between them. There was a certain glitter in Dickon’s eyes, something which made me think, fleetingly, that he was not altogether surprised. But perhaps I thought of that after.

Then Dickon spoke. He said: “You’re mad.”

“No,” said Jonathan. “Determined.”

Dickon went on: “I see. So it is a plan. Who is going to join this company of fools? What about you, David?”

“Certainly not,” said David. “I have told them what I think of the idea.”

Dickon nodded. “It is a pleasant surprise to find that a little sanity remains in the family.”