by Galen, Shana
“This is madness!” she cried as the crowd surged, and she was crushed to him. “They will never take this fortress.”
But Hugh was not so certain. The royal army had stood by when the people had attacked the Hôtel des Invalides. What was to compel them to act now? Moreover, as Hugh understood it, the Bastille was manned by former soldiers who were too old or infirm to carry out the duties in the regular army. How long could they stand if faced with a lengthy siege? Yes, there were Swiss grenadiers inside, but what good were thirty or so against a thousand?
More musket fire erupted from the Bastille, and the vainqueurs de la Bastille, as the people were calling themselves, retreated, pushing Hugh and Angelette back as well. For a moment, they were separated from the militia, and Hugh looked for a place to take cover and stay hidden. But just as he slid along the wall of the Bastille, a hand grabbed his shoulder and two of the boys from the militia shoved him forward.
“This way, aristo!”
“They’ll kill us,” Angelette said as once again they were pushed by the flood of vainqueurs over the fallen drawbridge and into the courtyard.
“They’re too busy taking the fortress to worry about the nobility today,” he answered. Still, he would rather not test that premise.
Finally, Hugh and Angelette stumbled into the courtyard, where they were jostled toward a makeshift barricade of carts and barrels. Hugh pulled Angelette down, keeping his head low while a barrage of pistol balls flew overhead.
“Watch them!” the boy heading the citizens’ militia told two of his men, and he moved into the smoke and chaos to seek out his leader.
The two boys stood guard over Angelette and Hugh, occasionally ducking down when another volley of fire opened. It seemed an eternity that Hugh sat in the shadow of a cart while the battle raged around him. The hot sun beat down, the heat made worse by the stifling smoke from the fires and the cannons. The mobs threw rocks and fired their weapons, making attempts to storm the gates to the inner courtyard. The attackers had several cannons, but as Hugh watched, two more cannons were rolled into the courtyard, manned by men who were clearly French army troops who had changed sides.
The cannons were heavy, and the men struggled to move them forward, but it was obvious that they would eventually succeed. “That’s the fall of the Bastille right there,” Hugh told Angelette. She looked up from where her forehead rested on his chest, then burrowed into him again.
“These are the aristos, sir.”
Hugh looked up to see the youth had returned with a man in uniform. Despite obviously having been among the vainqueurs, his coat was still clean and stiff, his trousers unsoiled, and his hat neatly on his head. He wore the same red, blue, and white fabric pinned to his coat, but he appeared further up the ranks as he wore boots and had not only a sword but a pistol tucked in his belt.
The citizens’ militia leader had clear blue eyes, a straight nose, and thin lips. Hugh thought his hair might be light brown or blond, but it was difficult to tell. He was of medium height and build, nothing out of the ordinary, but when he looked at Hugh, Hugh straightened.
“You’ve done well, citizen,” the leader told the boy. “These aristos might have foiled our plans today.”
Angelette looked up. “Foiled your plans? We wanted nothing more than to hire a coach to take us away from this place. We wanted nothing to do with the Bastille or—”
“Silence, woman!” the leader bellowed. “I know a lie when I hear one. Stand up.” He motioned to Hugh, and Hugh stood, pulling Angelette up with him. “I’ll take these two with me to the Hôtel de Ville to stand trial.” He withdrew his pistol and gestured to Hugh to move forward. “You stay and fight. Today your names will be recorded along with the others as the heroes of Paris, vainqueurs de la Bastille and of tyranny!”
“Death to tyranny!” the boys from the militia called, and their cries were answered by others around them.
The leader pushed Hugh forward, and the three fought their way back through the crowds still swarming into the courtyard. Hugh leaned down to speak close to Angelette’s ear. “As soon as we are away from these crowds, we run.”
“He has a pistol,” she muttered back.
“By the time he primes it, we can be out of range. Trust me. We run.” Besides, he preferred a shot in the back to a sham trial at the Hôtel de Ville. They pushed their way through the people swarming to the Bastille, finally pausing at the far wall of the fortress. The crowds were thinner there, and the wall blocked the view of anyone passing by.
“Halt,” the captor ordered.
“Bloody hell. Now what?” Hugh muttered. They were so close to being in the open where they could run. He stopped, keeping Angelette tucked into his side.
“Turn around,” the solider said.
Quite suddenly Hugh was not at all certain this man had ever intended for them to reach the Hôtel de Ville. What was to stop him from shooting them here on the street? Hugh turned, pushing Angelette behind him. The man standing behind him held no pistol. He’d tucked it away and removed his hat.
With a lopsided smile, he gave them an exaggerated bow. “Well, sink me. I thought we’d never escape all that smoke and noise.”
Ten
Angelette stared at the man smiling before them. He was handsome, his features aristocratic and his clothing far too fine to have been issued by the military. And he spoke in English.
“Well, don’t just stand there and gape at me all fish-faced,” he drawled. “Let’s go find someplace civilized.”
“You’re English?” Hugh said.
The man smiled. “And so are you, I see. Good. That makes everything much easier. I won’t have to bribe some French officials to give you papers.”
“Papers?” Angelette said.
“Yes, to leave France, my lady. I’m afraid it’s rather inhospitable to our kind at the moment. Shall we walk?” He gestured to the south.
“We are staying with friends this way,” Hugh said.
“Then by all means, lead the way.”
They walked for a few minutes and when they were back on a quiet and all-but-deserted street, the man stopped again. “Forgive me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Sir Percy Blakeney.” He bowed again.
“Hugh, Viscount Daventry, and this is the Comtesse d’Avignon.”
Blakeney took Angelette’s hand and kissed it. “I’m charmed. Shall we?” He indicated the boulevard, and they walked on. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is it you ran afoul of those wayward youths?”
“My friends, the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Merville, wanted to leave Paris this morning, but the coaches they ordered never came,” Angelette said. “Lord Daventry and I set out for the Palais-Royal to see if we could discover what had become of the vehicles, but we were intercepted.”
“I see. We shall have you back on your way soon enough.”
Angelette glanced at Hugh. This was all too strange and too impossible. “But we are in your debt, sir. How is it you came to be at the Bastille?”
“I heard all the shouting and firing this morning and thought I would pop in to see what the commotion was about.”
“Pop in?” Hugh drawled. “Dressed as a soldier?”
“One does like to blend in.”
“Of course,” Hugh said wryly. “And does one also like to rescue aristos in jeopardy?”
“I haven’t made a habit of it,” Sir Percy admitted, “but I suppose it’s as good a hobby as any other. There’s an actress here I’m rather fond of, but one does need something to occupy one’s time when she is not on stage.”
“Are you not worried you will be arrested?”
“Lud, no. These Frenchies have enough trouble without angering the British government.”
“The boys who took me into custody today didn’t seem concerned about the British government.”
Sir Percy shrugged. “I suppose you are correct, but I’ll have to take my chances. The actress, you know.” He sighed rather dramatically.
; They walked on, listening to Sir Percy go on about his actress, a Marguerite St. Just, and bemoan the lack of tea and decent tobacco in Paris. Hugh agreed on the tea, while Angelette kept her own counsel. She was still trembling, her ears ringing from the boom of the cannons. She might have died today. A stray pistol ball, an angry vainqueur, a real militia leader who had decided it was more expedient to shoot her rather than take her into custody.
She should have been more eager than ever before to leave Paris, but she couldn’t help looking at the shuttered windows of the Rue Saint-Honoré and wondering who would be next. And who would save those men, women, and children?
They reached number thirty-three, and though Sir Percy would have left them, she begged him to stay and at least take some refreshment. Hugh assured him the de Mervilles had tea, and the matter was decided.
After a reunion with the distraught de Mervilles, who thought the worst—and rightfully so—when Hugh and Angelette had not returned, the small party sat down to take refreshment, while outside the boom of the cannons started again.
“That will be the two cannons the vainqueurs brought in,” Hugh said. “It won’t be long now.”
“What will the king do?” the vicomtesse asked.
“I imagine he’ll go hunting.” Sir Percy had removed his gloves to sip his tea, and she noted his gold ring had been carved with a small flower. It reminded her of a necklace she had, but which had now been lost to the fire in her château. Her mother had given it to her, and it was made of small gold plates with carved roses on them, supposed to depict the white and red roses that symbolized the houses of Plantagenet and Lancaster.
“Is that a rose on your ring, Sir Percy?” she asked.
He glanced down at it. “Lud, no. It is a pimpernel, nothing more than a humble wayside flower.”
“And why do you wear it?”
“It grows in abundance near my estate, and I’m rather partial to it. Bright red when it blooms, you see, and I’ve always been partial to scarlet.”
The man was altogether rather silly. Or, perhaps, like the military uniform, that was an act. But he had managed to save her. And he had said he might as well do something between visits to the theater. Perhaps he could make certain the de Mervilles left Paris safely. Perhaps he might help her brother-in-law escape as well.
Angelette suddenly lowered her cup of coffee. The saucer rattled so that everyone in the room turned to look at her. Her hand trembled, but she dared not lift the cup and saucer to set it on the table. She feared she would dump the contents on her skirts. She swallowed. “Sir Percy, when you first met us, you mentioned the trouble with acquiring documents. Have you done that before? My friends”—she gestured to the de Mervilles—“will need passports in Calais.”
He shrugged. “Easily done, madame. I have a friend who is quite good with reproductions.”
A polite way of saying he knew a forger, she thought.
“And you say you have helped others escape the country?”
“A few here and there. Innocent men and women who found themselves in prison for no apparent reason.”
“You broke into a prison?” Hugh sputtered.
“Sink me! I would hardly characterize it that way. I merely walked in one way and walked out another. It’s not as if the jailors were paying attention, and for the price of a few sous, they can be easily distracted.”
Angelette nodded, but Hugh was already shaking his head. “I can see what you’re thinking, and it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Someone has to help, why not me? Why not us?” She gestured, encompassing all of them. “The situation here will only grow worse. I have funds as well as jewels safe with my solicitor and Sir Percy obviously has a knack for extricating people from difficult situations.”
“Even after all you saw today, you won’t think of leaving for London?” Hugh asked.
Angelette swallowed. “I can’t run away when people need me. Once the Bastille falls, the so-called bourgeois militia will seek other targets of tyranny.”
“Exactly why you should be far away in London.”
“But that’s just what will keep me shielded. I’m half English. I can claim English citizenship. The peasants want to punish French nobility.”
Hugh stood. “Are you forgetting you were married to a French nobleman and carry that title?”
“No, but I don’t have to use it. Sir Percy could acquire papers for me.”
“I could—”
“Stay out of this.” Hugh pointed to Blakeney before rising and crossing to her. “Angelette, you must see now that it’s too dangerous to stay.”
“I have to agree,” Sir Percy said, rising. “If the king does not act after the fall of the Bastille, even I may be forced to return to England for a few weeks. In the meantime, allow me to arrange coaches for you. I will return in the morning to see you off.”
Angelette rose as well. “Thank you, Sir Percy.”
He took her hand and bent to kiss it, but his gaze remained fixed on hers. “I am at your service, madame.”
Angelette nodded. She understood him perfectly.
ANGELETTE SAT WITH Hugh and her friends in the de Mervilles’ shuttered drawing room listening to the sounds of cannon fire. The Vicomtesse de Merville finally had to lie down. She shook so with nerves each time the cannons fired.
But Angelette found the silence that descended sometime between half past five and six even worse than the sound of the cannons. Was the siege over? Who had won? An hour passed or maybe more. The chef came to ask when they would like to eat, but no one had any appetite. Finally, Daventry could sit no longer. He went to the shuttered window overlooking the street and pulled it open. The vicomte soon joined him, both men staring out at the deserted street, looking for answers that were not there.
“I will walk down toward the Bastille and see what we discover,” Hugh said.
“Monsieur, I beg you not to.” The vicomte wrung his hands. “It is too dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful.” He started for the door, then gave Angelette a hard look. “Stay here and don’t open the door for anyone but me.” He walked out of the drawing room and she followed. At the landing for the stairs, she grasped his coat.
“Be careful.”
He smiled down at her. “So you are worried about me.”
“I’m terrified for all of us.”
He cupped her chin with his hand. “No one would ever know it by looking at you. You look as cool as one of Gunter’s ices.”
She swallowed. “I’m not made of ice, though. And I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’ll be back.” He bent and kissed her softly. “That’s a promise. Lock the door behind me.” Then he released her and was gone.
She locked the door and returned to the drawing room where the vicomte pressed a glass of wine into her hand. “Drink this. I think we both need one.”
She drank and paced and drank and paced. She went all too frequently to the window to look out, but the few people on the street were not familiar to her. She was walking away from the window and checking the time on the bracket clock once again when the door burst open and a servant entered.
“Forgive me, Monsieur le Vicomte.”
“What is it, Pierre? You have heard news?” Her host set his wine on a table. Angelette sank into the closest chair. Her knees were weak with worry for Hugh and fear for the city and the people of Paris.
“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. The Bastille. It has fallen.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“Are there any casualties?” Angelette asked.
The servant turned and bowed to her. “I do not know, Madame la Comtesse. I think there must be some.” He looked back at his master. “Shall I go find out, Monsieur le Vicomte?”
“No. Stay here. Stay inside and be safe. We will all stay inside tonight.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte.” He bowed and was gone.
“I cannot believe the Bastille has fallen,” de Merville said, sit
ting and running a hand through his fine hair. “How can this have happened?”
Angelette went to sit beside him. “You did not see the people. There were a thousand or more, and when we escaped they were bringing in cannons. I do not see how the invalides could have held out without the support of the army.”
“The army.” De Merville shook his head. “They are worth nothing.” Suddenly, his head shot up, and he looked at Angelette, then at the window.
“What is it?” she asked, but then she heard too. It was a distant roar that grew louder by the second. The sound of a great crowd coming nearer.
Without a word, the two rose and went to the window. They peered out and at first saw nothing but the deserted street. Then a few men carrying flags and crude weapons ran by, quickly followed by more. The crowd was not angry, though. They were singing, rejoicing. Many of them danced in the streets, their limbs covered with soot from fires or gunpowder, some with blood on their clothing.
“Look away,” the vicomte ordered. “Angelette, turn away!”
She’d never heard him speak so, and she quickly turned her back to the window. “What is it?” she asked.
“It is too horrible. The peasants have killed the governor of the Bastille and are—no, it is too awful.”
Angelette reached for a chair. When her hand did not land on one, she sank to the floor. De Merville pulled the shutters closed, blocking out the noise of the victors and the last of the fading summer sunlight. Night would be on them soon and with it all the horrors of the dark.