The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘I was going to come for you,’ I say. ‘To put you safe.’

  I feel myself tunnelling back to a dark place I thought I had forgotten. Anger rescues me. A great black whirling fury.

  There’s a noise at my ear. It’s Jemmy. He’s been saying something to me. I look at him, feeling strangely underwater.

  ‘Attica,’ says Jemmy. ‘Attica.’

  Thoughts are overwhelming me. The terrible truth is I kill people. Everyone I love dies.

  ‘Keep yourself together,’ Jemmy says urgently. ‘This is deliberate. Someone wanted you to find her.’

  It’s then we hear a voice, thin and high, from the entrance. Candle-flame swells the room.

  ‘You didn’t heed my warning, Mademoiselle Morgan.’

  I swallow, cold blood rushing to my head.

  Something about the voice passes a wave of fear through me that is almost primal. Though I’m sure I’ve never met its owner.

  A slight man steps calmly into view. He is fastidiously dressed in a snowy cravat, spotless black waistcoat, white-powdered wig and tiny round glasses.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he adds with exaggerated courtesy. ‘You are English aristocracy, of course, and are wedded to the old manners of introduction.’ He bends low, then raises his head.

  ‘My name is Maximilien Robespierre.’

  CHAPTER 67

  AT THE HÔPITAL DES INVALIDES, OLIVER JANSSEN IS carrying out his orders. As usual, the Society of Friends laid its plans seamlessly. Three letters was all it had taken to see the musketeer placed in command of a few thousand old soldier-pensioners whom no one cared very much about.

  As Janssen understands it, a dangerous rebel faction is headed to take the weapons, a splinter group who mean to spread chaos and murder. His instructions are to put them down – a simple task for a King’s soldier.

  Janssen pictures the attackers: an ill-conceived, half-formed thing with no weaponry and no plan, hoping to lay hold of the secret arsenal.

  They come to raid muskets and gunpowder. But thanks to judicious communication with the Bastille governor, all two hundred and fifty barrels of explosives were delivered safely to the infamous prison last night.

  That still left some forty thousand muskets. But six hours ago Janssen set the elderly soldiers to work, dismantling guns. By the time the mob arrived, there would not be a single functioning weapon. When they cross the gate, Janssen will order the soldiers to turn cannons on the marauders. The threat to France will be obliterated.

  Janssen can see, in the middle distance, a crowd of rebels. There are more than he might have imagined. Perhaps a thousand.

  Something occurs to Janssen, just faintly. That if Robespierre had told him false – if these were innocent Frenchmen – there would be no recourse, nothing to link the strange little lawyer to Janssen at all.

  There is a roar from the street. The approaching mob is calling for liberty and justice.

  Janssen moves all doubts of Robespierre aside. The cannons are prepared, the guns will now be in pieces. It is all happening as the lawyer said. He is ready to dispatch the traitors.

  CHAPTER 68

  ROBESPIERRE WALKS QUIETLY THROUGH THE DOORWAY, his neat clothing at odds with the dank prison cell. There’s no silk, no lace to his attire, but his clothes are as immaculate as a Marquis’s new suit.

  I’m still watching Angelina’s face, as though by some trick, she’ll come back to life.

  He stands for a moment, taking us both in, then he bobs a strange little lawyer’s bow. ‘Good day to you, Mademoiselle Morgan.’

  He looks around the room, selects a hard wooden chair and seats himself. He crosses his legs rather awkwardly, as though trying to appear relaxed.

  ‘You were something of a mystery to me,’ he says. ‘I have been wondering about your sudden appearance in Paris.’

  I couldn’t reply if I wanted to. I can’t tear my eyes from the girl I loved.

  Robespierre follows my gaze.

  ‘Angelina Mazarin,’ says Robespierre, his pale eyes settling on the lifeless face. ‘Paris’s famous courtesan. A traitor to France.’

  He rises and crosses to where she lies, seeming fascinated by the corpse. ‘A woman who prostituted herself for gold and jewels whilst mothers had no milk to feed their starving babes.’

  Robespierre bends over and touches Angelina’s tiny pointed chin. Her mouth falls open and Robespierre quickly retracts his hand. He steps away and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief, with the air of a boy who has failed to complete a dare.

  Rage is burning in me, a dark, ragged thing.

  ‘Regrettably, she chose the wrong side,’ says Robespierre.

  He lets his gaze settle on me.

  ‘I have been hoping to meet you for some time. I assume,’ he concludes, taking in my height, ‘you are the product of a ... disgraceful liaison? The ravishment of a slave girl?’

  He is so keen to lay the mystery of my origins to rest I almost feel sorry for him. His gaze is roving my black curling hair and broad mouth, the incongruously light green-grey eyes and slightly turned-up nose.

  ‘The daughter of an English nobleman raised on a grand estate.’ He lifts pale fingers and taps them against his thin lips. ‘Yet you were born a slave. Are still legal property in America. People like you can be very dangerous. You present a grey area when there should be none.’

  Robespierre uses his palms to make a perfect rectangle and I have a sudden flash of a man terrified by disorder, a man who must have things neat and clear.

  ‘My father met my mother in Africa,’ I say. ‘She was fighting the English, successfully by all accounts. They fell in love and my father persuaded her to negotiate peace, but the slavers betrayed him and captured her.’ I give him a slight smile. ‘They gave my father her knife, so he would believe my mother dead, and he never forgave himself. She gave birth to me in captivity and later died so I might escape.’

  Robespierre’s eyes flick up to mine, mildly shocked.

  ‘You must not weigh yourself down with thoughts such as these,’ he remarks. ‘I myself am an orphan. Things were done to me one does not speak of.’ He shrugs his small shoulders. ‘C’est la vie.’

  He runs a pale finger across his lips.

  ‘I have been following the movements of an English spy.’ There’s a distant look in his eyes, a faint awe. ‘The Pimpernel, is that how you say it in English? A deadly flower. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that person?’

  I look him right in the eye.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, ‘you’re looking at her.’

  CHAPTER 69

  GRACE HAS HAD AMPLE TIME TO REPENT OF HER RASHNESS. But it is only now, when approaching the famous prison, that her courage begins to desert her.

  She can hardly believe the scale of what she sees. Of course she knew the Bastille was large. She’s seen it, looming in the distance, the entire time she’s been in Paris. From her vantage point on the ground, she cannot see the top. It’s like a giant’s castle, its ramparts hidden in the clouds.

  The size is such that a small town has sprung up around it, purely, Grace assumes, to cater to its inhabitants.

  They roll through this makeshift assortment of stalls and market-traders, until the carriage comes to a stop.

  Ahead of them is what appears to be a cliff edge. Grace sees a sheer drop as far as the eye can see. It’s a dry moat, swampy at the depths.

  ‘Lower the drawbridge!’ the driver shouts.

  In answer a booming shrieking sound echoes out. A slab of wood, broad as a house, tall as a tree, peels away from the stone walls and falls towards them.

  It’s only a drawbridge, thinks Grace. But she grips the hard seat as it thuds down, throwing up a cloud of loose earth. The carriage starts up. It takes a long time to cross the abyss.

  There are, in fact, two drawbridges, Grace notices. Both join in the middle at a stone bridge. Once she has crossed the first it rises behind her, sealing the escape. Then she is over the second and into th
e fortress itself.

  Darkness envelops them and she hears the final drawbridge raised behind them. With every crank, Grace feels her freedom slipping further away.

  The only way back into the world now is if Grace can convince someone to set her free.

  To her confusion, she sees that they are not yet inside an actual building. The carriage has come to a halt in a courtyard, stone-walled, with a section of shaded roof running along the edge. Barrels and sacks of what she imagines to be food are stacked untidily, bales of firewood lean against one another. A large half-butt filled with indeterminate liquid rests on iron legs.

  There are guards, a great many of them, dressed in Swiss uniform. Foreign troops. They stand in a line, but as the carriage arrives they swivel and turn, so as not to watch her entry.

  The driver opens the door and beckons Grace out.

  ‘Why do they look away?’ she asks, mesmerized by the strange view of twenty male backs.

  The driver looks at her pityingly.

  ‘This is the Bastille,’ he says. ‘The gate guards are not permitted to know who the King imprisons.’

  Realization is dawning on Grace. Her mouth is dry.

  ‘So the King might lock away anyone,’ she says, ‘and no one would ever know?’

  ‘Prisoners are anonymous,’ agrees the man.

  ‘Might I speak with the prison governor?’ Grace tries to stand tall.

  The driver only laughs.

  Grace is passed to a blindfolded man. It reminds her of a game she played back in England, blind man’s bluff, only nobody is laughing.

  A sickly dread is taking hold of her.

  The blindfolded guard grasps her arm and walks her with deliberate care to a large wooden door. The vehicle and its driver begin to turn. One of the horses lifts its tail and soft balls of steaming manure drop on the flagstone floor, worn smooth from centuries of use. No one moves to sweep it away.

  An outsized key is produced and fitted into an enormous lock. Every proportion is monstrous, hulking. Grace stands childlike against the massive scale.

  She hears the door shut, the mighty lock turn. Now nothing of the outside world can be heard. All she can hear is the click of tumblers, a clang of closings. A damp smell coils around her. She feels suddenly, achingly alone. Her body rings with it.

  A man in guard’s uniform steps forward and gestures impatiently and Grace is handed forth.

  The door shuts. The man peers at Grace, frowns again then says finally, ‘This one doesn’t have a letter.’

  He looks her up and down.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name is Grace,’ she says quickly. ‘There has been a mistake—’

  ‘English?’ interrupts the guard.

  She nods.

  He considers. ‘Put her in the Compte Tower,’ he says. ‘We’ll think on it later.’

  They pull her inside.

  Grace hears a voice echoing along the wide corridor. The accent is aristocratic and French. She struggles to translate and then when the words become apparent, Grace wishes she hadn’t.

  ‘They’re killing the prisoners!’ a man is shouting. ‘They’re killing the prisoners!’

  ‘That’s the Marquis de Sade again,’ one of the guards says, sounding annoyed.

  He looks at Grace again and comes to a conclusion.

  ‘Time he kept quiet,’ says the guard. ‘Put the girl in his cell.’

  Horrible fear hits the pit of Grace’s stomach. She has heard of the Marquis de Sade. Everyone has. He is an aristocrat who believes in complete freedom for those of noble birth. Specifically he believes in freedom to rape and murder – at the same time, if he feels the situation demands it.

  ‘Wait,’ says Grace, but the guard is pulling her along.

  The voice comes again, reedy and strange.

  ‘They’re killing the prisoners!’

  Little does Grace know that the cry is to be taken up by the district around the Bastille. It becomes a whisper and then a shout in the heady streets of Paris. People will later say that those four words started the revolution.

  CHAPTER 70

  IN THE HÔTEL DE VILLE’S OLD BANK VAULT, I SIT MOTIONLESS, waiting for Robespierre’s response to my confession that I am his mysterious Pimpernel.

  There’s a long pause. His pale eyes flicker uncertainty. Robespierre relaxes his features with effort.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘a little joke, because of my views on the equality of the sexes.’ His face darkens. ‘I know you are working for the Pimpernel. Maybe you even imagine yourself in love.’ He waves his little hand, painting a picture. ‘This Mouron is perhaps handsome, charming.’

  I sense Jemmy trying to catch my eye and refuse to meet it.

  ‘You sound half in love with him yourself,’ I say.

  ‘I have an ... admiration for his work,’ says Robespierre. ‘Whoever this Mouron is, I must warn you, your own government has retracted any support for this villain. I have it here in writing.’

  He reaches into his coat and extracts a piece of paper. I see, with a lurch to my stomach, it has my codename on it. It’s from Atherton. I am overtaken by an animal urge to snatch it back.

  I have only scattered memories of the plantation. But the terror of my name on a document has never quite left me.

  ‘Perhaps you think helping a spy makes you of value to important men in England,’ says Robespierre. ‘I am afraid that is not so. I have it here. Monsieur Atherton – is that how you say it? He regards this Mouron as entirely expendable. Funds for his extraction from France have been reassigned.’

  A sense of hot betrayal flushes through me. Most likely Atherton knew his correspondence was being intercepted. This letter is false. But cold fingers of doubt are tightening their grip.

  ‘Has Mouron promised to find your errant cousin?’ suggests Robespierre. ‘But he hasn’t told you that Grace Elliott will, by now, be deep within the Bastille prison. I fear the cause is hopeless.’

  Robespierre studies my face then lifts a finger. ‘Perhaps we could help each other. I am in want of a clever woman,’ he says, ‘to report on the French aristocracy. Someone who can get into drawing rooms, be trusted to deliver valuable messages.

  ‘France is changing,’ he goes on smoothly. ‘I imagine you are an outcast in England. That would not be the case here. We are building a new Republic where women are equal to men. Join us.’

  There’s a long pause as I consider my response.

  ‘My mother died a slave,’ I say. ‘I spent a great deal of time examining slavery transactions trying to find her.’

  Robespierre brings his hands together, viewing me carefully over the top of his steepled fingers. The round spectacles reflect candle-flame, hiding his expression.

  ‘When I eventually found her consignment, there was a strike through her number,’ I say, ‘as one makes with cattle. My mother was dead and no one had taken the trouble to record why.’

  I meet his eye. ‘Slave records are kept by people like you,’ I say, ‘men who hide behind ink and paper whilst others do their dirty work. I don’t work for men like that.’

  Robespierre’s mouth draws thin. I sense a quiet fury. A leviathan beneath a calm ocean.

  ‘How disappointing,’ he says. ‘There are different kinds of cleverness, Mademoiselle Morgan. I suppose we cannot all enjoy the superior kind. I had hoped you might be a progressive.’

  ‘A progressive such as you are?’ I can’t keep the disdain from my voice. ‘You imagine you are not a despot because you don’t wear a crown?’

  His thin upright body leans suddenly forward, eyes burning. ‘Be careful, Mademoiselle Morgan,’ he snaps, civility vanishing away. ‘Dreadful things are being done, in the city, on the streets. A mob does not discriminate a woman from a man when they are tearing a body limb from limb.’

  ‘You think by murdering those who oppose you your politics shall gain sway?’ I demand, furious. ‘You cannot kill ideals.’

  His light-blue ey
es assess me, bird-like. He appears disappointed.

  ‘I quite agree,’ he says. ‘The people must come to the correct thinking of their own accord.’

  And just like that, I see it clearly.

  ‘So that is why you killed Gaspard de Mayenne,’ I say. ‘I had it wrong all this time.’

  CHAPTER 71

  ROBESPIERRE IS TAPPING HIS MOUTH AGAIN, WITH HIS fingers. He glances to the door and I detect a dash of deep-seated uncertainty, a boiling paranoia just under the surface.

  ‘It was the diamond left with Gaspard’s body that had me confused,’ I say. ‘I have to concede it was an expert touch. I was so certain that element would make sense to a particular faction.’

  I breathe out, realization hitting me from all sides.

  ‘In truth, the staging of Gaspard’s death was the opposite,’ I say. ‘It was designed to make sense to no one. That is how you promote the most confusion, the most terror. Have everyone guessing who was behind it and why.’

  Robespierre says nothing but in his face is the tiniest acceptance that I have paid him a compliment.

  ‘You sent Janssen to murder Gaspard,’ I say. ‘A departure from your perfect morality, to be certain, but what is a single small crime for the greater good? And Gaspard was ideal, was he not? An aristocrat and a rebel, with links to the English. He could mean something to everyone.’ I look Robespierre in the eye. ‘Let the commoners blame the royalists and the royalists blame the commoners,’ I deduce. ‘The city is already on a knife edge. Create enough terror and you push the rebels to greater boldness.’

  Robespierre is distant behind his round glasses. ‘All kind of fancies are possible, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Certainly nothing you say can be proven.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Robespierre,’ I say with feeling, ‘how I pity you. Is that what you thought it would all hinge on? One little murder for so much good and it would never be traced to you. Death is never so tidy. You pulled the thread, now it unravels.’

  There is a faraway look in Robespierre’s eyes, as if remembering something he’d rather forget.