The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

  I hesitate, certainty rushing away. ‘Are you sure?’

  The sails billow and we begin drifting up river. It’s only then the door to the captain’s quarters opens and Jemmy steps out. He gives us a bow.

  ‘How d’ye find my new vessel, Your Ladyship? Made by your countrymen.’

  ‘So my cousin tells me,’ I say drily. ‘Didn’t you think to warn us we would be accosted by men dressed as French guards?’

  ‘A last-moment change of plan,’ says Jemmy unapologetically, ‘on account of the rivers now being under tight scrutiny. And I had a little help from that Atherton fella and your uncle. It seems Lord Pole isn’t as angry with you as you thought.’

  ‘What?’ I’m blinking at the unlikeliness of this.

  Jemmy only shrugs. ‘All I know is his name was on the papers.’

  ‘Which papers?’

  ‘The ones that got me this ship and saved the lives of my crew.’ He points to the armed guards and now I look closer, I make out some familiar faces.

  ‘Lord Pole got French uniforms for your men?’ I can scarcely believe it. This is exactly the kind of ill-conceived scheme Lord Pole routinely dismisses as a waste of money.

  Jemmy nods. ‘You’ll excuse me a little trickery getting you aboard. I couldn’t risk you being seen escaping by the wrong people.’

  He tilts his head to look at me. ‘Now that I know you better, I’m inclined not to think the worst of ye. Think you might ever feel the same way about me?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, smiling at him. ‘Most likely not.’

  CHAPTER 105

  I’M LEANING AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE SHIP, LOOKING ON to the water of the Seine, when Grace arrives at my side.

  She has lost the puppyish energy I remember about her as a younger girl and the nervousness that agitated her in the Bastille has also dropped away. She looks, I think, like a grown-up woman and I wonder if this is a good or bad thing.

  ‘Did you know,’ she begins, ‘that it was Uncle Pole who put the diamonds in my trunk?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  She follows my gaze out across the river.

  ‘I didn’t know for certain, until now.’ She smiles. ‘Perhaps something of you is rubbing off on me.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  To my surprise she reaches across and takes my hand in her little fingers and taps it comfortingly against the solid oak of the gunwhale.

  ‘You always were too hard on yourself, Attica,’ she says. ‘You have a lot of good qualities to recommend you.’

  I smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In any case,’ she says, ‘I’ve decided to be more like you once I’m back in England.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh,’ Grace looks at me archly, through blue-green eyes, ‘not entirely like you. I mean,’ she frowns, ‘I imagine I don’t know the half of it, what you get up to.’ She gives me an assessing stare then looks back to the water. ‘But I’d like to be at the forefront of making things better for people, rather than just penning essays. Even if my family disapprove. You don’t let anyone make your choices,’ she concludes, ‘even though a woman in your circumstances really should.’

  I consider this. I suppose it is true.

  ‘That’s why I came out here, you know. Because I was doing what I was told,’ Grace is pulling at a bracelet on her wrist. ‘I had a bad feeling about it. I didn’t want to come. But Lord Pole told me I should and I did. Girls like me,’ she heaves up a deep sigh that makes her seem older than her years, ‘we’re not expected to question what our betters suggest for us.’ Grace stops playing with her bracelet. ‘But I think now I might.’

  ‘You’ll match your husband in that,’ I assure her. ‘Lord Godwin is creating quite a stir for his views against slavery. I think you seem well suited.’

  ‘I think so too.’ She looks out to sea. ‘But I think I might delay the wedding for a time.’ She casts me a little smile.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘You don’t want to marry on your return?’

  Grace shakes her head. ‘Not yet. I’d like to get to know my future husband better. Godwin expects me to have a great many children and settle down, but I don’t think I’m ready.’ She frowns. ‘Godwin has some ideas about the natural state of the peasant classes. But I grew up close enough to those people to know that nursing eleven babies isn’t as lovely as he might think.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re worth waiting for.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says with feeling. ‘I had so many people tell me how lucky I was to snare Godwin and I must wed him immediately before he changed his mind. No one ever asked me if I were certain about it all.’

  ‘If you do decide to marry,’ I say, ‘I’d say Lord Pole owes you a very expensive wedding trousseau. Be sure he pays you in full.’

  Grace turns away, her hair shiny, loose and blowing in the wind.

  I have a sudden rush of images of the life I might have led had Atherton proposed. But there’s no sense in dwelling and I’m happy for my clever cousin.

  CHAPTER 106

  KING LOUIS XVI HAS UNDERGONE HIS USUAL RITUALS. HIS clothing had been passed to him in the correct order by the correct people.

  He has consumed his breakfast, observed by the masses. Marie Antoinette sat at his side. She had eaten privately, earlier. A habit that had set tongues wagging.

  Following his repast, the King strolled to his study, ready to fill out his diary for the day.

  A minister enters. The King frowns. He is not used to interruptions.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the minister bows low, ‘I bring news from Paris.’

  The expectant light in the King’s eyes dims. Paris bores him. It has been so long since he has been in the city, he can scarce call it to mind. Besides, it is always bad news.

  ‘What has happened now?’ he says, trying to appear interested.

  ‘The Bastille, Your Majesty, it has been stormed.’

  The King nods at this.

  ‘Parisians attacked it a few hours ago,’ continues the minister. ‘They overcame the Swiss troops set to guard it. Somehow the word got out that there was ammunition in the prison,’ he concludes breathlessly. ‘They got in, got the gunpowder and are tearing the prison apart. There are forty thousand muskets and shot in the hands of the people, Sire.’

  ‘Paris is a city of boutiques and servants,’ says the King. ‘It’s only a small rabble that wants to cause trouble. Most of the commoners do very well by my reign, they love their King.’

  ‘True,’ says the minister, ‘but there is ... ill feeling towards the Queen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  The minister swallows.

  ‘The Bastille Governor, de Launay ... They cut off his head with a blunt knife, Your Majesty.’

  The King sits pondering this for a long time. He holds the quill to write in his diary poised, as though to make some mid-air instruction.

  ‘Is it a rebellion?’ he asks, after a moment.

  The minister hesitates. He wonders how much of the information he relayed has really gone in.

  ‘No, Your Majesty,’ he says patiently, ‘it is a revolution.’

  The King nods again.

  ‘We intended to tear down the Bastille in any case, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ The minister is slightly dumbstruck. ‘Perhaps I was hasty to send those Swiss guards.’ The King leans back. ‘The Queen and I are tired of all this bad feeling,’ he adds. ‘Let’s just give them what they want. I’ll travel to Paris and sign whatever needs to be signed.’

  ‘If I may, Your Majesty, such complacence to mob attack would make you look weak. They have put Governor de Launay’s head on a pike. The head of your finance minister, Monsieur Foulon, is being toured around the city as a trophy.’

  The King waves a hand. ‘That will be all.’

  He sighs as the minister leaves the room. His breakfast rolls are sitting rather heavily in his stomach. He must remember to ask his doctor about it.

&
nbsp; The King realizes he still holds his quill. He shakes his head, dispensing with a troubling memory, then dips his pen to write.

  Louis hesitates, face scrunched in thought. There is no hunting today, no parties he can recall and no meetings of an important nature.

  July 14th, scribes the pen carefully. Nothing.

  CHAPTER 107

  GRACE RETURNS BELOW DECK AND I’M LEFT ALONE. As I turn back to the water, considering my next option, I feel someone arrive at my side. It’s Jemmy. I find I am pleased to see him. More than pleased, if I’m honest with myself.

  ‘Looks like your Uncle Pole put himself out on a bit of a limb,’ he says. ‘Got me a ship. Risked a few things on your success.’

  I nod at this. Lord Pole still has the ability to surprise me. I can’t help but feel he does it on purpose.

  ‘And speaking of success, what of the famous jewels?’ asks Jemmy, trying to sound casual. ‘Were they with your cousin, as you hoped?’

  I laugh.

  ‘And here I was, thinking you’d come to celebrate my safe return.’

  ‘Come now, Lady Morgan, you must know how happy I am to see you.’ He says it gruffly, but looks hurt.

  ‘I do,’ I assure him. ‘The diamonds ...’ I hesitate. ‘Let’s just say there was some wealth distribution. I’m sure you’d approve, as a commoner from Hell’s Kitchen.’

  Jemmy looks less unhappy than I might have expected.

  ‘Maybe they’ll put some food in some young bellies,’ he says wistfully. ‘You never know. In any case,’ he says, ‘Lord Pole has more faith in you than you thought.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say, thinking this highly unlikely. ‘More probably there’s another political outcome he’s considered.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No one expected the Bastille to fall,’ I say. ‘Things have been set in motion. I imagine he has weighed up his options and decided a spy on the ground would be a useful thing. Particularly one who speaks fluent French and is, in many ways, above suspicion.’

  ‘Strange you should say that,’ replies Jemmy. ‘I made something of a deal with your uncle. In return for the ship. He’s not a man you play around, if you know what I mean. Even if you’re a pirate.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ I say. ‘But I thought you were a privateer.’

  He shrugs. ‘Times are changing. I fancy my luck in France. And I thought you might like to join me,’ he adds.

  ‘You and I working together?’ The most surprising thing about the suggestion is it doesn’t seem as terrible as I might have imagined.

  ‘I’ve got a new trade: helping French aristocrats leave the country. It pays better than privateering.’ My face must show my surprise because he laughs.

  ‘You’re shocked. At me?’

  I try to explain how I feel about his new occupation and fail. ‘I thought you were against the aristocracy,’ I conclude lamely. ‘These people sat at banquets whilst children starved to death.’

  ‘One day in Paris and you’re a revolutionary?’ he taunts. ‘I go where the money is, Lady Pimpernel. I’m afraid I can’t afford your scruples.’

  ‘So you want me to help you?’

  His mouth twists.

  ‘We-ell,’ says Jemmy. ‘You on land. I at sea. Rescuing people who want to flee France. We’d go by your name,’ he says, his accent becoming more Irish the faster he speaks. ‘Pimpernel. I thought we could use little flower tokens, so those we rescue might know us to be genuine.’

  ‘Flower tokens?’ I grin. ‘A little romantic for a pirate, don’t you think?’

  I consider for a moment, remembering my time in Russia, in Europe, tracking the wrongfully enslaved and the kidnapped.

  ‘A snake then,’ he says. ‘A curved knife.’

  ‘It isn’t only the symbol,’ I say, moving a little nearer to him. ‘All my life I’ve rescued people who deserve to be saved. Slaves. Not rich aristocrats who watch people starve.’

  Jemmy thinks. ‘Well, then, I suppose we’ll only save the worthy.’

  ‘My uncle won’t approve,’ I say. ‘Or at least, he’ll have a different idea as to what constitutes worthy.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ says Jemmy. ‘Then we’ll be fooling the English spies as well the French. What fun we’ll have.’

  He gazes at the Paris cityscape, where the smoke of gunpowder and the walls of the mighty Bastille can be seen. People are up on the ramparts and are pulling the hated structure apart, stone by stone.

  ‘Atherton always told me the fight against slavery is not at the markets or on the ships,’ I say, following his gaze. ‘I never quite agreed. Perhaps now I understand him better. He’ll help us,’ I add, ‘so long as we don’t deviate too widely from patriotism.’

  I notice Jemmy doesn’t quite meet my eye at the mention of Atherton.

  The outline of the great prison is already changed. Paris’s dark stone fortress is becoming something else: a cloud of dust, a rapidly growing pile of rubble.

  ‘A whole country of slaves,’ I say. ‘That would be something, would it not? To gain so many people their liberty?’ I glance at Jemmy. ‘Might take two people,’ I concede, ‘rather than just one. Perhaps we could help each other.’

  It looks as though every last man, woman and child in the city has come out to complete the work. The despotic royal threat loomed over Paris for four centuries. By tomorrow it will be gone.

  I find myself smiling.

  ‘These are new and exciting times,’ says Jemmy. ‘Lots of gauzy dresses.’

  ‘If we must go by the mark of the flower,’ I say slowly, ‘it should at least be red.’

  ‘Scarlet?’ says Jemmy. ‘Like blood? I suppose that fits with a pirate better. Very well then, Lady Morgan. So it shall be. The Scarlet Pimpernels.’

  Truth is stranger than fiction.

  Which of these events really happened?

  At least one of the following facts is false. Do you know which? Go to www.atlantic-books.co.uk/bastille to find out which, and unlock a secret history to The Bastille Spy.

  1. The Bastille was thought to contain only a handful of prisoners, but in reality dungeons of secret inmates were found on July 14th.

  2. A Swiss guard handed the key to the Bastille keep to a French commoner, just as the rebels were about to be massacred.

  3. The Marquis de Sade was held in the Bastille, and his claim prisoners were being murdered was a catalyst to the people’s attack on the prison.

  4. Finance minister Joseph-François Foulon de Doué was accused of claiming peasants could eat grass, and was half-lynched before his severed head was paraded around Paris by the mob.

  5. Spy weaponry of the period included carrier pigeons and dead-drops of the kind Robespierre utilises for his intelligence.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  What an amazing book this has been to write, and how lucky I am to have had so much support along the way. First and foremost, the biggest thanks to my readers, who allow me to continue in this work that I love. Next, I should thank my brilliant partner, Simon Avery and my sister Susannah Quinn for their tireless feedback and amazing edits. There were times when I was in a very dark place with this book, so thank you both for helping me see the light, and generally putting up with me. Thanks also to my lovely dad, Don Quinn, for his great suggestions and vast historical knowledge – pencils and matches to name a few. And of course, to my mum, Jean Quinn, for all the stories.

  Endless gratitude to my children Natalie and Ben for frequent uplifting visits to my desk to raid chocolate and watch YouTube.

  Piers Blofeld deserves a medal for all the hard work he has put in on my behalf, and I’m proud to have him as my agent and friend. Heartfelt thanks go to my lovely publishers at Corvus, for their patience, belief and vision. Sara O’Keeffe for keeping the faith, and wearing great jackets, Susannah Hamilton for tireless spot-on edits and daring red shoes, Poppy Mostyn-Owen for being an early champion and reading until the small hours, Alison Tullett for considered copyediting and patience with my technol
ogy glitches, Kirsty Doole for having the mind-melting energy to commute daily from Oxford, Gemma Davis, for kind words and recognition of a neglected era, Patrick Hunter for getting digital book sales before it was rightfully possible, and last but not least, Will Atkinson for pouring a great deal of Champagne and rarely being thanked.

  In terms of research, I owe a huge debt to my University of Leeds professors, Vivian Jones and Robert Jones, who were kind enough to have faith in me, and give me a lifelong love of history. I’ve not yet written a book I’ve been brave enough to send to such accomplished historians, but perhaps this will be it. Or maybe the next one…

  Thanks to immensely talented cover designers, Richard Evans at Atlantic books, and illustrator Larry Rostant – I never dared dream I would have such an incredible cover, and I only hope the interior matches the exterior. Not forgetting proof reader Sarah Chatwin, for her eagle eye.

  Thanks to the supreme generosity of author Sarah Hawkswood (whose historical mysteries everyone should be reading), for pointing out several historical errors in the eleventh hour.

  I’ve also been fortunate enough to have a wealth of fascinating material come my way.

  For first-hand accounts of the Revolution, I’d recommend Journal of My Life During the French Revolution by London socialite Grace Dalrymple Elliott, and Helen William’s account of France during the time titled Helen Williams and the French Revolution (why complicate a title?).

  For fascinating information on the ‘real’ Scarlet Pimpernel, Elizabeth Sparrow’s Shadow of the Guillotine: The Real Scarlet Pimpernel Louis Bayard makes enlightening reading.

  How to Ruin a Queen: Marie Antoinette and the Diamond Affair, by Jonathan Beckman, provides a vivid account of the Queen’s diamonds, their theft and the impact on the nation.

  I’ve also enjoyed a number of interesting spy accounts, including: Invisible Ink by John Nagy, Regency Spies by Sue Wilkes, and Secrets and Lies, Military Intelligence by Jeremy Harwood.