by C. S. Quinn
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
JEMMY IS SHAKING HIS HEAD. ‘IT IS A RECKLESS PLAN,’ HE SAYS. We are standing in view of the huge Porte Saint-Martin – an impressive arched gate of white stone, through which commoners with taxable goods must pass. There is a thick queue of slow-moving wagons and trudging peasants with weighty bundles on their backs. We are disguised as country peasants. Jemmy in ragged striped trousers. My tattered skirts hang a half-foot clear of my bare feet and the washed-out short-gown worn over the top is closed with rusty pins.
‘You honestly wish me to approach a customs gate with smuggled goods?’ Jemmy is shaking his head. ‘It goes against every pirate instinct.’
‘Which is exactly why it will work,’ I tell him. ‘Robespierre will be expecting us to go through one of these gates. They’ll be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. What could be more usual than a brother and sister attempting to smuggle a little salt?’
‘When you asked me what the most commonplace contraband was,’ sighs Jemmy, ‘I didn’t expect you to use it against me.’
‘I’m only glad you have stopped boring me to tears with talk on salt taxes and their outcomes.’
‘So says the girl who studies forts and battlements for amusement,’ says Jemmy wryly, annoyed at my lack of interest in his favourite topic.
Jemmy has a lively interest in smuggled goods, and spent the best part of an hour explaining the untenable French system of forcing peasants to make large mandatory salt purchases, the thinking being that they wouldn’t then buy the smuggled variety. ‘In actual fact,’ Jemmy told me triumphantly, ‘it has the opposite effect. The people all turn to smuggling to plug the deficit from the compulsory outlay. And the cheapest contraband they can get their poor callused hands on is salt, which is cheaper than dirt when bought at source.’
‘If your plan fails,’ says Jemmy, as we get closer to the gate, ‘you’ll leave noble Atherton at the altar.’
‘When have my plans ever failed?’
‘Even if you succeed you’re leaving things close.’
‘There is plenty of time to return to London,’ I say tightly, although a sudden panic at not getting to Atherton grips me. ‘Centime will be past the gate by morning.’
‘Tell that to those customs men.’ His eyes drift to the people shuffling towards the gate. A man with a huge sheaf of tobacco on his back reaches the guards and throws down his goods for inspection. The custom’s men begin an overly thorough search, pulling apart the large oily leaves, looking for contraband.
‘Those guards wear tricolour cockades,’ Jemmy says pointedly. ‘If they discover us trying to pass Salvatore’s courtesan through the gate, they will tear us limb from limb.’
‘True,’ I say, glancing back at where Centime is concealed, sat low in the wagon. ‘Just don’t let her hear you say it. And what is it pirates say? There is no reward without risk.’ I slap him on the back.
‘Don’t take risks that might get you caught,’ mutters Jemmy. ‘That is our motto, if you would only listen.’ But he moves towards the front and adjusts the bridle on the worn-looking donkey we acquired from outside the Marché d’Aligre for an inflated price that put Jemmy in a black mood.
I knock quietly on the side of the small battered wagon and peer over to see Centime curled into a ball in the small confines.
‘No one is looking,’ I tell her. ‘Time to fashion your hiding place.’
Centime sits up, looking about fearfully. ‘I am dangerous to you,’ she says. ‘Leave me to try my luck alone and do not risk yourselves.’
I shake my head. ‘Centime, you are known. There is a price on your head. You would not make it as far as the line for the gate before someone denounced you.’
She absorbs this. ‘I am sorry,’ she says finally.
‘Don’t be,’ I tell her. ‘We have done this many times. It is a sport for us.’
I glance across at Jemmy, who looks anything but enthused at the mission.
‘To get you safely through, you must do everything I ask. Without question,’ I tell Centime.
A smile plays on her lips. ‘You sound like Salvatore.’
‘Stay hidden, no matter what happens,’ I say. ‘Never lose faith I will come for you.’
She nods slowly. ‘Then what should I do?’
In answer I unfurl a large dusty sack from the floor of the wagon. It is an old thing, patched and worn.
‘You need to climb inside,’ I explain. ‘We will fill the rest with salt and disguise you.’ I point to two smaller sacks in the wagon, stiff with salt bloom, and draw open the top strings to reveal the white granules inside.
‘This is the great plan?’ asks Centime uncertainly.
‘Trust me. The weight is around the same. And this salt will hide your shape.’
‘But it is illegal to smuggle salt,’ hisses Centime, eyeing the patched bag she is to be secreted inside. ‘If these sacks drop even the smallest amount …’
‘The sacks must be old to fit the disguise,’ I tell her. ‘You must trust me, and promise you shall not say a word.’ I take both her hands. ‘I have never failed, Centime,’ I tell her.
Slowly she climbs inside the sack. Once she is almost hidden from view I pour salt to pad out the sides, so only her head is free.
‘Ready?’ I ask. She nods. I tie up the top of the sack, then turn to Jemmy.
‘It’s a good idea,’ he says, loud enough for Centime to hear. ‘Certainly, you’ll blend in. The way the French salt laws are, every man, woman and child is breaking the law in some way.’
I make a final check of my hair, tucking it under the grubby headscarf. Then, slapping the donkey, I move slowly towards the gate, joining the lines of others being questioned and dismissed by customs. The cart lurches dangerously from side to side, with the bagged contraband perched precariously on top.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ROBESPIERRE PACES AROUND THE LITTLE FARMER’S cottage in the Queen’s hamlet. From the window he sees sculpted hillsides and a little waterwheel turning prettily.
Now he knows the trick of it, the fiction is obvious. Thin-legged boys with blistered hands built the lovely horizon. The farm animals have been bathed and scrubbed by women who buy cheap milk by the cup from overused cows. Yet he cannot deny the visage speaks to a part of his secret heart.
Inside the farmer’s cottage is different, as though the owner has taken his own low aspirations behind the attractive exterior walls. The scant furniture is barely more than sticks of wood nailed together. A chair, a floor-frame with straw inside and a blanket thrown over for a bed. The kind of things desperate people are executed for stealing from the worst Parisian rented accommodation.
Laid out on the plain table are documents Robespierre brought with him. His map of Paris, sketches of the city gates. Occasionally he seats himself to ponder them, specifically, the city gates. He finds he is missing Georges Danton, who has now gone to the palace, where the National Assembly are gathered.
Distracted and unnerved, Robespierre is pleased when the door opens, to reveal the same farmer that let them in. Robespierre’s face is impassive as the man creeps inside, face taut with the drama of his own subterfuge.
Robespierre stops pacing. He is unnaturally animated, his eyes glittering.
‘It was done as I asked?’ he demands.
‘There are seven gates in the city,’ says the farmer apologetically. ‘We had not the men to police them all.’
‘Then,’ decides Robespierre, pacing again, arms clasped behind his back, ‘you used my suggestions of the gates he is most likely to attempt.’ There is an energy to him, a vibrancy.
‘Porte Louis is the safest,’ offers the farmer. ‘Half of all Paris’s goods leave that way—’
Robespierre holds up a hand to silence him.
‘You will remember from my letters, I have put most of our number there.’
The farmer, who cannot read, nods nervously. ‘Whoever this aristocrat is, he will not pass,’ he offers.
‘They were given a description of the girl he will travel with?’ clarifies Robespierre.
Again the man nods. ‘Don’t mind my saying, monsieur,’ says he, moving to the cauldron, which sways above the sad little fire, ‘but you seem very sure this aristocrat you’re chasing will attempt the gate this morning.’
Robespierre doesn’t answer, instead moving to the plain wooden chair and throwing up his coat tails before seating himself. Once again he studies the map of Paris.
‘The criminal will be caught in a pincer,’ says Robespierre, without looking up. It isn’t clear if he means these words for the farmer or is merely speaking aloud. ‘He must run from Salvatore’s men with a very conspicuous prize.’
Now Robespierre looks directly at the farmer, pushing his round glasses a little higher on his nose.
‘I have given the Scarlet Pimpernel a hot potato,’ he explains. ‘A courtesan by the name of Centime. The only way he may be rid of her safely is to leave the city. Keep her in Paris and he risks her being torn apart by the mob. Not to mention, she is … unstable. Liable to blab his identity in a fit of pique. Or run back to Salvatore, hoping to buy forgiveness with the Pimpernel’s arrest. Whilst Centime stays in Paris, he risks all. Paid men will be combing the city even as we speak, and I have made it known that Centime is an enemy of the people. She is hunted by commoners and nobles alike.’
Robespierre looks particularly pleased with himself.
‘His problem,’ here Robespierre raises a thin finger in explanation, ‘he is emotional and that is his weakness. The Pimpernel has no stomach for the business of warfare. A rational man would leave Centime to her fate. She likely knows his identity by now, after all, and is a risk.’ He steeples his fingers. He takes a breath, eyes the glass of wine before him as though daring it to tempt him.
‘But he shall not do this. He shall succumb to vicissitudes of the heart. He cannot bear to leave a chosen one behind, not he. It is his heel of Achilles.’
The farmer clearly doesn’t understand the classical reference, but Robespierre doesn’t bother to enlighten him. The lawyer begins arranging the papers on the table. ‘I am almost disappointed,’ he says, ‘that the Pimpernel has such a commonplace weakness. Women.’ His brow crinkles in disgust.
He studies the gates again, pleased with himself. ‘Check mate. He must move or die. What he doesn’t yet know is he runs fast to his own doom. Our men will be waiting to uncover whatever trick he attempts to smuggle Centime to freedom.’
His eyes drop again to the plan of Paris. A finger stretches towards a gate then curls inside itself.
‘Not there,’ he mutters. ‘Surely not.’ A strange look tightens his features.
‘Porte Saint-Martin,’ he says slowly. ‘How many men have we there?’
The farmer shakes his head. ‘None. Only a fool would attempt that gate,’ he says. ‘It is strongly manned, and in our staunchest stronghold. People there would gleefully tear the head from Salvatore’s courtesan.’
‘Ah, but I have applied myself to studying the Pimpernel,’ says Robespierre. He holds a hand in front of his face, examining it. ‘I see him as though reflected in glass. And he always does what I least expect,’ adds Robespierre, lowering his hand. ‘The most irrational and incautious of behaviours.’ Robespierre breathes in deeply, his pale nostrils flaring. ‘Get a message to our house on the Rue Saint-Jacques. Double the guard at Porte Saint-Martin. Search every sack, trunk and cart that comes through. Look closely on every face. That is where he will come.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
AS WE TRUNDLE OUR CART FORWARDS ANOTHER PLACE IN the line I look up at the imposing Porte Saint-Martin, the carved faces of the stone sides seeming to stare down at me and Jemmy accusingly.
Ahead of us is a village boy, fencing sticks bound in a roll on his back. The guard waves him through and he walks determinedly, sweating under the burden. Next comes a well-dressed merchant with a neatly stacked cart of cambric cloth.
‘What’s this, then?’ sneers the gateman. ‘You off to dress the wealthy at the poor man’s expense, friend?’
‘It is cambric only,’ says the merchant. ‘Poor stuff.’
The gateman pinches the cloth between his fingers and rubs it.
‘Don’t seem like this will clothe any farmers,’ he opines.
The merchant waits wordlessly for the decision. Sweat has broken out on his top lip, I notice.
‘Go on, then,’ says the gateman, after a long pause. ‘Next time use the gate for your own kind, understand? I see you carting that fine stuff this way a second time, I’ll have my men burn the lot.’
The merchant nods, his head hung low, and quickly mounts his vehicle.
‘Wait!’ The gateman raises a hand. ‘What’s inside the box?’ He points to a small trunk tucked at the feet of the merchant’s driving seat.
‘Nothing.’ The merchant is pained. ‘Only my personal effects.’
‘Open it. Nothing passes through without a search. We have word of aristocrats escaping justice.’
‘This trunk is not large enough for—’
‘Open it. Before I smash it.’
The merchant fumbles nervously inside his coat and removes a key. Fitting it into the lock he throws open the lid. I am too far away to see inside, but the gateman’s whistle of admiration is clear enough.
‘Fair bit of gold in your personal effects. That needs taxing.’
‘It has already been taxed. At the City Hall. I have the documentation.’ The merchant is fumbling again but the gateman holds up a bored hand.
‘You’ve been taxed illegally, so far as we are concerned. By the aristocrats. You give them your money that is up to you. You have not paid the people of France.’ There’s a jingling as the gateman plunges his hand into the trunk and withdraws a handful of money.
‘This should be enough,’ he decides. ‘You have an objection, friend? Take it up with my associates.’ He jerks a thumb to the heavyset men lurking by the pile of confiscated goods. They are watching the events with interest.
‘Be off with you,’ says the gateman. ‘On your way. And be grateful I didn’t take the lot for your subterfuge.’
The merchant spurs his horses, and his cart takes off with a jolt.
Jemmy and I approach next, he at the rear of the wagon, me at the front, my expression timid.
‘What’s this, then, sweetheart?’ asks the gateman. He takes in my dress. ‘You look like you’re from the borders. Come from the pays rédimés?’ he suggests.
I nod.
The gateman eyes Jemmy skulking at the back of the wagon.
‘Your husband?’ he suggests.
‘My brother,’ I say. ‘He never learned to speak.’
‘Simpleton, eh?’ says the gateman sympathetically. ‘There’s one in every family, my dear. The business falls to you, then.’ He sighs. ‘Pays rédimés is a cheap place for salt,’ he observes, rubbing his forehead and eyeing my wagon with its large patched sack. ‘That your sack, sweetheart?’
‘It is fruit, only,’ I say, speaking quickly. ‘Apples from the farm.’
‘Funny shape for apples. Bag has been patched as well.’ He takes in the seamed portions of the bag, stitched on to make it larger. ‘Kind of thing people do when they’re trying to get around the King’s measures.’
I bite my lip, hold my head up high.
‘You’re not too good at this,’ he says. ‘Better leave smuggling to the men. First rule. Don’t try to take something suspicious through in a suspicious sack.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He shakes his head. ‘Look at my back, do you see any feathers? I am no downy chick and these are not apple sacks,’ he says. ‘They are from the saltworks. You have a father or brother who digs in the mine?’
‘A father.’ My voice comes out as a whisper.
The gateman sighs. He removes a corkscrew from his belt and plunges it into the sack. A little river of salt streams free. He raises his eyes to mi
ne. ‘Apples, eh?’
‘I’m sorry.’ There are tears in my eyes. ‘It’s only … We are so hungry.’
He nods. ‘Your father put you up to this, did he?’
I swallow.
The gateman sighs. ‘We’re going to have to take your cargo. I’m sorry for it, truly. There is to be a fine, also, of twenty sous.’
‘No!’ I allow the tears to flow. ‘Please. We cannot pay.’
He shakes his head.
‘It is the law. Listen,’ says the gateman, ‘I’m sure you are a good girl and do no wrong. Your donkey and wagon can be sold. That’ll raise enough to pay the fine.’
‘My father will beat me,’ I tell him piteously.
‘Better than what they’ll do to you in the debtors’ prison, believe me,’ says the man. ‘Pretty little country thing like you wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘The cart is not mine to sell,’ I tell the gateman sadly. ‘It is in keeping to my brother.’
The gateman eyes Jemmy, who is staring inanely into space in a convincing expression of a witless country boy. He sighs.
‘Hi there, fellow,’ he says, waving a hand at Jemmy. ‘We need to take this cart, so you and your sister mightn’t be imprisoned as debtors.’
Jemmy says nothing. The gateman shakes his head.
‘You cannot persuade him to sign it over?’ he asks.
‘He cannot write his name,’ I say.
‘If you cannot pay I must arrest you. You’ll be put in the debtors’ prison until someone can pay your fine.’
‘My relations are all in the pays rédimés!’ I protest. ‘How should they know where I am?’
‘If they are reading people, you might send them a letter, at the cost of a sous.’
‘And if I do not have it?’
‘Then you shall be imprisoned until the debt is paid.’
He jerks his head at two men who have been loitering to the side of the gate; they approach with meaningful expressions.
‘Put the salt in with the other contraband,’ says the gateman. ‘The girl might sell the donkey and cart for her freedom.’ One of the men takes the donkey’s bridle to lead it away.