by C. S. Quinn
I shake my head. ‘If Marie Antoinette dies, the King will declare rule of law. Every border will be closed and foreigners trapped in France will be lynched.’
Robespierre considers this, nodding slowly.
‘Now I see the problem,’ he says, sounding every bit the serious lawyer. ‘But it is not, I think, insurmountable.’ He spreads his hands wide, amicable, accommodating. ‘I have friends in Lille. I can be certain any of your English friends get through the border there. It only takes a letter.’
‘What of the other foreigners?’
He frowns. ‘I had you as a patriot, mademoiselle. Why should they concern you? But … if you feel so strongly, I suppose I can make arrangements to keep foreigners under protection for a few days. Enough time for them to leave France.’
He bows his head low, a diplomat, offering ever such reasonable things.
‘What of the market women,’ I say quietly, ‘who will be slaughtered if the Queen comes to harm?’
His lips press tighter. ‘Now you are unreasonable. I only request that you leave French matters to the French, mademoiselle. Is that too much to ask? Look to your own affairs. Your countrymen will be safe. You have what you want.’
I find myself shaking my head.
‘If you had asked me yesterday,’ I say, ‘I might have agreed. I might have left you to your war. But things have changed. I have changed. You might say I have become a little French, despite myself.’
The friendly nature drops away. ‘You are saying you won’t do as I ask?’ His jaw tightens.
‘If your Queen is murdered tonight, the thing falls apart. Any chance you have of a sensible system is lost. You fall into a dark age. An endless terror.’
Something glimmers behind his round glasses.
‘You and I have different notions of terror, mademoiselle. Fear can be a useful tool when directed appropriately.’
‘You are a villain.’
‘I, a villain? Do you see a mob of angry women accusing at my door? The villain you seek wears a crown.’ He waves towards the King’s apartments. ‘Vacillating, dithering. With every decision he allays, my people suffer. I only wish to make fast and sensible arrangements to alleviate hunger and injustice.’
‘With Salvatore,’ I accuse, ‘your pet aristocrat, set to enact all the terrible penalties you are so set against?’
Robespierre’s assured expression falters. ‘There was some … collateral damage. I had to be certain the Pimpernel was out of the way.’
‘By breaking women on the wheel? Crushing their bones?’
Robespierre’s hand trembles very slightly.
‘Mademoiselle Morgan, you are an abolitionist. If I were to tell you two slaves could be brutally killed so as to prevent hundreds, thousands of future such deaths, surely you would see the need?’
‘I am not encumbered by your military acumen,’ I tell him. ‘I should fight for those people to my dying breath, and never give up hope there was a better way.’
Robespierre looks away.
‘Salvatore played his part,’ he says quietly. ‘He is dead now?’ he asks, a childlike expression on his face.
I nod.
‘Then the thing is done,’ he says. ‘The rotten core must be swept aside by any means.’
‘If you really believe that,’ I tell him, ‘then kill me.’
His face registers shock, but he raises the gun.
‘Go back, Mademoiselle Morgan. I shall not ask you again. My terms are reasonable.’ He tilts his head slightly. ‘I am not an accomplished marksman,’ he adds. ‘But at this distance I don’t imagine that matters a great deal.’
I move out into the centre of the hall, holding my hands wide.
‘I don’t suppose it does,’ I tell him. ‘But allow me to make the thing easier. You may shoot me as I stand.’ I meet his eyes. ‘Only I do not think you will.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
ROBESPIERRE’S REFLECTION SHIFTS IN THE HALF candle light. His reflection vanishes and he steps out into full view.
‘You cannot do it,’ I tell him. ‘I know you cannot. You are no cold-blooded killer, Monsieur Robespierre. You couldn’t bear the stain on your perfect conscience.’
‘You think me a coward?’ he asks. ‘You are wrong. I have done things … Things I never thought possible I should do.’
He holds my gaze, waiting for me to jerk back, to flee. But when I stand firm, his hand holding the pistol begins shaking. He grips it with both hands.
‘France cannot continue as it has done,’ he says. ‘A monumental shift must occur to begin our new virtuous society.’ He blinks fast, as though remembering something he would rather forget. ‘I will not go back now,’ he says, his voice almost a whisper.
Robespierre’s finger tightens on the trigger, his decision made. ‘The women will find the Queen in her chamber,’ he says, calmer now, ‘and rest assured, I have no low view of your sex. They will do what they set out to do. Naturally I shall not be here to see it. There is much work to be done in Paris. Our new dawn must begin with the correct documentation.’
He has assured himself of things now, put his thoughts in a kind of order. A flicker of madness glimmers behind the glasses, deep in his pale eyes. He is a man who has come too far down a strange road.
‘I wish you adieu.’ Robespierre’s voice is breathy, as though his heart beats too fast for him. He raises a skinny finger. ‘Please send my regards to the Pimpernel. And my commiserations. I’m afraid his perfect record is about to be tarnished. This is one life he will not be able to rescue.’
He looks genuinely sorry.
‘Monsieur Robespierre,’ I say, ‘can you really be so certain I am not the Pimpernel himself?’
Robespierre seems to shrink in on himself, as though a complicated mechanism of thoughts is rolling beneath the pale surface of his face.
‘You have played a long game,’ I continue. ‘Cleverly, to be sure, but you have lost. The Pimpernel’s identity eludes you yet. The only victory would be to catch him in the act. A public trial. You would never risk your chance to defeat your enemy by a single ill-played move.’
I can see Robespierre working this through, deducing, speculating.
‘It isn’t you,’ he says, shaking his head as if to dislodge a troublesome thought. ‘When I meet him, I will know. I will know.’ He is speaking to himself.
‘If you are truly convinced, then kill me.’ I step a little forward. Robespierre doesn’t move.
I approach where I have identified the hidden door, run my hand along the length. Halfway down, where a handle might naturally be, is an inset piece of wood. I close my fingers around it, and pull.
‘Stop!’ Robespierre’s voice has taken on a strange high-pitched quality. ‘Go no further!’ he shouts. ‘I will shoot.’ He waves the pistol.
I shake my head, unafraid. ‘No. You will let me live, monsieur, because you want to play another round, with better odds.’
I pull hard. The great mirror peels away, becoming a massive door.
Robespierre raises the pistol high, his hand shaking again, then turns his head from me, closing his eyes. Then in a moment, he lowers the gun, breathing heavily, an expression of disgust on his pale features.
Robespierre steps back, and once again become a reflection in one of the mirrors. Then he vanishes completely. There is an expression of abject misery on his face just before it clears from view. As though he has entirely failed his own expectations. For a moment I feel almost sorry for him.
‘Au revoir, monsieur,’ I say, before stepping forward and walking through the mirror.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
THE WEALTHY WORLD OF VERSAILLES SEEMS TO DROP AWAY as I pass through the mirror. On the other side of the glass are black shadows. I can just make out stately decorations, velvety shapes and a large desk. But older, more muted than the extravagant interiors of elsewhere.
This is where the King signs state papers. A private adjunct to the ostentatious Hall of Mirrors, de
signed by the Sun King to intimidate visitors. Where outside is light and frilly, the heart of it all is heavy, with solid furnishings.
There are no candles still burning. But on the far side of the room is a sliver of light. A flickering rectangle marking out a further hidden door.
‘Candlelit throughout the night,’ I say to myself, wishing Jemmy was here to witness my discovery. ‘I’d wager that’s the way to the Queen’s chamber.’
Since I don’t have time, or the lamplight to work out whatever clever hidden opening gains entry, I pick up my skirts, and aim a strong kick at where the lock would be. I hear the expensive wood split then yield, wondering what other devastations are being wrought by the mob to the decades-old workmanship of the palace.
As anticipated, the door construction is flimsy, relying on the completeness of the hiding place. The thin door smashes open with two more kicks. Wall-mounted candles in the passage beyond bow at the sudden draught of air.
The corridor is lined with cobwebs and dust. Presumably the King hasn’t made a midnight trip to his wife’s bedchamber for some time. I reach another square outline of light – candles shining from a room on the other side. Taking a breath, I hook my fingers around the door and drag it open.
The scene on the other side is of blind panic. A spectacular bedchamber is crowded with large-skirted ladies and servants, all of whom are grouped around a single figure.
Ladies-in-waiting are racing around the outskirts of the huddle, white with shock, dresses and stockings in their hands. At the creaking hinges of the secret door opening, everyone turns to look in my direction, expressions slack with terror.
Only one face appears unconcerned by the general mayhem.
Marie Antoinette is in the centre of it all, looking surprisingly unconcerned. She is a small woman with a large chin. I imagine she was pretty as a younger girl, but she is rather ordinary-looking without her finery.
I realise I am covered in cobwebs, and brush myself down self-consciously.
‘Madame,’ I say, looking at the Queen.
Marie Antoinette’s eyes widen fractionally at the affront of being addressed like a commoner. ‘Who is she?’ she mutters to one of her ladies. ‘How dare she?’
‘I am … a friend,’ I say, as politely as I can manage, ‘here to help. If Madame wishes to avoid being caught in her bedchamber, you might dispense with putting on stockings.’
A distant shout can be heard beyond her door. I glance at it. The mob have breached the inner sanctum.
‘They will be at the door in moments. Better just run,’ I clarify, motioning to the entrance to the tunnel.
There’s a fraction of a second where they all look at me, open-mouthed and appalled. Then the Queen turns her back, slowly, like a ship in full sail. With an air of inevitability, the ladies slowly rotate inwards around Marie Antoinette, and resume their fussing over her dress.
It’s such an impressive snub, I am momentarily stunned. From outside, cheers ring out from the corridor beyond. It sounds as though the mob are through the final door.
Very deliberately, Marie Antoinette motions for one of her ladies to begin rolling her stockings, ready to put on. ‘My guard will defend me to the death,’ she tells one of her ladies.
I close my eyes.
‘Madame!’ I bark at her. ‘If you stop any longer the mob will tear you to pieces.’
She turns to look at me, a sharpness in her eyes, then addresses one of her ladies.
‘Anne-Thérèse, would you tell this,’ she hesitates and looks me up and down, ‘strange woman, to whom she speaks?’
Taking the cue, a lady-in-waiting turns to me furiously. ‘You show disrespect to the Queen of France!’ she hisses.
I ignore her, addressing the Queen. ‘My name is Attica Morgan. I am here to rescue you. But we must leave now.’
There is a pause. The voices beyond the door have amplified.
‘You are a foreigner?’ replies Marie Antoinette, holding a hand up to her lady-in-waiting. ‘I do not trust you.’
I hesitate in my reply.
‘I am English in the same way you are Austrian,’ I say eventually.
Several gasps of affront ripple around the ladies.
‘I have grown to love France, just as you have,’ I continue. ‘And I know, as Your Majesty does, that this palace is not France. You must open your eyes, madame,’ I conclude. ‘The bubble has burst. They are coming for you, and it is not to kiss your skirts.’
Uncertainty shows in her round face.
‘If you value your life,’ I say, ‘leave your stockings and follow me.’
‘Your Majesty must be properly dressed,’ whispers a lady, her eyes wide. But Marie Antoinette holds up another chubby hand and addresses me.
‘Prove to me you are loyal to France,’ she demands.
‘There is no time …’
‘A single curtsey,’ she says, a small smile on her lips, ‘will suffice.’
For a moment I mean to refuse. Then I remember the starving desperate women in Paris. The cruelty they will suffer if the Queen dies today.
I try not to roll my eyes, grateful only that Jemmy is not here to bear witness.
Then keeping my eyes fixed on Marie Antoinette, I drop her a curtsey.
‘Very good.’ She nods, turning to a servant. ‘Shall we go? Anne-Thérèse, you might bring the stockings with you. I think it might be best if we run.’
Behind us is a splintering of wood. I grab the Queen’s arm and pull her towards the open door of the secret passage.
‘In here!’ I shout. ‘Now! We cannot let them see the door!’
Blank with shock, Marie Antoinette doesn’t protest. The other ladies are suddenly mobilised and run like clucking chickens for the open door.
A roar of fury sounds from the other side of the door.
‘Bring me the Queen!’ screams a woman. ‘I’ll cut her to pieces!’
The bedroom door is breaking ajar as I push the last of the ladies into the opening of the passage. I catch a glimpse of a livid-faced peasant women, brandishing a red-tipped pike. Then I pull the secret door shut, just as an army of angry women descend on the Queen’s empty bed.
I watch through the crack in the door as they attack the mattress, stabbing and slicing. Feathers float in the air. For just a second, I imagine what might have been. If the Queen had waited a moment longer … If she had followed protocol and put on her stockings.
It would be a very different France. Turning back to the gloom of the corridor, I follow behind the Queen and her ladies as they make their way to the King’s chamber.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
WE BREAK OUT INTO THE KING’S APARTMENT, THE QUEEN, her gaggle of frightened ladies, and me bringing up the rear. In contrast to the dark tunnel linking the royal chambers, the candlelight is dazzling. Bright as daylight, with every great chandelier lit with a hundred candles. It is a strange feeling to be in this stately room of exquisite privilege, with only a few doors between us and the ragged bloodshed of the mob.
‘Your Majesty.’ The Queen curtseys to her husband. The King is deathly pale, and looks as though he might vomit. Behind him I recognise Lafayette, and then my heart soars to see Jemmy tucked behind him, face grim.
‘They have swarmed out in the courtyard below us,’ says the King. ‘They seem to have … lost interest in the palace interior.’
He glances towards the wide windows of his first-floor apartment, from which the loud noise of an angry crowd can be heard. Having found the Queen’s bedroom empty, they have come into the area below the King’s balcony to demand he hand her over.
I glance at Marie Antoinette, who is astute enough to realise what has happened.
‘It was me they wanted,’ she says quietly.
No one replies.
‘Where are my guard?’ asks the Queen, in a voice that suggests she knows the answer.
The King steps forward. ‘Those brutes murdered your guard,’ he says. ‘Have no fear, they will be pun
ished.’ His eyes drift to Lafayette. ‘Fortunately,’ continues the King, ‘we have our great general to protect us.’
The Queen’s eyes settle on Lafayette, the General she ousted from court for his bad dress sense. She swallows and straightens her back.
‘I am obliged to you …’ she begins, but her voice catches.
Lafayette moves forward and bows graciously. ‘Your Majesty,’ he murmurs, avoiding her eye. ‘It is my pleasure to serve you.’
Humiliated tears run down the Queen’s face; she brushes them away angrily and walks to the window. Musket fire whistles from outside, and she steps back quickly, shocked.
The door opens and the royal children are shepherded in, tearful and frightened. They run to their mother and cling to her. The Queen’s face softens, the vacant look replaced by something infinitely sadder.
‘Can you help us?’ she asks Lafayette. ‘Might we leave the palace unseen?’
Lafayette glances at the King then back to Marie Antoinette. ‘I am sorry, Your Majesty,’ he says. ‘It is too late. The mob have surrounded the entire palace. They will easily notice a carriage leaving.’
‘They would dare chase a royal carriage?’ Two pink spots appear in Marie Antoinette’s cheeks.
‘Your Majesty, they will drag you from the vehicle and kill you,’ says Lafayette bluntly. ‘There is no sense in leaving your children motherless.’
The princess begins crying at this and clings tighter to Marie Antoinette’s skirts. Her brother tries for a frightened stoicism.
The Queen’s mouth opens and shuts wordlessly, as though a reality she has long dismissed is suddenly, awfully real. The King says nothing. The Queen glares at Lafayette, as though he is to blame for unsettling her children.
‘Perhaps we could get the Queen and the royal children to safety,’ suggests an advisor. ‘A disguise could be engineered. The King would follow later.’
‘I shall not sneak away like a fugitive, without my husband,’ says Marie Antoinette, as her children continue to wrap themselves into her skirts. ‘I have done nothing wrong, only love my people.’ She rubs at her temples. ‘How long until the men are here?’ she asks. ‘Lafayette’s soldiers?’