Sovay

by Celia Rees

  The Hôtel Fonteneau had once been a very grand house, but the marble floors in the hallway were chipped and dulled with dust and grime. Struts were missing from the balustrade of the wide staircase, the pale green silk wallpaper was marked with water stains and smeared with dirty handprints.

  The state rooms were bare, the furnishings looted or removed. Little remained below the decorated ceilings to bear witness to the building’s former status, except cracked mirrors and painting-shaped spaces on the walls. They passed from apartment to apartment, their footfalls echoing over lengths of smeared and scuffed wooden floors which must once have been polished as bright as mirrors. Since the armies of servants had been dispersed, there was no one left to polish and sweep, clean and tend.

  At the far end of the last room, a man sat in shirtsleeves, working at a desk piled high with papers that at any moment threatened to spill onto the floor. He stood up as they approached. His face was pale and tired, the skin drawn and greyish. He was wearing spectacles and his hair was sparse, receding from his forehead, the few fair strands streaked with grey. As he came towards them, Sovay realised with a shock that it was M Fernand, Hugh’s old tutor. She could not recall ever having seen him without his crisp, flaxen wig before and could hardly find the handsome young man she remembered in that prematurely aged and careworn face.

  ‘My dear, dear friends! Welcome! I thought that I would not see you again!’ His voice shook with emotion as he clasped Virgil warmly by the hand and embraced Hugh as if he was his own son. He smiled when he came to Sovay, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘And this must be Sovay! You look so different. So changed!’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Quite the young lady now!’ He put his arms round brother and sister. ‘We must talk, but first you must eat. You have had a long journey. You must be hungry.’

  He took them down to the kitchen where they made a supper of bread, cheese and saucisson.

  ‘Peasant food, I’m afraid, but it is all we can get. There are such shortages. We have wine, though.’ He filled their glasses. ‘Now. To business.’ His face grew grave. ‘Things have got worse, much worse since you left. Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety have taken leave of their senses. Truly. They see conspiracy everywhere. Now, to merely be suspected of anything counter to the Revolution, no matter how innocent-seeming or trivial, is enough to get one brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal.’ He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘To be tried by them bears no relation to trials as you know them. In Britain, even the lowliest, most vicious prisoner is allowed a lawyer and a defence; witnesses are called, for and against, before the jury decides. Here things are different. Once the accusation is made, the Tribunal decides. They are fanatical in their prosecution of the Revolution.’ He closed his eyes, the lids papery in the lamplight. ‘Since there is no defence, no lawyers are involved, no witnesses called. The alternatives are stark. It is acquittal or death. They rarely acquit and the death sentence is carried out within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Since when is this?’ Virgil asked.

  ‘Since 22 Prairial by the Revolutionary Calendar – 10th of June by the old reckoning.’ He glanced up at Sovay, in case she was unfamiliar with this new way of dividing the year. ‘Life grows everyday more perilous. For all of us. No one is safe.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘No one.’

  ‘And my father?’

  Hugh leaned forward, searching his old tutor’s face. The man paused before answering, as if gathering the last of his strength. Then he reached over to Hugh and Sovay, taking their hands in his long, thin, scholar’s fingers.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. He has been arrested and brought to Paris.’

  Fernand’s words echoed round the empty room like a death knell. Hugh went white, his lips trembled and his eyes filled with sudden tears.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the Luxembourg, where he lies gravely ill. There is hope in that.’ Fernand gave a bitter, ghost of a smile. ‘They do not like to try those who cannot understand their sentence. Such strange days we live in.’ He gave a despairing lift of the shoulders. ‘That it should all end like this.’

  ‘We must go to him!’ Hugh was on his feet.

  ‘You cannot go now. You have had a long and trying journey and, besides, they would not admit you.’

  ‘Surely, M Fernand,’ Sovay felt as though her heart was being wrenched from her, ‘there must be something we can do?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Fernand relented. He did not want to give out false hope but hated to see his young friends so distressed. ‘There are many more awaiting trials than can be accommodated. Some wait for months. Let us hope your father is one of those. And with his illness . . . Until the blade falls there is always hope. Tomorrow, we will see what can be done. Meanwhile, Hugh, perhaps you would show Sovay to her accommodation? You will find rooms on the second floor.’

  ‘No need to worry them further,’ Fernand said to Virgil after they had left. ‘But they are unlikely to see their father. The prisons no longer allow visitors. No one is admitted except to a cell.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The American stretched out his long legs, his grey-blue eyes distant as he turned over the problem. There would be a way. There was always a way. ‘I have another matter,’ he said eventually. ‘Do you know this man?’

  He pushed over the slip of paper that Léon had given him.

  ‘Yes.’ Fernand studied it. ‘He’s a journalist. Used to work for Marat’s scandal sheet. Specialises in lies and slander. If he can’t find anything, he makes it up. Or forges it.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. Where can I find him?’

  ‘He lives above a printer’s on the Left Bank somewhere, but you’ll likely find him in the wine shops of St Germain. What do you want with him?’

  Virgil shrugged. ‘He might be able to help with something.’ He leaned forward. ‘Those two are in more trouble than you know.’ He told Fernand about Dysart. ‘He has spies everywhere. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out that they are here. Sovay is travelling as my fiancée.’ He waved away Fernand’s congratulations. ‘A matter of convenience only, unfortunately.’ He laughed. ‘I doubt the lady has feelings for me and I’m promised elsewhere, more’s the pity. I’ll own that I’ve grown fond of her. I fear being affianced to me will afford but flimsy protection. I would like to find a better way of keeping her from harm.’

  Sovay was shown to a cavernous chamber which must once have been a grand bedroom, but all the original furnishings had been removed, apart from a great armoire that was probably too heavy to shift, although the doors had been taken, for some inexplicable reason. Other than that, there was a battered washstand holding a chipped basin, and a rickety table and chair. Her bed was small, most likely brought down from the servants’ quarters upstairs. She was so tired that she lay down upon it fully clothed and slept almost immediately.

  She was torn from sleep by a sudden scream and woke thinking that she was back in her room at Compton, and had heard the cry of a vixen in the park, but the bed was too narrow, the huge room too empty. The shriek she had heard had been human and had come from the street outside.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next day, there was blood splashed on the wall and across the pavement outside.

  ‘It is dangerous to be on the streets at night,’ Virgil said with a grimace. ‘Here you see the evidence.’ They were on their way to the Luxembourg. It had been a grand palace, built for Catherine de Medici, but like all the royal palaces, it had been confiscated for the use of the people. While Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety held their meetings in the Tuileries, the King’s old residence, the Luxembourg had been made into a prison. Until recently, conditions in there had been relaxed, even pleasant compared with other prisons. It was said to be the best brothel in Paris, Virgil told them, and anyone with money could be assured of a decent apartment and have food sent in from the local restaurants, but recently such laxity had been considerably tightened.


  ‘We are unlikely to gain admittance,’ he warned. ‘It is difficult now even to get messages in or out, but we will see what can be done.’

  Despite what Virgil told them, Sovay had been buoyed up by the expectation that they would obtain word about their father, might even be able to see him and be reunited, if only for a moment, but they were summarily turned away from the Luxembourg’s grand, imposing facade, their hopes dashed. No one was allowed in or out. No letters could be taken, no messages conveyed to those held inside. Pleading was pointless. The guards were stern and steadfast in their purpose and implied that further protestation would result in their own imprisonment.

  In the end, Sovay had to drag Hugh away. He was dangerously close to losing his temper at the guards’ surly obduracy and was very likely to end up joining their father inside. Perhaps it was the stricken look on her face, or her beauty, or her dignified demeanour, but one of them softened and called her back.

  ‘Go into the gardens,’ he said, with a jerk of his head. ‘From there you might get a glimpse of him, or him of you. That’s what others do and it’s as near as you are going to get, Citizeness.’

  Sovay thanked him and led Hugh away. Sure enough, the park was filled with people of all estates, men and women, old and young. Some walked up and down in a constant parade, others stood with the stillness of statues, all had their faces turned upwards, their eyes fixed on the high windows opposite. Some spoke, in a conversational tone, as if to an invisible companion, others yelled and bellowed, their voices echoing back upon themselves. An old man stared in silence. A young woman held up her infant as if to be blessed.

  People crowded the windows of the upper storeys of the Luxembourg. Sovay could see mouths opening and closing, but glass and distance rendered the speakers dumb and their features indistinct, their faces as undifferentiated as a row of pegs.

  ‘This is hopeless!’ Hugh declared. ‘Hopeless!’

  Nevertheless, he continued to stare upwards. Sovay joined him, caught up by the same despairing expectation as all the rest.

  Meanwhile, Virgil was watching the traffic to and from the palace. Although no visitors were admitted, tradesmen brought food and goods, newspaper vendors delivered papers. In among the comings and goings, one young woman caught his eye. She was a pretty girl and very young, her smooth, brown hair caught up under a white cap. Her sober clothes were worn and faded, but she did not look like a servant or a shop girl. She carried a basket and approached the gates with confidence. The guards seemed to know her. They did not turn her away, rather they seemed well disposed to her, smiling and even holding the door for her as she slipped into the building. Virgil set himself to wait for her to re-emerge. Sure enough, after a little over a quarter of an hour, she returned, her basket now empty.

  She stepped out quickly, eyes cast down. Then she unfolded a piece of paper and began to study it.

  Virgil found Sovay and took her by the arm.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘No time for explanations. Quick, or she will get away.’

  They left Hugh to his vigil and followed the girl. She was moving briskly, already melting through the restless crowd. They followed her down Rue Garancière and around the imposing bulk of St Sulpice. From here, she took the Rue des Canettes towards St Germain. Virgil walked faster, fearing that if she disappeared into the tangle of streets they would lose her altogether. She turned one corner, then another into Rue Jacob. Finally she slowed her pace and stopped outside an apothecary shop, its windows filled with decorated jars and bottles. She unfolded the note she was carrying, as if to check again what was on it.

  ‘Citizeness!’ Virgil called to her. ‘A word if I may.’

  She started round, her large brown eyes full of apprehension. If Sovay had not been with him, she would have bolted into the shop, but the sight of another woman relaxed her a little.

  ‘Forgive me for approaching you,’ Virgil went on quickly. ‘But were you lately at the Luxembourg?’

  She nodded, her eyes widening, her wariness returning. ‘You followed me?’

  ‘With no ill intent, I do assure you, but I could not help but notice that you were one of the few to gain admittance.’

  ‘Yes, my father is a doctor. Every day he sends out for medicines. I take the list to the apothecary here and carry the medicines back to the prison.’

  ‘This young lady’s father,’ Virgil indicated Sovay, ‘is in the Luxembourg.’

  ‘I’d like to help you,’ the girl looked from Virgil to Sovay, ‘but there are so many . . .’ She frowned, as if she could see them all before her.

  ‘He is sick,’ Virgil went on. ‘Gravely so. And we are desperate for news of him. As a doctor, perhaps your father will know of him and could tell us how he does.’

  ‘He might.’ The girl’s apprehension was creeping back, as though she feared a trap. ‘We are not allowed to carry messages. Such things are forbidden by the authorities.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Virgil shook his head. ‘We ask nothing of the kind. We –’

  ‘We just want word that he is alive,’ Sovay interrupted. ‘Please.’

  The girl considered this appeal from one daughter to another and her face cleared.

  ‘I will see what I can do. What is his name?’

  ‘Middleton. John Middleton.’

  ‘Milord Anglais? Your father?’ The girl looked shocked. ‘It is not safe for you! Meet me here tomorrow. At the same time. I should have news by then.’

  She turned to go into the shop, but Virgil detained her.

  ‘One thing further. Do you live around here?’

  ‘Not far. I have rooms on Rue Monsieur Le Prince. It is cheap there and near Father.’

  ‘Do you know this man?’ Virgil showed her the name Léon had given him.

  She nodded. ‘He lives above the printer’s down by the Cordeliers.’

  ‘Thank you. Much obliged.’ Virgil gave a slight bow. ‘Who is this man?’ Sovay asked as they left the girl.

  ‘I have a plan – to incriminate Dysart. If we can find evidence to show his connection to the Revolution, then we can still discredit him.’

  The place wasn’t hard to find, but the printer warned them that they would not find him at home.

  ‘Wine shop next door.’ He hardly looked up from his press. The place filled with the sharp, pungency of fresh ink as he began turning the machine.

  The man, Lefere, was short in stature but solidly built with fleshy features and lank, greying hair swept back from his high forehead. His black suit was crumpled and greasy, his shirt stained with wine and his neckcloth none too clean.

  ‘Citizen? A word, if I may. In private.’

  They went back to Lefere’s rooms, following him up steep, narrow stairs. The building was much older than it looked from the outside, the ceilings and walls hatched with thick, black crooked beams.

  ‘Now,’ the man turned, wheezing as they reached his attic rooms at the top of the stairs, ‘what’s this all about?’

  ‘I’ve heard that you find information.’

  ‘I have been known to,’ the man cackled. ‘I am a journalist.’

  ‘I’ve heard that you collected information concerning Fabre and Danton and their connection with the British Government.’

  ‘I follow the example set by Citizen Marat, before his sad martyrdom.’ The man’s expression became pious. ‘I am pleased to do my part to expose any enemy of the Revolution.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ Virgil sighed at his hypocrisy. ‘In that investigation, did you come across correspondence from Robert Dysart?’

  ‘The English spy master? Bien sûr.

  ’

  Virgil took a purse from his pocket.

  ‘Good. I need a sample of his hand. I’ve also heard that you have a happy knack of uncovering vital evidence, even if the necessary documents are missing, or cannot be found.’

  ‘I hope you are not suggesting I would forge something!’ Lefere did
his best to look indignant at the very thought.

  ‘For the right fee, of course.’

  Lefere’s protests subsided at the chink of coin and his small blue eyes grew narrow at the sight of gold spilling onto the table.

  ‘This is what I will need from you . . .’

  As the man listened to what Virgil had to say, he began to sweat. His eyes flickered with fear, but could not help but stare at the coins piling up before him.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ he said, licking his lips. ‘It will take time to get what you describe. Besides that, I will need official paper, stamps.’

  ‘I will take care of that.’ Virgil neatened the gleaming column, as careful as a banker. ‘You have a week.’ He pushed the pile of coins towards the journalist. ‘Get what I need and this will be doubled.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Lefere’s hand shot out, his stubby fingers closing round the gold as if it might disappear by magic.

  ‘If it works, we will catch Dysart at his own game.’ Virgil smiled at Sovay as they walked down to the Seine.

  ‘If it works.’ Sovay was not so convinced. ‘Dysart is a spy master, after all. Evidence to show that he has been in touch with the Revolutionary powers here will merely show that he was doing his job.’

  ‘Depends on what that evidence is, doesn’t it?’ Virgil took her arm. ‘I will see you home, then I must make my deliveries. The coffee and sugar especially. They are destined for Citizen Robespierre. They call him the Incorruptible, but he has a weakness for coffee. It would be well to feed his craving. It might be the one thing that keeps us safe.’

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘Idon’t know where they are. How many times do I have to tell you?’ Gabriel answered with quiet patience. ‘I don’t know anything about any conspiracy. I am a steward. Why would Sir John, or his family, confide in me?’

  ‘You are here, Stanhope. They are not. They saved themselves and left you to suffer the blame. Is it not always the way of their class? They do not care about you. Why should they? You are merely a servant. Why should you care about them? Why do you protect them?’