by Celia Rees
‘It did not begin like this,’ he said after a while. ‘Dealing death to ordinary people. We did not start the Revolution to make war on our fellow citizens. For you to react like that –’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sovay apologised for allowing herself to be overcome.
‘Not at all! It shows how far we have come that we tolerate such barbarism.’ He shook his head. ‘The things I have seen. The things I have done. In the Vendée, in Lyon. All in the name of that same Revolution.’ He passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away the memory that existed inside. ‘The slaughter you have just witnessed. Civilized compared with it. People blown to pieces by cannon fire, tied in long lines and fired upon with rifles, bound together naked and thrown into rivers, sent out in boats drilled full of holes. All done in the name of the Republic . . .’ His voice tailed away and he looked up, his green eyes dull and full of suffering, whether for himself, or for the victims, it was hard to tell. ‘There’s blood on my hands, too, Sovay.’ He looked away from her, down at his long fingers spread on the table. ‘I am a soldier. I follow orders, or that’s what I told myself. I no longer have a God from whom I can beg forgiveness. All I can do is hope to make reparation. That, one day, the people will forgive their misguided son.’
He drained his glass and poured more. He drank in silence. Sovay did not know how to break his brooding contemplation. No words of hers could bring solace or comfort, so she sat quietly, waiting for him to speak again.
‘Tell me of your home,’ he said eventually, as though remembering that she was there with him. ‘What is it like there?’
She told him about Compton, how much she had longed for adventure, but how much she missed the measured normality of that life now.
‘Do not seek excitement, lest you find it.’ He laughed. ‘I, too, come from the country. From Gascony. I was sent away as a small boy, to attend school here in Paris, but I never felt I belonged here. My heart was elsewhere, walking in the fields, hunting in the woods, fishing in the streams. I have faced death many times, and know that Gascony will be the last place I visit in my mind when it comes time to leave this life behind.’
‘Will you go back?’
He smiled. ‘Maybe sometime, when all this is over. I will take you there!’ He took her hand. ‘You will come with me! Although our lands are gone. Foxes look out of the chateau. There will be not much to see.’
‘Your family have all gone?’
‘To America, yes.’ His laugh was bitter. ‘The others to an even better place. I have no one. Nothing. I live on my soldier’s pay. When I get it. Like my men.’
‘Why did you not leave, too?’
‘Because I believe in the Revolution! I still hold to those first ideals!’ His green eyes lost their pebble dullness. ‘If you were there at the beginning, you would understand. To be there was to see the world split apart and a new one emerging. To see everything change. For ever.’ He looked at her, his eyes hard and bright, like polished agates. ‘To want equality, freedom, for all men – and women. How can that be wrong?’
‘I have heard the same words all my life, from my father, my brother, and I never doubted either, but to see what we have both just witnessed . . .’ She wanted to believe still, but the memory of the guillotine made her shudder.
‘It is hard to live through these days, it is true. But they are days only. They will soon pass. In the life, the history of a nation, what are days, weeks, months, years even? What began here, in 1789, will affect the whole world for centuries to come.’ He leaned forward, his green eyes intense. ‘What is happening now is an anomaly. It is a diversion, not part of that great movement of change. It has to stop. In the name of the Revolution. All this killing has to stop.’
‘Is that why you have returned?’ she asked.
‘Partly.’ His reply was noncommittal. He threw some money on the table. ‘But not my only reason. We will talk while we walk.’ He took her arm as they crossed the square. ‘This morning, my men picked up an English spy trying to leave the city. There was a scare in St Germain the other night, now there are English spies everywhere. We are besieged by them.’ He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in unspoken enquiry. ‘This particular fellow will say nothing of his mission, but the papers he carries have your name on them, Sovay.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At my headquarters. I will take you there. It is not far from here. Just across the river.’
The streets were still deserted, one side in shadow, the other in bright sunlight. They turned a corner to see a group of men were approaching. In the front were a burly pair of sans-culottes, in striped trousers and liberty caps, who walked with fixed purpose, eyes on the street, stout cudgels at the ready. The two behind them were dressed as gentlemen. The smaller one was exquisitely turned out in a sky-blue coat with lace at his neck and immaculate white stockings. Underneath his dazzlingly white wig, his small features were pinched in concentrated thought. He wore green eye glasses which caught the sun as he looked up at his taller companion who was, by contrast, dressed in black, blond-haired, extraordinarily good-looking and very young. As soon as he saw them, Léon put his arm round Sovay, pulling her close, as if they were lovers.
‘Saint-Just and Robespierre,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Do not stare.’
‘Citizens!’ he said and stepped out of the way to let them pass.
Deep in conversation, they did not return his greeting. Robespierre did not look up, only Saint-Just glanced in their direction. He had the face of an angel, with eyes as blue and empty as the sky.
‘Robespierre does not live far from here,’ Léon said. ‘In the house of Duplay the carpenter on Rue St Honoré. The family worship him. The place is a fortress. He is guarded day and night, doubly so since that girl, Cécile Renault, tried to kill him with a fruit knife. He sees conspiracy everywhere. Renault and her whole family have paid the price, but his eyes are in the wrong place. The threat will not come from the widows and servant girls the tumbrels bear every day, but from some of those most near to him. The tigers are beginning to fight. He has succeeded in uniting good men and bad against him. Idealists like your friend Fernand have been joined by rogues and scoundrels who fear they will be next. Who will go first to the guillotine? We have an expression: he who sows the wind reaps the storm.’
As Léon and Sovay continued along the narrow street, a man in uniform appeared round the corner accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man dressed in civilian clothes.
‘Merde! Hanriot and Carnot! They are all out today!’
‘Who are they?’
‘Carnot is on the Committee of Public Safety. Hanriot is Commandant of the Guard. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m dead if he sees me!’
He dodged into the sharp shadow of a doorway, pulling her after him. He swung her round so that her back was to the street and held her in a passionate embrace. His skin was rough against her cheek and his mouth tasted of wine. Sovay felt as though she was falling. She put her arms round his neck, weaving her fingers into the thickness of his soft, black hair. When, at last, he released her, she was slow to return to her surroundings, as if she was gradually resurfacing through shimmering layers of water.
‘Have they gone yet?’ she whispered.
He looked down at her, smiling. ‘Oh, they went a long time ago,’ he said, and gently replaced a lock of her long, dark hair, ‘but I fear others may follow.’
He took her in his arms again and pressed her against the wall. This time his kisses were softer, less hurried, but more searching and no less urgent. She returned his caresses with equal fervour. Her breath came faster, the strength of her passion sweeping through her. She was not aware of time passing, their embrace might have lasted hours or only a moment, but when he finally let her go, she knew that she was his, body and soul.
They went on together, arms round each other. Nobody looked twice at them, or pursed their lips in disapproval. Paris was a city for lovers, even the Revolution could not change that.
/> They crossed the river and walked along the quays before turning into one of the side streets. To Sovay, Paris was still somewhat of a maze, and looked different during the day, or she might have realised that she was near where she and Virgil had been the night before. Léon was taking her to his personal headquarters: some old noble family’s grand hôtel, seized by the Republic. A red flag flew next to the National Guard tricolour and Propriété Nationale, inscribed over the gate, obscured the ancient, weathered coat of arms. Two guardsmen stood, pikes crossed over the entrance. They jumped smartly to attention when they saw Léon and drew the pikes sharply back .
Sovay and Léon walked under the wide arch with its big swinging lantern and on into a paved courtyard. A flight of steps led up to an imposing front door. Above it, a shield showed a lion rampant, remarkably unweathered and not obscured by Republican paint.
‘Welcome to my family home,’ Léon said, and laughed.
The inside resembled a barracks. All grand accoutrements had been stripped away and off-duty guardsmen lounged around drinking wine and smoking pipes. Some gossiped together, while others played cards. A particularly lively game was going on in the corner, with loud exclamations of triumph followed by good-natured disagreement. As they came in, one of the guardsmen shouted, ‘Remove this fellow, Léon, before he takes us for everything we’ve got!’
‘Not yet!’ one of the other players objected. ‘Not before we’ve had a chance to win some of it back.’
Their opponent stood up and made a mock bow. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘And your money.’ He laughed as he made a show of counting the sheaf of black-and-white assignats that he had collected before folding them and putting them into his pocket. His smile died when he saw Sovay.
‘They caught me,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m sorry for it. Is there somewhere that we can talk?’
Léon took them into the room he was using for his office.
‘This used to be my mother’s drawing room.’ He looked around with faint nostalgia. ‘It has changed a bit from those days.’
The elegant furnishings had been removed, replaced by plain wooden chairs and tables. The primrose-and-white striped wallpaper was torn and marked with greasy fingerprints round the door and a grimy stripe at shoulder height. Various weapons: pikes, guns and swords, lay in boxes or stacked against the sides of the room.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Greenwood started.
‘Not like you,’ Sovay smiled, but he did not smile back at her.
‘I’m serious, Sovay. I’ve had a look at the letters.’ He patted his pocket. ‘Virgil is right. There’s enough to condemn Dysart, but he’s far from stupid and no one is more alert to changes around him. At the first whiff of suspicion, he will run for the coast. If he escapes, you will be in considerable jeopardy.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Sovay said quietly. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘No,’ Greenwood shook his head. ‘Come with me now. You have done enough.’
‘But it is not safe for me in England. Dysart is not defeated yet.’
‘I will get you out of the country, to Switzerland,’ Léon interjected. ‘You will be safe there with others who have fled from Paris.’
‘No! I will not leave while my father is held prisoner and Hugh faces who knows what dangers.’
‘Hugh can look after himself.’
‘What about Papa?’
‘There is nothing you can do for him.’ It was a brutal message, but Sovay knew the truth of it. ‘Would he not want you to be safe?’
‘Of course! But what am I to be kept safe for? The only people I care about in the world are here! Without them, my life will mean nothing. I am proscribed in my own country. I do not want to go back to skulk and hide, or to wait in another country until it is safe. When will that be?’ She turned to face him. ‘You did not run away. You stayed, even though your life has been in constant danger, to fight for what you believed in.’
‘That is different!’ He took her by the arms. ‘I am –’
‘A man! Is that what you were going to say? I will not be treated differently because I am a woman! Anyway, this is not about me. The most important thing is to get Greenwood away.’
‘Because I am a soldier – that is what I was going to say.’ He shrugged his defeat and turned to Greenwood who had been watching the exchange with frank interest. ‘She is right. You should go. The local Committee here is most zealous. Their leader is a Jacobin crony of Robespierre and he dislikes us being in his Section. We need to get you away before he gets wind of your presence. I will disguise you as one of my guardsmen.’
‘Good luck, beautiful,’ Greenwood whispered as he prepared to leave with Léon. ‘I told you it would happen,’ he said in English, nodding towards Léon. ‘I do believe you’ve met the man for you!’
‘What is he saying?’ Léon saw her blush and frowned at Greenwood.
‘Nothing,’ Sovay said. ‘Just telling me to keep safe.’
Just then, a guardsman appeared at the door.
‘Excuse me, Captain,’ he said, ‘but Dupré demands to see the English spy . . .’
‘Tell him to clear off,’ Léon growled. ‘He has no business here.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Citizen.’
A little man, his chest puffed with his own importance, strutted into the room, a soiled liberty cap like a rooster’s cockscomb perched on top of his large head. He was not alone, other members of his Committee crowded in with him, all here to see justice done.
One of their number stepped forward. Lefere. He pointed to Sovay, almost choking in his eagerness to make his accusation.
‘Her! That’s her! The English spy!’
Dupré looked up at the two National Guardsmen standing before him.
‘Good work, Citizens. I’ll take care of her from now on.’
As he took her by the arm, Léon reached for his sword. Greenwood stepped forward to join him. They were prepared to cut these men to pieces to save her. Sovay could see it in their eyes, the hard set of their jaws, and what would happen then?
She put a hand out to each of them, stilling their sword arms.
‘Thank you, Captain. Guardsman,’ she looked from one to the other, willing them not to jeopardise themselves. ‘But I cannot impose on you further.’ She turned to the men who had come to take her. ‘I am ready.’
CHAPTER 37
The place they took her to resembled a tavern, stinking of spilt wine, stale sweat and tobacco smoke. Dupré swept ends of sausage and crusts from a rough table for the waiting dogs to snarl over and the Committee took their seats. Sovay was not allowed to speak in her own defence. Her papers were dismissed as fakes. She was accused of being the daughter of a Milord Anglais and, de facto, a spy. Her appearance was used as supporting evidence. They squinted at her, pronouncing that she had an English look about her. At a time when a person could be arraigned for merely appearing aristocratic, failing to prosecute the Revolution with enough vigour, or thinking the wrong kind of thoughts, it was enough to condemn her many times over. She stared at them in mute defiance as they went through the motions of deliberation, scribbling on scraps of paper, heads together. They were as capable of administering justice as a troupe of gibbering apes. She found their posturing tiresome and just wanted the charade to end. She was guilty. She would appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal. When that would be, they could not say, but whenever it might be, it would be a formality. As far as these men were concerned, her life was over.
Two officers of the Paris police appeared and she was pushed into a carriage. One policeman rode inside, but he did not speak or answer her questions. She looked out of the window. The slogans, scrawled in dripping paint across the walls, seemed written in blood: L’Egalité, Fraternité, la République ou la Mort. She was beset by sudden apprehension, wondering which way they would go. Back across the Seine could take her to La Force, the scene of the worst of the September Massacres. She sank back with relief as the driver urged
the horses, turning away from the river.
As they bounced over the rough cobbles, she thought of Léon. He would have cut that man down as soon as look at him. What would have happened then? He would have been arrested for interfering in the Committee’s Revolutionary duty, Greenwood with him. She would still have been arrested. Dysart would have won. What she had done was for the best. He would save Greenwood, make sure Hugh knew of her arrest. But still . . . He might have done something. If this was a story, he would come galloping after her, fight the gendarmes, sweep her up into his arms, take her . . . Where? She had no idea. Some vague place of safety.
But this was not a story, it was real life. He was a man, a patriot, a soldier, strong and fearless, but he was just as powerless as her. Nothing that had so far happened brought home to Sovay the hopelessness of the situation, the helplessness of everyone in the face of these violent forces of unreason. Their destination began to gain superstitious significance. If they arrived at the Luxembourg, then there was hope for him, for her, for the both of them. If they were destined for some other dismal fortress, then all was lost. Looking out of the window again, she caught a glimpse of the huge towers of Notre Dame, the great cathedral now devoted to the worship of Reason. Sovay closed her eyes against the irony of that and offered a silent prayer to the deity who used to reside there. The Conciergerie, the most feared prison of all, was next to it. The only way out of there was by tumbrel. The coach slowed. She forced herself to confront her fate, but found they were held up by the press of people in the narrow streets. They were not going there after all.
‘Luxembourg.’ The policeman interpreted her apprehensive glances through the window. ‘That’s where you are going. You were supposed to go to the Conciergerie, but I owe Léon. He saved my brother’s life at Verdun. I changed the order for him.’
So Sovay was delivered to her place of incarceration. The receiving officer scarcely looked at her. She was one of a whole line of people waiting to be processed. He took down her details and she was dismissed as he passed on to the next. She was taken into a room, stripped and searched. She stood in her shift, determined not to show her humiliation while any shred of dignity and what little money she had was taken from her. She was allowed her clothes back with a curt ‘Cover yourself, Citizeness.’