by Jamie Carie
The men circled around Christophé and Jasper, while Vonriot reached for the papers. A long moment went by while he smoothed them out and studied them. Scarlett held herself very still as one man looked around the area and then up. André started to move. Scarlett prayed as never before, begging God for peace to flood her and the babe. As she relaxed so, too, did André.
The leaves were thick, their clothes were dark, but Scarlett knew that if the man looked closely enough, he would find them.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
Other voices joined the questioner, and Scarlett looked down. A finger pointed up into the tree. She blinked and blinked again, numb now.
There, just below, was a malevolent gaze staring straight into her eyes.
IT WAS 8 Thermidor, according to the Révolutionary calendar, a sunny day just before noon. Robespierre rose from his seat in the packed national Convention hall to give the speech he had labored over all night. It was time to strike.
He could feel their eyes upon him as he stepped up to the rostrum. His hand rose to find his green spectacles buried in his white powdered wig. He shook the glasses free, settling them on the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat and began.
It took two full hours to say everything he had to present. His words were slow, laborious, and carefully meted out with just the right note of reproach toward the Convention members for their neglect at snuffing out the conspirators. He didn’t like to think of their end, how they would die, he only considered them an evil that must be sponged away from the virtue of the people. He paused after an especially weighty sentence to raise his spectacles and meet each man’s eyes, as if he were able by just looking at them to see the truth in their nature and name them enemy or friend.
The end of his speech became more personal. He rebutted the title dictator, as some had secretly called him. His was a life laid down for his country. Those that called him names were vipers and snakes and must be punished.
He paused to look about the crowded room of friends and foes, but before he could go on someone shouted out, “We must examine the accusations made toward these people you mention. We need a careful and rigorous examination!”
Robespierre was taken aback. He had always been able to convince them to the point of clapping, stomping, cheering heights for anything he presented to the Convention. It was why he sweated and struggled so over his speeches. To make certain they were perfect and unquestionable. He felt a slip of fear, like a dark shadow, pass over his body. Rallying, he blasted the man for his audacity.
A small group began to clap. Just as Robespierre was prepared to allow his lips to curve into the semblance of a relieved smile, another man stood, Bourdon de l’Oise. “I demand proof before any names are publicly announced.”
Robespierre struggled to sustain his calm—this was Joseph Fouché’s friend, both names on his list of conspirators.
A third man strode up to the rostrum and moved Robespierre aside. “This is our enemy,” he bellowed. “Judge him! Judge Robespierre!”
Robespierre turned and walked out of the hall.
The next day Robespierre went back to the Convention ready to name names. Saint-Just, his right hand for the last few years, had agreed to be the one to read the list. Robespierre watched with satisfaction as the young man took the rostrum. Working together, they would convince these men of the conspirators and then . . . then Robespierre would be safe.
But as Saint-Just launched into the demands for punishment of such evil, another man rose and rushed the stage, demanding to speak. Saint-Just yelled back, but the president for the day rang his bell with such force that every time Saint-Just opened his mouth, no one could hear him. Finally Saint-Just gave up.
In a panic Robespierre watched as several other men, one after the other, spoke against them. When he rose to make his own way to the front to defend himself, he was shoved aside. When he tried to yell out his request to speak, the bell rang and rang and rang, until finally, he gave up too.
Suddenly someone stood and said the words Robespierre hadn’t allowed himself to consider he might ever hear. “Arrest Robespierre!”
Robespierre watched as his place in the universe swayed, groaned, and then crashed down around his head. It was gone—all of his power and authority and strength. He watched as if from another place as the men voted to arrest Robespierre and Saint-Just.
Hours later Robespierre sat in a stupor in an upper room of the Hotel de Ville. There were several men in the room—Lescot-Fleuriot, Payan, Couthon, and others—who still believed in him. They took turns pleading with him to make an appeal or raise up an army to fight.
He sat there and stared at the scarred wooden table and the quickly written pages they had drawn up for him to sign. How could he sign them? He was without authority. The law—the very law he had painstakingly written almost single-handedly over the last two years, the law that he had breathed out of his own mouth in speeches and small gathering talks—that law said that he was accused of treason, without the ability to defend himself, without recourse. Just as the thousands of others who had been accused and guillotined without proof or defense. And the law said the penalty for his sin was death. A penalty he himself had doled out more times than he could count.
How could he now take the coward’s way of signing his name on a document as if he were still a deputy of the Committee? To do so was to spit in his own face and call himself the greatest of liars.
He looked around at the men who were willing to fight for him and felt nothing but disgust. They were as children, begging for a reprieve from punishment. Robespierre loved the law. Worshipped it. It kept him safe so long as he could keep each letter of it. Now . . . he realized his god had turned on him and abandoned him.
Just as his mother and father had.
The men in the room turned as they all heard a commotion coming up the stairs. Philippe Le Bas, a look of terror on his face, pulled out a gun, raised it to his head, and shot. The men jerked, fell back, cries coming from their throats as the force neared the door. Augustin, Robespierre’s younger brother, turned, ran, and jumped through a window. Gobeau raised a stiletto, turned it on himself, and plunged it into his chest.
Robespierre lifted the pistol that he always carried with him to his mouth. As the door burst open, he, too, escaped in the only way left to him.
He pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirty-One
André was miserable, going in and out of fits of sobbing, cries that made the men look at Scarlet as if they might, at any moment, use the saber on the end of one of their rifles to silence him. Christophé’s anger burned within him each time they eyed her.
Every time the babe began crying, Scarlett panicked, slowed to jostle him, to take him from the sling to hold in different positions. The guards had tied all of their hands except Scarlett’s, as she was the only one allowed to carry her son. Christophé could tell that the added weight and walking all night, combined with the fear of what was to come, had such a crushing effect on her body that she could hardly keep her trembling legs from collapsing.
And then the worst. The bleeding had increased so that she left a dripping trail in her wake.
Christophé saw the blood and started to speak, but then stopped as they all heard horses approaching. The soldiers backed them off the road, their rifles aimed and ready. When they saw the uniform of the Patriots, Vonriot ordered the men guarding them to lower their weapons.
The riders dismounted and approached. “Henri Vonriot, lay down your weapons. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“What?” The startled man pushed forward. “By whose authority and on what charges?”
“By the authority of the Convention. Robespierre has been arrested, along with Saint-Just and all of his followers. You are to come with us immediately.”
As the commander of the small force spoke, all the blood drained from Vonriot’s face. Scarlett looked at Christophé, eyes wide and panicked.
Christophé
shook his head slightly, stilling her.
Vonriot looked at his men, pulled a pistol suddenly from his belt and raised it to his head.
The crack of the shot jerked through Christophé’s body. He saw Scarlett jerk, and André’s frightened wails filled the woods around them. The officer looked momentarily shocked, and then disgusted. He motioned for his men to gather the weapons of the others.
“Who are these prisoners?” he demanded, looking at Stacia for an extra moment.
One of the other officers under Vonriot spoke up. “We have their passports here. They say they are scientists on the way to London for a scientific meeting.” His voice shook, and Christophé wagered the man thought he might be going to one of the many prisons in France now.
“Why did you arrest them?”
“We have reason to believe the passports are forged.”
“Let me see the papers.”
The officer took his time looking them over. “They appear authentic to me.” He pointed to Christophé. “Explain yourself and your business.”
Christophé launched into his practiced speech, almost yelling to be heard above the crying of the baby. When he finished, they all waited while the man weighed his words—but his gaze kept swinging back to Stacia.
“You will go with us to Paris where we can look into the authenticity of your tale.”
Scarlett struggled against tears at the officer’s pronouncement. She glanced up and caught him looking at her with clear concern. “You will ride with me,” he said in a tight voice. He looked around at his men. “Untie the prisoners and use the bindings on the soldiers. We will send someone back for Vonriot’s body.”
Soldiers came to help Scarlett onto the man’s horse, hoisting her to sit in front of him sideways, practically on his lap. One of his arms supported her, keeping her from falling. She looked down from the height and noticed Christophé looking at the man like he would like to land a solid punch on his pretty face. She quickly looked away, afraid of what might happen next. As she watched, her mother was lifted, with some huffing and puffing from the soldier doing the lifting, onto another man’s horse. Émilie was assigned to a young, thin man’s care—the soldier looked barely older than she. Stacia climbed nimbly onto the horse of a handsome, young man, who promptly wrapped one of his arms around her waist, clearly pretending it was because she might need his aid to stay balanced.
Scarlett did not miss the glared warning the commander gave the man.
If she wasn’t so terrified of what might come next, Scarlett would have allowed the bubble of hysterical laughter to escape her throat. Instead, she held on to the horse’s mane with one hand and André with the other, and prayed she wouldn’t fall off. As they started back down the road to Paris, the man behind her asked, “When was the last time the poor little fellow ate something?”
Scarlett looked up over her shoulder. The man looked to be in his early thirties. He had short-cropped, dark hair, hazel-green eyes, a square chin and dimples when he smiled. Well, he hadn’t exactly smiled, but she could tell he would have dimples if and when he did. She pressed her lips together. “I’ll not feed him now. On a horse, with you looking down over my shoulder.”
“Suit yourself. I just thought it would make for a quieter ride.” There was underlying laughter in his voice.
“It hasn’t been that long. He will not starve.” Suddenly she frowned and looked back at him. “You sound as if you know something about children. Do you have children?”
“Three. My wife died some time ago. I am raising them alone.” He shrugged and grinned down at her. “As you can imagine, I have had some experience with babies.”
“Where are they now?”
“Tucked away at home. My sister keeps them when I am away.”
“What is your name? Perhaps we’ve met.” Scarlett needed to know if this man knew or could easily discover her relation to Robespierre.
“No. We haven’t met before. I would have remembered that. My name is Antoine Laroche. But what of you? Who is the father of this squalling babe?”
Scarlett remembered their fake passports and the story they’d all memorized. “My name is Scarlett Burlier.” She gestured back to Christophé, who was working hard to keep up with the horse and them. “That man is my husband.” She looked up at the man behind her, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her. “He is a great scientist. His mind is . . . a natural phenomenon.”
Antoine cast a brief glance back at Christophé. “Were you really going to London for science? No one thinks of those things anymore.”
“Do you think so?” Scarlett dimpled. “Well, there is one other reason.” She pointed toward Stacia. “My sister is unmarried and looking for a husband. She hasn’t had any luck in Paris, so we thought to look in London.”
“Doesn’t she like French men?”
“Of course! But French men are only enamored of the Révolution. Few seem to care about love these days.”
“There are some who care about family and love.”
“Really?” Scarlett let her eyes widen. “And might you be one of those men?”
“I might be.” He cast a long glance at Stacia, and Scarlett felt a spark of hope.
“Perhaps I should introduce you.” It certainly couldn’t hurt their cause to have this man interested in her sister.
“Perhaps you should.” He smiled, showing perfect white teeth and looked down at Scarlett.
He did, indeed, have very nice dimples.
“Tell me of the arrest you spoke of. I know so little of politics, but I have, of course, heard of the famed Robespierre.”
“His time as ruler is over.” There was satisfaction in Antoine’s voice. “He will be taken where he has sent so many others.”
“Where is that?” Scarlett knew, but needed to hear the answer.
“To the guillotine.”
THE LEADERS OF the Convention stared at the carnage in the room.
At one time they were a united force, building a new government, a new country. Now four men, those who’d chosen to follow Robespierre, lay on the floor, bleeding horribly. Two had escaped through the windows, so they would have to search for them to see if they were still alive. One man sat in a chair, his eyes wide with horror.
Robespierre didn’t know how it could have happened. He was still alive. The bullet that was aimed for his brain had turned somehow, maybe a jerk of the pistol as these men burst through the door. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know anything except unfathomable pain.
His jaw was shattered, blood spurted from his chin to drip in a long line down his neck. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t swallow, he could barely breathe as pain and panic washed over him in waves of unremitting fear.
The men surrounded them and took stock, lifting the maimed from the floor. Saint-Just stood to one side, the only one of them uninjured, still pristine in his gray breeches, white shirt, and waistcoat. The Angel of Death, they called him. He alone stood perfect as if, indeed, he possessed otherworldly powers.
Robespierre was heaved up and carried by his wrists and ankles to a table where they laid him. Time made no sense as he lay, in and out of consciousness, for what seemed like hours. At one point, he thought a face bent over him and mockingly commented, “There is a God.”
As the morning sun slanted through the tall windows, two surgeons came in and bent over him. They mumbled between themselves and then one took up a long, thick needle. One of them cleaned his face then opened his mouth and yanked out the loose teeth. Robespierre groaned with the agony as they held his mouth open and began to dig for the lodged bullet in his jaw. Why they would bandage him up only to cut off his head, he didn’t know. For the first time, he thought of all the men and women he had personally sent to the guillotine, what their last moments might have been like.
His body shook uncontrollably while they did their work. He couldn’t look at them and he couldn’t close his eyes, so he only looked up and stared as hard as he could at the plaster ceiling of the room. F
inally he heard the bullet drop into a metal cup. Fresh blood gushed down his face, which the surgeon staunched with wads of linen. His entire skull felt ready to burst as they wrapped strips of bandages around his head, from under his chin to the top of his head, to hold the jaw in place.
He couldn’t talk.
His voice, that which had been the phoenix of his life, was ruined. There would be no hope of salvation now. If only they had let him speak! It was the only thing his father had given him. Oh, if only they had let him speak.
It was his last thought as he fell back into unconsciousness.
THEIR PARTY OF soldiers, prisoners, and suspects turned onto the Rue Saint-Honoré. Scarlett had dozed off and came awake with a jerk, realizing that she was leaning against Antoine’s broad chest. He pointed ahead of them. “Look.”
Scarlett stared at the masses of people running to fill the street. She straightened in her seat, peering ahead. “What is happening?”
“Do you see the carts up ahead?”
She nodded, swallowing hard, recognizing a familiar light-blue coat. They were taking a group to the guillotine.
“Who is it?” She asked, but she knew.
“Listen to the crowd.”
“Death to the king!” A woman near them shouted, her face a mask of hate. “Death to Robespierre!”
More insults were being shouted by everyone around them. The crowd was growing moblike with wild-eyed faces and rage-screaming voices. It seemed the whole world was aflame with hatred. Scarlett turned back and looked for Christophé. He was right behind them, looking exhausted but intense. Their eyes met. He pressed his lips together and motioned his head toward her.
“Let me down!”
“It’s not safe. You could be trampled.”