by Anne Perry
He had stayed almost too long.
‘Run!’ she’d hissed in agony of fear for him. ‘I’ll stop them a moment. They don’t want me.’
He had hesitated.
‘Run!’ She had put up her hands to push him physically.
He’d caught her arms, holding her close to him. She could remember with a piercing sweetness the smell of his skin and hair, the touch of his lips on hers. Then he was gone, and the next minute the torches, burning red and yellow, and half a dozen Guards had come into the alley, mist swirling around them.
Célie had stepped forward, head high, eyes and voice steady. She must have a good lie ready.
‘What are you doing out at this time, Citizeness?’ the leader her demanded suspiciously. ‘You should be at home in your own bed!’
‘I know I should, Citizen,’ she’d said demurely. Then she’d looked up at him with a smile. ‘But there is someone else’s which is warmer, and much more fun.’
The man had wanted to disapprove, but in spite of himself he’d had to smile back at her.
One of the others had laughed.
‘Go on home, you baggage!’ the leader had said smartly, waving his arm. ‘It’s dangerous to be out here. There are wanted men around, enemies of the revolution.’
She had wanted to answer him, but it was wiser not to. You could never be entirely certain of anybody’s real loyalties.
‘I will,’ she’d promised. ‘Good night, Citizens.’
She did not know how far Georges had gone, or even for certain that he had escaped. She had slept only from exhaustion, and then it was broken fitfully with dreams of fear in which she was pressed in on all sides, watching helplessly as someone was executed. At first she was sure it was the King, then when she looked again she saw with heart-stopping horror that it was Georges.
Then it was time to get up. January 21 at last. It had come. No more waiting, no chance to change anything. She must be there with the others to crowd the carriage, to shout and press forward, making the exchange.
This was the day she did not ask anyone’s permission to leave the house. She simply went out, and walked alone in the thick, silent fog, down to the river, across the Pont St-Michel, past the Palais de Justice, and over the river again. She turned east until she came to the Hôtel de Ville, then up the long sweep of the Rue de Temple towards the prison at the end, where they had kept the King and his family. It towered in the distance, its four sharp pinnacles outlined against a grey sky.
Célie put her head down and walked into the slight wind. There was ice on the edge of it. It seemed right with the terror and anticipation that knotted her stomach.
The moment had come. It was too late for any further planning or changes of decision now. It was all to play for: win or lose. In an hour or so it would be over. The King would either be on his way out of the city, or they would all be on the steps of the guillotine, a moment from whatever lay in eternity: oblivion—or God.
The streets were not full. Maybe most people would be along the route the King would take in his last ride through his city, or in the Place de la Révolution beside the scaffold, finding their positions from which to witness the ultimate act.
She looked at the faces of the few there were, pinched with cold and hunger, but excited. There was a nervous energy in the air as if they were on the brink of something new and full of promise. Had they any real knowledge of what they were about to see? This would not be just one more execution: an ordinary, fat little man being sent from life to death in a matter of minutes. It would be the passing of an age, and everything good in it as well as all that was stupid and ugly and corrupt.
Had they any idea what would happen tomorrow, and in the days and weeks after? Did they know what war would be like, really like: the constant fear, night and day, and the hunger and the marching of enemy soldiers in the streets, the loss of those they loved, too often never learning what had happened to them, whether death had been easy or hard?
Célie was almost at the Temple now. It loomed over her, massive and dark in the drifting fog. There was an old man in front of her, standing bare-headed, his white hair plastered down. He squared his shoulders and stared at the gateway into the prison. His skin was whipped pink by the cold but his faded eyes did not waver. She did not need anyone to tell her he was a monarchist, and probably a Catholic; it was there in the quiet despair in his craggy features and the unbending pride. He had come alone to watch the end of the world which he had known destroyed piece by precious piece—all the old ideas he had lived by and loved—mocked, denied and at last torn apart. He probably still believed God had placed Louis XVI on the throne of France to rule it by divine appointment, and this was not only regicide but blasphemy as well.
She hoped he would not show it. That would be a public offence, and very probably end with him being jeered at, even arrested himself. Or perhaps he would not mind that, even count it a privilege to be accused of such loyalty?
She admired him for that—if it were true. It was stupid, of course. If he were noticed it would be another pointless death; but the ability to care for anything with such integrity was a purpose in itself.
The streets towards the Place de la Révolution were lined with National Guardsmen in their blue and white, with their tricolour cockades, but the scene was all peculiarly lifeless. All windows and shutters on the houses were closed, by order of the Commune, and the fog seemed to shroud everything.
Célie wondered if Menou were here, and what he felt: no doubt something more complex than simple jubilation at a republican victory, the ultimate triumph of the common man over all kings. Maybe it would be the last thing they could celebrate for a while. If she and Georges and Briard failed, then in a few weeks the Convention would have their hands full with war. This was the time of great promises, but soon, when they had the ultimate power, they would have to deliver all the peace and justice and prosperity they had been talking about all this time.
There were lots of armed citizens around as well, standing to attention holding pikes or muskets. Would they have to stay here? Or would they all be allowed to troop down to the guillotine, that most mercifully intended invention of Deputy Joseph Ignace Guillotin, who had sought to make death as quick and as painless as possible, to avoid for evermore the bungling and torture of the wheel or rope. Once beheading had been available only to the aristocracy. Now it was freely available to any—and everybody.
There was a movement in front of her, a rustle of sudden attention. The gates of the Temple prison had swung open. A man appeared, ashen-faced, paunchy, barely of average height. He walked slowly towards the large, green carriage which was waiting on the cobbles. God in heaven—he looked like Briard! Célie’s stomach clenched at the sight of him. She almost expected to see Briard’s blue eyes, but she was too far away.
In front of her the old man’s breath caught in his throat with a sob.
Célie stared ahead. She had never seen the King before. He walked slowly, as if he needed all his concentration simply to place one foot in front of the other without stumbling.
Twice he turned and looked back at the tower of the prison, and his grief was unmistakable in every line of his body.
‘That woman and her children are up there,’ someone said behind Célie. ‘But we’ll have them too.’ He hawked and spat his contempt.
A sudden, unaccountable rage boiled up inside Célie. She had no love for the King. He had no more right to life or happiness than anyone else, and he had certainly behaved like a fool. He had largely brought this upon himself. But at this moment, beaten finally, he was merely a fat, pale little man taking leave of his family for the last time on earth. All she could feel for him was pity, and the passionate need within herself for some knowledge of dignity.
She turned and glared at the man who had spoken, but he was not looking at her, and she could think of nothing to say which would reach any humanity in him.
The air was full of swirling moisture, and bitterly co
ld. Célie’s whole body was shivering and her feet were numb. It would not be long now till she would have to force her way right up to the carriage, even perhaps be the one to yank the door open. She must watch all the time for Georges, and Briard.
The King climbed into the green carriage, accompanied by his ‘citizen minister of religion,’ as priests were known these days. Célie had heard that this one was an Irishman called Henry Essex Edgeworth.
Two gendarmes got in opposite and closed the doors with a thud. The carriage began to move forward, preceded by a number of drummers who seemed determined to make so much noise that even if there had been anyone brave enough to shout ‘Long live the King!,’ it would have been drowned out.
The old man with the white hair started to walk, keeping pace with his monarch, pushing through the crowd.
Célie followed after him, jostled and elbowed as others tried to press in the same direction. The cobbles were wet and slippery. There was more noise now: marching feet, horses’ hoofs, drums, the occasional shouting and baying of the crowd.
More than once Célie was close enough to look into the carriage window and see the King and the priest passing a small breviary back and forth, each reciting something from it in turn. She knew the old man saw it too, because she was aware of him making the sign of the cross, almost invisibly, so no one in the crowd would identify his act. A sudden thought came to her of Bernave and his volume of Thomas à Kempis. Had he clung to that in his worst moments?
She wondered if Marat was somewhere in the throng. Had he come to witness the culminating moment of his power? Had he the faintest idea what it would bring in its wake? Did he imagine an age of peace to follow this, a time of prosperity and justice built on this terrible act of public humiliation and revenge, not for anything Louis himself had done, but for the whole rotten system which had finally collapsed upon itself? Surely this fat, solemn, little man reciting his prayers was as much a victim as anyone?
And what about Robespierre? Was his lust for blood part of the ‘purity of the people’ he longed for so much? Was he also here to see it? Rumour had it he never came to executions. He found the physical reality of blood and terror and bodies repulsive. What kind of man has the will to command death, but not the courage to see it?
The carriage was moving at a steady, even pace. Where was Georges? It must be soon! Every second ate up more of the time they had left.
Célie did not know by sight any of the others who were going to crowd the carriage. She had searched the faces around her but she had not seen Briard. Fear prickled over her skin. Had something gone wrong? Had Bernave betrayed them after all, and they were all arrested, apart from her?
She swung around wildly. Where was everyone? Why were they not acting, now, quickly, before it was too late and they were in the Place de la Révolution?
She was carried along by the crowd, bumped and buffeted. She could not have stopped even if she had wanted to. There was a force here driving people, like something in the air. She was helpless. They were pushing, shouting, men and women, their faces distorted with anger, fists raised. She was being dragged towards the middle of the street and the carriage.
Someone took her by the arm, impelling her forward. She tried to free herself, yanking away with all her strength.
‘Forward!’ The word came clear and sharp—Georges’ voice!
With wild, blazing relief, an upsurging of joy that he was alive and here, she pressed forward. They were only yards from the carriage. Someone reached out and grasped the lead horse’s rein, slowing them up. The shouting grew louder. She saw Briard’s white head in front of her.
A hand lunged forward and caught hold of the carriage door.
‘Death to the king!’ Someone yelled, and the cry was taken up.
On the far side the door was open; people were pulling the two gendarmes out.
The door in front of Célie flew open. There was a glimpse of terrified faces inside. The priest cried out in desperation.
‘In the name of God, can you not wait till we reach the scaffold?’
The King seemed frozen. She was close enough to see his pale, almost bloodless skin.
The far door slammed to.
Briard, whose plain dark clothes were like the King’s, but covered now with a rough brown tunic, mounted the carriage steps and reached inside. He took the King by the arm.
Behind Célie the mob was waving pikes and staves, threatening the Guards who were shouting at them to move on.
Briard leaned forward and said something to the King. The priest turned one way then the other, his face masked with terror.
There was shouting and turmoil all around. The carriage lurched forward a step, then came to a halt again. Further up the street someone fired a shot and one of the horses squealed and reared up.
Inside the coach Briard was struggling to take off his outer jerkin. He spoke again to the King.
Hurry! Hurry! Célie was in an agony of impatience.
The moment seemed frozen.
Then the King shook his head.
Célie was knocked sideways and lost her balance, falling against a fat woman and sending them both stumbling.
The carriage door was gaping wide, then slammed shut. Someone slithered down the step—a small, stocky man with white hair and a pallid face.
Célie regained her balance and stood upright, swinging around desperately. The carriage had not moved. Georges was a couple of yards away. He had lost his hat and his black head was instantly recognisable.
Then she saw another face that sent her heart into her throat: a face with slack, gaping mouth and black eyes staring into hers. The greasy, red bandanna around only half his straggling hair. He smiled, and raised his hand in signal.
The edges of the crowd began to press inward, violently, purposefully. There was shouting further ahead. A volley of shots rang out. The carriage jolted another step forward, and again stopped.
Marat yelled something which was lost in the uproar.
The man with the white hair was being half-supported, as if he were too weak to stand alone. He was surrounded by men and women in browns and greys, ordinary people, workmen and artisans, and they closed in and then tried to move away, but the men on the edge, armed with pistols, were crushing inwards.
Célie hurled herself forward at the carriage door. ‘We’ll get you out!’ she screamed, willing Marat to hear her over the din. ‘We’ll get you out!’ She grasped at the carriage door and yanked it. A pain shot through her wrist as claw-sharp fingers dug into it, holding her almost helpless.
She turned to look up, and saw the leering face of Marat a foot away.
Her throat closed so tight her voice was strangled. She could smell the sour stench of him, even out here in the street in the fog-laden air, with the wood and leather odours of the carriage and the sweat of frightened horses.
The moment hung in eternity.
Then she felt a weight behind her, dragging, and a voice in her ears.
‘Come back! You can’t do anything. Citizen Marat’s right ... leave the King to the guillotine. The people have a right!’ A woman’s voice, insistent, hands pulling at her strongly. Madame Lacoste!
Marat looked from Célie to Madame.
Where was the King ... or Briard? Above everything, where was Georges?
Marat’s iron grip eased.
‘Come on!’ Madame urged. ‘It is the law of the people. Let it be!’ She looked up at Marat. ‘Thank you, Citizen, for stopping her from doing something stupid. The King’s death belongs to all of us.’
Marat let go. ‘Of course it does,’ he agreed. He turned to Célie. ‘Go and watch it with everyone else, Citizeness.’
Célie fell back.
The crowd ahead parted and the green carriage went on down towards the Place de la Révolution and the guillotine. Who was in it? Briard or the King? If they had succeeded it would be Briard. They needed it to be Briard. Otherwise the country would be at war within months, perhaps weeks.
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But she found tears stinging her eyes and spilling down into the damp on her cheeks. She wished it were the King, and Briard safe.
Why was Marat there? Bernave had betrayed them after all! He had always intended that they should be caught, but in the act, not before. Coldness filled her. Tears stung her eyes.
She turned to Madame. The crowds were surging past, leaving them.
‘Come,’ Madame said firmly. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here.’
Célie stared at her. How had she known? Surely not by chance! It couldn’t be. How long? All the time? She wanted to laugh ... and cry.
‘Come!’ Madame repeated. ‘We mustn’t seem to be different. They are going to create history. It is the end of the old world.’ Her voice dropped. ‘You can’t save it.’
Where was Georges? Had he got away? Had Célie delayed Marat’s attention just long enough?
She was beginning to walk after the crowds and the green carriage, Madame beside her.
She could not help the tears running down her face. Why did it matter that Bernave had betrayed them? She should have stopped hoping anything about him ages ago, when she heard about the girl he had raped. What good could be in the heart of anyone who could do that?
They were being left behind by the crowd. The green carriage was getting further away. Madame was urging Célie along, half dragging her over the slippery cobbles. In spite of herself Célie hurried, her feet hurting and her hands numb.
They finally arrived in front of the Palace of the Tuileries and Célie saw the stark machine of execution, its two great prongs high above the wooden platform, the triangular blade suspended between them.
It was half-past nine. There were thousands of people here, as if everyone in Paris had come.
The swirl of the crowd had carried them almost to the front.
Suddenly there was a hush. The carriage stopped a few yards from the scaffold, the horses stepping nervously and shifting their weight, stamping. One of them threw its head high, rolling its eyes as it caught the smell of blood and fear in the air.