Tears well up in my eyes but I dare not call out to Père Chenot. I’m upset to see that a purple bruise stains his jaw. Perhaps he senses my gaze because he glances up and sees me. As I reach out a hand to him, he shakes his head.
Another dozen soldiers march behind, prodding the prisoners with their rifles.
A group of well-dressed men follow, led by Mayor Prudhomme. Jean-Luc is close behind the mayor. He catches sight of me and steps back to allow the rest of the committee to continue down the steps.
‘Madeleine, what are you doing here?’ he hisses, grasping me by my wrist.
‘I came to ask if you could help Père Chenot?’
‘Help him? He’s on his way to the hangman.’
‘He’s an old man!’
Jean-Luc’s lips fold in a tight line. ‘That doesn’t absolve him from his crimes. He’s had warnings and he deliberately set out to flout the law.’
‘But…’
Jean-Luc shakes my wrist. ‘Madeleine, say no more. You put yourself in grave danger. Do you want to find yourself on the gallows beside him?’
‘I haven’t done anything!’
‘Please, I beg you, keep your voice down!’ He glances fearfully over his shoulder. ‘People are already looking. If you’re suspected of sympathising with the priest, I won’t be able to save you, even though I’m on the mayor’s committee.’
The shock I feel on hearing this gives way to apprehension when I notice that several of the men on the Mairie steps are watching me through narrowed eyes. Suddenly I’m aware that Jean-Luc is not making vain threats.
Jean-Luc glances at the mayor and his men as they follow the soldiers. ‘Come with me, Madeleine, and I warn you that you’d better look as if you are wholly in favour of these proceedings or it will be the worse for both of us.’ He pulls sharply on my wrist and I am pulled along behind him until we catch up with the mayor.
‘There you are, Viard!’ says Mayor Prudhomme. ‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to.’
Jean-Luc pushes me forward, still keeping a tight hold on me. ‘By chance I saw Mademoiselle Moreau amongst the crowd and took the liberty of asking her to join us.’
Mayor Prudhomme looks me up and down. ‘So you’ve come to see the traitors hang?’
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. ‘I was shopping in the market,’ I say, evading the question.
‘But like all good citizens,’ says Jean-Luc smoothly, ‘Mademoiselle Moreau will be gratified to see justice done.’
The mayor nods in approval. ‘There’s no place for squeamishness when there are traitors in our midst. Shall we take our seats with the rest of the committee?’ He turns to lead the way.
Suddenly dry-mouthed, I shrink back, full of horror at the prospect of being forced to watch Père Chenot hang. ‘I can’t, Jean-Luc,’ I whisper. ‘Let me go and I’ll keep out of the way.’
‘Too late for that now.’ His voice is harsh and the grip on my wrist grows stronger as I hurry along beside him over the square. Once or twice I trip on the cobbles and he has to drag me to my feet again. Then we reach a raised platform with a row of chairs facing the gallows.
I’m overwhelmed by disbelief. Morville is a commonplace little market town full of ordinary people. How is it possible that the sunny market square has been turned into a cruel place of execution for a kindly priest and two devout old women?
The soldiers have formed a cordon before us and the chattering crowd is kept back from the scaffold, where three gallows have been erected. I shiver as I see that nooses are suspended from the crossbeams, silhouetted darkly against the blue of the sky.
I’m aghast to discover that I have a perfect viewpoint for the proceedings in the front row of chairs. My gorge rises and I swallow hard. My knees begin to tremble with dread as I sink down on to the chair that Jean-Luc indicates.
He’s still holding my wrist but his grasp loosens. ‘Don’t you dare disgrace me by fainting,’ he whispers. ‘You don’t have to watch. Look above the gallows if you must but do not turn your head away.’
It seems impossible that violence could come to a place as peaceful as this. But then, the king, the highest man in the land, hadn’t escaped the revolutionaries’ wrath and had paid the ultimate price. A vision of his execution rises before me. I hear again the gleeful shrieks of the spectators and then the ‘swish’ that haunts my dreams as the blade falls. I picture the young executioner dancing across the scaffold with the king’s head in his hands, spraying the crowd with royal blood.
‘Jean-Luc, please…’
He strokes my hand, kind again. ‘Madeleine, be calm!’ he whispers. ‘Remember, I bring you here only to keep you safe after your own impetuous behaviour.’
I cannot answer him and my stomach lurches again as Père Chenot and the two women, their hands tied behind their backs, stumble up the steps to the scaffold. A soldier pricks them with his bayonet to chivvy them into their places.
‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do!’ calls out Père Chenot.
A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd and someone jeers.
A soldier, little more than a youth, casually rams the butt of his rifle into the priest’s stomach and I cram my knuckles into my mouth to stifle a cry of distress. The young soldier catches Père Chenot as his knees crumple and the hangman pulls a sack over his head.
One by one, the hangman slips the nooses around the prisoners’ necks.
The throng ceases their catcalls and whistles, the noise dying down into a hum of anticipation.
Mayor Prudhomme, seated in the centre of our row of chairs, stands up.
All at once I’m icy cold, despite the heat of the sun. Spots of blackness dance before my eyes and my mouth is dry.
Mayor Prudhomme holds a white handkerchief above his head.
The crowd becomes eerily silent.
I glance at Jean-Luc’s profile but he shows no emotion.
The mayor swiftly lowers his hand.
At the signal, the hangman pulls a lever.
The trapdoors fall open and the three prisoners drop.
The crowd screams in delight, roaring and whistling in approval.
I follow Jean-Luc’s advice and look up high above the three figures jerking like puppets on the ends of their ropes. I stare, dry-eyed, at the wispy clouds floating in the lovely cerulean blue of the sky, wishing I had never set foot on French soil.
I hardly remember us taking our leave of Mayor Prudhomme. Jean-Luc holds my arm tightly as he leads me back to where Madame Thibault is waiting for me in the charrette.
Silently, I climb up to sit beside her.
She turns away and keeps her gaze firmly fixed on Colbert’s back.
He flicks the reins and we roll forwards.
Jean-Luc rides alongside us on his chestnut gelding as we clatter over the stone bridge and leave the town behind.
Madame Thibault glances at me out of the corner of her eye now and again but neither of us mentions the hangings.
Some time later, she says, ‘Mademoiselle Moreau?’
I blink to rid myself of the picture of the poor priest jerking in his death throes. ‘Yes, Madame Thibault?’
‘I’ve had a stroke of good fortune,’ she says. ‘I’ve been offered another sack of flour at a very good price. It will be delivered next week.’
‘I thought flour was rationed?’ I hardly care, so shocked am I by what I have witnessed.
Madame Thibault purses her lips. ‘It is, in the normal way. However, Madame Viard hinted that she’d heard a soldier had some sacks of flour available and he might be found near the lavoir, so I went to seek him out. The flour has been confiscated from some anti-revolutionaries. In a way, you could say it’s being redistributed to the people.’
I open my mouth to speak and then think better of it. But I can’t help thinking that, whether Madame Thibault knows it or not, she must be buying her sack of flour on the black market.
Chapter 26
The day af
ter the hanging, the evening sun is still hot and the air torpid as I leave the vineyard.
Jean-Luc is leaning against the chai, waiting to walk me home.
‘Madeleine, I apologise if you thought me harsh yesterday,’ he says as we set off, ‘but I don’t think you realised how dangerous your comments were. I was trying to protect you.’
I rub the bruises on my wrist from where he’d gripped me but my anger dissipates at the sight of his anxious expression.
‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘since you grew up beside Etienne at Château Mirabelle and enjoyed the benefit of sharing his education, why you have so much sympathy for the new regime?’
Jean-Luc frowns. ‘Regardless of my current position, I’m never allowed to forget that my mother is no more than a superior servant. There is a rot still festering in our society,’ he says, his voice full of passion, ‘and it must be cut out! Those rich, weak aristocrats, feasting on lark’s tongues while they grind the faces of the poor underfoot, must be taught a lesson.’
There is a fanatical glint in his eye and I look away, suddenly uncomfortable. Père Chenot was not a rich aristocrat but I’m still too upset to argue the point. The first time I met Etienne he accused me having too little knowledge of the Revolution to make a proper judgement of a complex situation and I understand now that he was right. The complacent conversations I used to enjoy with friends and acquaintances in London drawing rooms about the events unfolding in France have in no way prepared me for the truth of the situation. It’s confusing. Jean-Luc supports the revolutionary ideals despite his advantageous upbringing and extravagant tastes, whilst Etienne, although he has noble blood, toils beside his labourers in the fields.
‘Nothing is black and white, is it?’ I say. ‘Only many shades of grey.’
Jean-Luc leans forward to clasp my hands. ‘France is building a new and better society. There are bound to be difficulties initially but once these are swept away we’ll all reap the benefits.’ He lifts my hands to his lips.
I hope he’s right.
‘The sun has kissed your cheeks,’ he says. ‘You must take care not to spoil your complexion. I shall buy you a sunbonnet with a wider brim or you’ll end up looking as leathery as the village women. I’ll send to Paris for a pretty one in finely woven straw, decorated with silk ribbons.’
‘Then I shall have to take care not to be taken for a rich aristocrat or I may come to an untimely end.’
Jean-Luc laughs. The breeze ruffles his brown hair and the sun paints it with shiny bronze highlights. He looks a picture of vigorous good health. ‘Let me take you home.’
As the château comes into sight, Jean-Luc catches hold of my arm, drawing me to a halt. ‘Look!’ he says.
The sun paints the stonework with gold, and the conical roofs of the four towers make the château resemble a fairytale castle.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘It’s a privilege to live here.’
Jean-Luc nods. ‘This place and the estate mean more to me than I can say.’
A little while later we reach the house and I remove my battered old sunbonnet and shake my hair free.
Jean-Luc grips me by my shoulders. ‘You’re so lovely, Madeleine.’ He gathers me into his arms and kisses me. His lips are warm and urgent and I confess that desire stirs in me as I feel his broad chest pressed against me.
At last he lets me go. His eyes are gleaming as he runs his forefinger slowly down my cheek and stops to touch my mouth. ‘So soft,’ he says, and kisses me again.
Resolutely, I banish the thought of Etienne from my mind and submit with some willingness to Jean-Luc’s embraces.
Then the thin wail of a baby’s cry comes from upstairs and I step back. ‘I must go,’ I say.
‘Must you?’
I nod. But Sophie is right, I realise; I should forget my feelings for Etienne and think only about this man who is able to offer me a secure future.
‘Tomorrow evening I dine with the mayor,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘I would be honoured if you’d accompany me.’
I don’t like the mayor but I know that he matters to Jean-Luc. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I should be delighted.’
The following morning I peep into Sophie’s room. Marianne clings to her mother’s thumb, making contented little noises as she nurses.
Sophie smiles up at me. ‘I swear she’s grown since yesterday.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
Sophie turns her adoring gaze back to her baby’s face and I quietly withdraw. It’s too painful to contemplate what will happen to them in the future.
In the evening Babette carries a jug of hot water upstairs for me. ‘I’ve laid out your dress and clean stockings on the bed. One of them had a small tear so I’ve put a stitch in it.’
Her earnest little face makes me smile. ‘Thank you, Babette. You make an excellent lady’s maid.’
She flushes and smiles. ‘You must look your best for the mayor. He’s a very important man.’
I strip off my work clothes and wash, paying particular attention to my fingernails, which are grimed with dust. I slip on my clean dress and take special care with arranging my hair. My father’s moonstone ring, threaded on a ribbon, nestles between my breasts and I lift it up to stare into the milky depths. Do I wish to see into the future now? I’m not sure. Only if it is happy, I decide.
Downstairs, Sophie is watching for the carriage through the hall window with Marianne on her shoulder. In only a moment she cries out, ‘Here he is!’ and I hear the wheels on the gravel.
‘Have a lovely evening,’ says Sophie, kissing my cheek. ‘And in the morning you must tell me everything that happens.’
I open the door and wonder with a momentary pang if Etienne knows that Jean-Luc is using his carriage to take me out for dinner.
‘You look ravishing, Madeleine,’ Jean-Luc greets me, taking my hands to draw me closer so that he can look at me properly. ‘I shall be the envy of every man tonight.’
It’s hard not to be flattered. ‘And you have an elegant new coat,’ I say, noticing how well it fits his broad shoulders.
A moment later we are bowling along the carriage drive. As we turn out of the gates a horseman carrying sacks in his panniers is waiting to enter. I glimpse his scarred face and recognise him as the soldier from the market place. He must be delivering Madame Thibault’s black-market flour.
The Lion d’Or has reserved a private room for the mayor’s dinner party. Mayor Prudhomme comes to greet us, clasping Jean-Luc’s hands in his and full of loud exclamations of welcome. He kisses my hand and I try not to flinch away from his moist lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mademoiselle Moreau.’
Madame Prudhomme proffers me two limp fingers and a suspicion of a social smile. Her cheeks are rouged and her fair hair has an unnatural tinge of yellow.
‘Mademoiselle Moreau has taken it upon herself to teach the village children to read and write,’ says Jean-Luc.
The mayor nods approvingly. ‘We all must do what we can in the current struggles for equality. And education is the key.’
‘I agree,’ I say.
Mayor Prudhomme continues speaking without acknowledging my comment. ‘Robespierre himself advocates education for children, even the girls.’ He spreads his hands wide and smiles. ‘Let no one say that he is not generous.’
‘I hold the view,’ I say, ‘that girls who grow up with an education will pass that knowledge on to their children…’ My words fade away as the mayor turns his back on me. The door has opened to admit the innkeeper, bearing two bottles of wine.
‘Nothing less than your best vintage, I hope?’ says Prudhomme.
‘Most certainly,’ replies the innkeeper, uncorking the first bottle. He pours a little into a glass and offers it deferentially to the mayor, who takes a sip and makes a great show of rolling it around his mouth before swallowing it.
Still simmering with indignation at his rudeness, I hope he’ll choke on it.
He shrugs. ‘Passable,�
� he pronounces.
The saucy maid I met the last time Jean-Luc brought me to the Lion d’Or serves our dinner but her demeanour is meek this evening. Eyes downcast, she shoots an occasional anxious glance at the mayor.
The boiled leg of lamb and green beans is appetising and the dinner is only spoiled by Mayor Prudhomme’s self-satisfied way of speaking, rarely allowing anyone else the opportunity to lead the conversation.
‘Now that Maximilien Robespierre is elected to the Committee of Public Safety, we will have progress,’ says Prudhomme. ‘He will not allow himself to be swayed by emotion but will cut through all the uncertainties and act to end the uprisings and riots.’
‘Robespierre won’t stand any nonsense,’ agrees Jean-Luc. ‘He’ll slice out the cankers in our society, cleanly and swiftly, with the guillotine. And then France will be a safe place for its citizens again.’
‘Exactly!’ The mayor’s wig slips as he nods vigorous agreement and he reseats it with one podgy hand. ‘When he’s finished with the insurgents, Robespierre has promised that there will be nothing left of the Vendée but scorched earth.’
‘Is that not a little harsh?’ I ask.
Madame Prudhomme stops chewing and turns to look at me.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he says with a flash of his yellowing teeth, ‘I fear you understand little of politics.’
I open my mouth to protest but catch sight of Jean-Luc’s slight shake of the head and stare at my plate while my temper cools.
‘Robespierre will send in battle-hardened troops.’ Mayor Prudhomme snorts with laughter. ‘They’ll soon shatter the Vendéeans so-called Royal and Catholic Army, who fight with nothing more than pitchforks and wooden clubs.’
Jean-Luc nods his head in agreement. ‘Robespierre is a catalyst for change.’
Mayor Prudhomme continues to drone on and I stop listening since he doesn’t allow comments from a mere female to interrupt his flow.
Under the table Jean-Luc presses his foot against mine. He glances at me with a swift curving of his full lips and then turns his attention back to Prudhomme again.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 24