The sounds grow louder.
‘We’ll come back later,’ I say.
We dash out of the door and scurry along the servants’ passage. Etienne grasps my hand and pulls me through a warren of rooms until we can no longer hear the voices.
I lean against a wall to catch my breath while the sound of my heartbeat rings in my ears.
‘No time to stop,’ whispers Etienne, and we are off again, peering into larders, storerooms, dairies and coal stores. At last I find a studded door with a metal grille set into it. When I open it there’s a narrow stone staircase leading down into darkness.
Chapter 30
‘This is it,’ says Etienne, a muscle tightening in his jaw. ‘I’ll never forget this place. It gave me nightmares for years when I was a boy.’
‘Then I hope Auguste suffers the same in the future.’ Anger simmers in my breast as I follow Etienne down the spiral staircase. The stone steps, worn hollow by the passage of generations of feet, are treacherous and the walls seep moisture. The narrow space makes me shudder. Etienne turns and takes my hand as he reaches the bottom.
It’s cold and smells of mould and excrement but a little light filters in from a barred window above. We stand motionless while our eyes grow accustomed to the shadows. All sound is deadened and I shiver as I imagine the thick walls pressing in on me. I cling tightly to Etienne’s hand.
Into the silence comes the clank of metal chains and the rustle of straw. I whirl around and see that there is a barred cell behind us.
‘Auguste?’ says Etienne.
‘Who is it?’ replies a voice, high with fear.
‘D’Aubery.’
‘Thank God! I thought you’d come to torture me. Unlock the door and let me out of here!’
‘Where is your mother?’ I ask.
‘Let me out!’
‘I said, where is Grandmother Moreau?’
A whimper comes from the far corner of the cell. ‘I’m here,’ a voice whispers.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Now that you have come…’
‘The keys are behind you!’ Auguste’s voice is on the verge of hysteria. ‘Those bastards put them where I could see them purely to torment me.’
‘And who can blame them?’ retorts Etienne. He runs his hands over the wall until I hear the rattle of a bunch of keys.
A moment later the gate is open and Etienne is unlocking the leg irons that shackle Grandmother Moreau to the wall while I try not to look at the overflowing bucket beside her. The air in here is thick and I feel the stirrings of panic.
‘Release me at once, you dolt!’ orders Auguste with barely repressed fury.
Etienne stands over him, jangling the keys in his hand. ‘Perhaps I’ll leave you here. What do you think, Madeleine? We could open the sluice gates until the moat rises.’
I look at Auguste’s corpulent figure with loathing. ‘An excellent idea, in my opinion.’
Auguste moans. ‘Don’t jest!’
‘I’m not,’ says Etienne.
‘Please, I beg you to free us both,’ says Grandmother Moreau.
I help her to rise from the ground and she stands trembling beside me.
Etienne kneels down and unlocks Auguste’s shackles, pulling him roughly to his feet. ‘You can thank your mother for this,’ he says. ‘I’d far rather leave you here.’
I gasp as a sudden shout comes from above, followed by another, and then there’s the tramp of footsteps clattering down the staircase and a wavering light appears.
Auguste cries out, ‘They’re coming for me!’
Etienne shakes him so hard his teeth rattle. ‘Take control of yourself, man! Is there another way out?’
‘No!’ Auguste pulls himself free from Etienne’s grip.
I glance despairingly at the barred window. Full of dread, I flatten myself against the wall.
Whimpering, Auguste retreats into the cell and crouches on the floor with his hands over his ears.
A crowd of men and women surges down the stairs. They surround us, waving sticks and flaming torches. One man pinions Etienne’s arms roughly behind his back and another prods me in the stomach.
Grandmother Moreau staggers and sinks to the ground.
A torch is thrust into my face and a man yanks my head back by the hair, his face contorted with anger. ‘What are you doing here?’ His breath reeks of garlic.
There’s a babble of questions as we’re shoved back against the cold stone of the wall. I’m shaking, terrified that they’ll lock us up in this terrible dungeon.
Etienne struggles, frees an arm, punches his captor on the nose and receives a blow to the head for his pains.
‘Look, they’ve unlocked Moreau’s chains!’
Seven or eight men form a circle around Auguste and he screams in high-pitched terror as he’s hauled to his feet and pushed from hand to hand like a child’s plaything.
‘String ’im up from the nearest tree, I say!’
‘Hanging’s too good for him. Shove a red-hot poker up his arse!’
Suddenly, over the tumult and the taunting, there comes an ear-splitting whistle.
The mob is stopped in its tracks.
The whistle is repeated and all eyes turn to Etienne. He removes his fingers from between his lips. ‘Stop!’ he commands.
The grip on my hair relaxes and I pull myself free and crouch down to help Grandmother Moreau to her feet. She clings to my hand, trembling uncontrollably.
‘Let the ladies go!’ says Etienne. ‘They have done nothing to harm you.’
Anger sweeps over me in a red tide. ‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ I shout, fixing my gaze on one face after another. ‘Look at this old lady, frightened half to death! Would you do this to your own mothers and grandmothers?’
The men mutter amongst themselves and then one calls out, ‘She’s the Devil’s mother!’
A ripple of laughter echoes around the dungeon.
‘And who are you to come here and try to free the duc?’ shouts another man over the rising cacophony. ‘Lock them all up!’
‘No!’ I struggle but I’m lifted up, carried into the cell and dumped on the floor. A moment later, Etienne lands beside me.
A cacophony of jeers and whistles nearly deafens me as I push myself to my feet in rising panic. Terror at being confined in a small space squeezes the air from my lungs and I gasp for breath.
Then one voice rises above the others. ‘I know these people!’
The muttering dies away and a young man pushes to the front of the throng and holds his torch aloft.
‘You came to see the duc and he had you thrown out.’
At once I recognise the footman who escorted us from the premises.
He laughs and I see that he’s little more than a fresh-faced youth. ‘I remember how you stood up to that useless piece of shit.’ He nods at Auguste, cowering in the corner. ‘You’re Philippe Moreau’s daughter.’ He turns to the others. ‘She has the Moreau ring.’
An old woman waving a large stick peers at me. ‘Philippe’s daughter? Is it possible?’
‘Philippe Moreau was my father.’ I stand up tall and try to still the trembling in my knees. ‘And I’m proud of that. I’m anything but proud, however, to be associated with his brother Auguste.’
The woman pushes her way through the tightly packed throng until she’s standing in front of me. ‘You’re Philippe’s girl?’
I nod.
‘Bring me light!’ she says. She snatches a torch from one of the men and studies my face closely. After a long silence I see tears glinting in her rheumy eyes. ‘Yes, you have Philippe’s likeness.’
I reach inside my collar, fish out the moonstone ring and hold it up to show her.
‘That’s mine!’ shrieks Auguste.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘You stole my father’s inheritance and this ring is all that he took from this terrible place.’
The elderly woman reaches out to touch my hand. ‘I was your f
ather’s wet nurse. I loved him and watched him grow up, frightened he would be tainted by the rest of his family.’ She shakes her head. ‘But he never was.’
I frown, trying to remember. ‘Are you Thérèse? Papa rarely talked about his past but he did mention his beloved childhood nurse sometimes.’
Thérèse lifts my hand to her cheek. ‘I helped him escape when the old duc locked him in the dungeon. They left him here to rot when he demanded justice for my brother after the old duc beat him to death. If I hadn’t freed Philippe, he could have died here. I knew he’d never give up demanding justice for André.’
‘I couldn’t help him, Thérèse!’ says Grandmother Moreau, her voice agonised. ‘Do you think I wanted Philippe to be imprisoned in this place? But I dared not flout my husband’s wishes. I tried that once,’ she whispers, ‘and lost the child I carried.’
A man in a brown coat sticks out his unshaven chin and narrows his eyes at me. ‘What d’you want here? This place is ours now.’
‘I don’t want the château.’ I shudder. ‘And neither did my father.’
‘Mademoiselle Moreau and I have not come here to cause any of you trouble,’ says Etienne. ‘You are welcome to the château as far as…’
‘Shut up, d’Aubery!’ yells Auguste. ‘It’s not yours to give away. And you, Gaston, I’ll have you horsewhipped for your insolence!’
One of the men slams Auguste back against the wall.
Etienne continues as if he hasn’t been interrupted. ‘Mademoiselle Moreau wants nothing but to remove her grandmother and uncle from your presence.’ He glances at me. ‘And I solemnly undertake to escort them both out of France.’
I catch my breath.
‘You can’t make me go!’ Auguste struggles furiously in his captors’ arms.
‘Oh, I think we can,’ says Etienne, looking meaningfully at the others. ‘Don’t you?’ He catches the footman’s eye. ‘As you say, Auguste is a useless piece of shit and I can save you all the trouble of having his blood on your conscience.’
The men and women begin to argue fiercely amongst themselves, and I hear Thérèse’s pleading tones above the growl of the men’s deeper voices. I glance fearfully at Etienne.
His mouth is set but he darts a smile at me. ‘Courage!’ he whispers.
‘Quiet!’ Gaston glares at the crowd. ‘We shall discuss this upstairs.’
‘A trial!’ shouts a voice.
I cry out in terror as Gaston slams shut the iron gate of the cell and our captors march away up the stairs.
I grasp the iron bars and shake the gate but it’s immovable.
And then there is only the sound of receding footsteps and my grandmother’s weeping.
The air is fetid and my heart is fluttering as I picture the great mass of the château pressing down upon us from above. Panic constricts my chest. I dare not scream or I may never stop. I sit on the filthy straw with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees to still the shaking.
Etienne sits close beside me. ‘I should never have let you come,’ he says.
‘I’m frightened,’ I whisper. ‘I hate small spaces.’
‘I don’t like them much myself,’ he says, putting his arm around my shoulders.
He appears perfectly composed but I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers and remember that this is a recurrence of his worst childhood nightmare. I lean against him and for his sake force myself to breathe slowly and try to empty my mind of anxious thoughts.
I don’t know how much time passes but eventually the glimmer of light begins to fade from the barred window.
‘It seems they’re not going to release us tonight,’ says Etienne, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
I shudder as I fight down the panic I feel.
Grandmother Moreau and I take it in turns to suffer the indignity of squatting over the bucket and then we lie down on the hard floor to sleep.
The absence of light becomes total and soon Auguste’s snores reverberate around the cell.
Wide-eyed with fear I stare into the suffocating blackness, my pulse hammering in my chest and my breathing ragged. Etienne’s hand reaches out to me and I grip it, holding on to him as the one safe thing in this terrible place.
The straw rustles as he turns over and I don’t resist when he gathers me to him. We lie on our sides facing each other, with our foreheads and knees touching and our breath mingling. Gently, he strokes my hair, smoothing it off my forehead and lulling my fevered thoughts. Little by little, the tension drains from my muscles and I let it go with a long sigh.
He caresses my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw with a touch as light as thistledown. I banish all thoughts, forgetting my terror and the hard floor beneath us. There is only this moment and the soft touch of Etienne’s finger on my lips. Powerless to resist, my mouth opens a little.
He makes a small sound and then he is smothering my throat, my eyelids and my mouth with hot kisses. Perhaps it is the total darkness that makes me so shameless but I press the length of my body against his and return his kisses with abandon. Cupping my face in his hands, he kisses me until rising desire makes me tremble with longing.
At last he draws away a little, his breath fast and uneven. He touches his lips against my forehead and enfolds me in his arms so tightly that I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to. Gradually, his hold slackens and he sighs deeply. Turning on to his back, he settles my head on the hollow of his shoulder and rests his hand against the curve of my hip.
I listen to the regular thud of his heartbeat and think that if the mob murders me in the morning, at least I shall have had one night in his arms.
As I drift off to sleep I hear him whisper, ‘Goodnight, my love.’
My eyes flutter open. A glimmer of grey light filters through the barred window and there’s a pain in my hip from lying on the hard ground.
Etienne lies beside me, looking curiously young in repose. His jet black eyebrows are finely drawn and thick lashes fringe the curve of his closed eyelids. Heavy stubble shadows his jaw.
He opens his eyes and a sleepy smile curves his mouth as he picks a piece of straw out of my hair.
Auguste groans and passes wind and I’m brought back to the full realisation of our plight.
I sit up and stare around the cell, my heart thudding with dread. ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ I whisper.
Etienne puts his arm around my shoulders but doesn’t answer.
We sit like that for a long time, deep in our fearful thoughts.
Into the quiet comes a murmur of voices.
Etienne’s hand grips my waist as he listens.
Grandmother Moreau whimpers and tucks herself further into the corner while Auguste snores.
The sound of voices swells and now we can hear footsteps.
Etienne pulls me to my feet and we stand side by side facing the stairs. I’m rigid with fear.
Heavy boots clump down them and then the small chamber is full of people again.
Gaston pushes his way through the crowd and stands with his hands on his hips in front of us. ‘Thérèse has pleaded for you,’ he says, ‘and we don’t want blood on our hands. Though, God knows, Auguste Moreau and his family have made us suffer.’ He points to a young man with ragged hair. ‘Joseph’s child died for want of a little compassion from that bastard.’
‘Then let me take Auguste away,’ says Etienne. ‘You’ll never be troubled by him again.’
There is silence while Gaston glances at the others. One by one, they nod their heads and I let out my breath very slowly.
‘If we see any of you again,’ says Gaston sternly, ‘you’ll be hung up by your ankles from the clock tower. We’ll disembowel you and make you eat your own hearts. Is that understood?’
Etienne nods.
One of the men kicks Auguste until he squeals assent.
Gaston unlocks the iron gate and two men drag Auguste to his feet and frogmarch him up the stairs. Etienne is surrounded next and then Grandmother Moreau and I are bundled a
fter them. I trip and panic for a moment as the press of bodies threatens to engulf me, but all at once we are in the corridor and I gasp for breath before we are off again, jostled from all sides.
Grandmother Moreau is weeping as she stumbles along and I reach for her hand.
More and more villagers and servants arrive until the corridor is jam-packed. Men on either side of me lift me by my elbows so that my feet barely touch the ground and Grandmother Moreau’s hand slips from my grasp. She looks over her shoulder at me with terror in her violet eyes as she’s carried away by the mob.
A woman’s voice starts to sing the unofficial anthem of the revolutionaries as we’re swept along.
‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
The song echoes in my head with every step we take. ‘Ah! It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.’ My vision is spotted and I’m dizzy.
The horde, trebled in numbers now, bursts through a door and surges into the light outside.
‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
I gulp in deep breaths of fresh air. The mass isn’t so closely pressed now and I regain a little equilibrium, but the singing grows in volume as more people join in.
‘Where are we going?’ I shout. The men to either side ignore me as they sing along with the refrain.
‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
We reach the stables and gather in the yard. An ancient, sway-backed Percheron horse is taken out of his box and hitched up to a rotting wooden cart. Hands lift me up as if I’m on the crest of a wave and thrust me into the cart.
‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’ The singing reaches a crescendo.
A moment later Etienne is sprawling at my feet and then a weeping Grandmother Moreau is lifted up high and thrown in after us. She lands in a crumpled heap and Etienne and I pull her on to the bench seat beside me.
‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,’ roars the crowd.
I put my hands over my ears but still the singing reverberates in my head. The cart jolts as people push against it. I see the girl we met in the kitchen, with her eyes shut and her head thrown back as she sings, completely swept along by the moment.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 28