“But where can they hide, Roger?” she asked.
“On the roof.”
“The roof is peaked. It is not possible—”
“So is the next roof. A man—even two or three men—might lie down in the trough between the houses. At night they could climb over the roofs to the end of the street and get down with a rope, as we planned to do.”
“Yes, of course, how clever. Fifi, be still. What are you barking at?”
The little dog hushed on command and Roger listened, but he heard no footsteps in the alley, which was what usually set her off. A moment later, however, there came a faint scratch on the door. He gestured at Leonie, and she snatched Fifi and ran up the stairs. Out of sight, she set down the dog with a further admonition to be silent and drew her pistol, which she half-cocked and concealed in a fold of her skirt.
There was no need for defense, however. Only two nervous, badly frightened men crept in when the door was opened. They were so tense, expecting pursuit any minute, that they would have gone to hide on the roof at once, but Roger objected. He pointed out that there was no sense in opening and closing the trapdoor and moving around in the attic and on the roof more than necessary. It was not likely, but it was not impossible that a neighbor would be in his own attic and wonder about the noise.
They stayed three days, never needing to go into hiding because, if there was a search, no one suspected Roger’s house. It seemed to Roger that de Rocheville was no fool and no one might ever suspect. The refugees did not know his name, did not even know what part of the city they were in. they had been brought in a sealed carriage to the end of the alley and told which door to scratch at and to remove their boots so they would make no noise. The only problem that arose was how to get food for these extra mouths, since Leonie could not simply suddenly buy double quantities. Fortunately, most of the women in the neighborhood were aware of her inexperience as a cook. They were quite accustomed to seeing Roger rush out at dinnertime to bring in food from a cafetier, even though his wife had bought food to cook in the morning. On the second day the fishmonger’s wife called out teasingly to ask if Leonie had forgotten everything she knew.
“Au contraire,” Roger replied, laughing. “She is growing adventurous because what she knows she does so well.”
That brought an answering laugh and an admonition for Roger to be patient. “She is clever, that little one. Now, when she is so beautiful, she learns. Later, when she is old and ugly, you will be tied to her by your stomach.”
Roger smiled a mechanical acknowledgement and went on. Any reference to his future with Leonie dragged him into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Ever since Leonie had acknowledged her jealousy and her pleasure in his lovemaking, Roger had been on the verge of suggesting that they marry. It would not be impossible, although it would be dangerous. First, they were supposed to be man and wife already; second, for the marriage to be legal they would have to give their true names. Consideration had convinced Roger it was too dangerous and had raised the idea of asking her to promise to marry him as soon as they arrived in England.
This raised objections more painful than danger. Roger knew what would be hinted behind their backs and perhaps said openly to Leonie herself it he married her as soon as they arrived. Every mother of a son with encumbered estates, every fortune hunter in the country, would say that Roger had grabbed the heiress before she had a chance to choose for herself. It was not true, of course, but how could a man prove such a thing? Would Leonie begin to believe the stories? If she accepted him because she thought she cared for him but thought so only out of ignorance, because she had had no choice, marriage would not prevent her from falling in love with another man. Roger knew he could not bear that. If Leonie chose to marry someone else, he would survive. He could avoid her—even if it meant leaving the country—and live much as he had lived when Solange was alive. If she was his wife and turned cold or betrayed him… There was a well of violence in him, Roger knew, like a dry shaft filled with black powder. Solange had filled it, but it was Leonie who might set a match to the explosive and be destroyed by it.
There was the other side of the coin, of course. Sometimes Roger let himself think about that. If he brought Leonie to England and left her completely to herself, allowed her to go to balls and to be courted, and she still chose him, after the others had their chances, he would be sure. He tried not to think about it too often, tried not to permit himself to believe that dream would come true, but Leonie had said… It was when he believed, even a little, that it was not only youth and inexperience and gratitude that drew Leonie to him that Roger began to devise ways to escape from France. It was bitterly hard to taste her sweetness and to fear constantly that the sweetness hid the bitterness of parting. Better to know at once than to go on drugging himself with a love that might be only ignorance.
Unfortunately, at present there were no hopes of escape, there was only the constant danger of betrayal. Once again Roger tried to convince Leonie to leave him for a safer dwelling. Although their two “guests” had been collected without incident as silently and mysteriously as they had arrived, Roger guessed that they would not be the last. If it had not been for the danger to Leonie, Roger would now have been enjoying himself. He liked the spice of immediate peril, and he acknowledged that what de Rocheville was doing was well worthwhile. In the provinces there was enormous resentment of many of the acts of the convention. If the Girondists could rally those with moderate republican sympathies, the present group of bloody lunatics might be overthrown.
This time Leonie did not laugh or lose her temper. “Oh no,” she said passionately. “Do you think I don’t know this is France’s last chance for peace and a good government? I don’t wish to live here anymore, Roger. There is too much bitterness, too much hurt and heartbreak here for me. I need a new life, completely new. I want to go to England and find that new life, but this is the land where I was born. My father and mother loved it. Papa knew when he was elected to the Estates-General that it might cost him his life, yet he did not hesitate an instant.”
“Enough lives that you love have been given, Leonie,” Roger interrupted.
“And I am still alive,” she said. “And you are telling me to stand aside and watch you—you are all I have, Roger—watch you risk your life too? Oh no. If you can bring yourself to abandon this last hope, I will escape with you because you are all I have—but I will not do it willingly. I am the last de Conyers. I owe my father’s memory one last attempt to save this country.”
“I cannot bear to know that you are in danger,” Roger sighed.
“I cannot bear to know that you are in danger,” Leonie echoed. “But, Roger, this is more important. If the Mountain can be cast down, the constitution that Papa helped to write can be reestablished. A new assembly could be elected, according to the constitution. The dauphin could be king. Certainly he would cause no trouble by opposing the will of the assembly.”
“The queen might,” Roger pointed out, “although I think she would be far more careful about what she tried to put in the boy’s mouth than what she tried to put into her husband’s. She is not a stupid woman. Perhaps she has learned.”
“I doubt she could cause trouble. The Girondists would be looking for the slightest excuse to imprison her again or exile her. Oh Roger, if it could only work, it would be best for us too.”
“Yes,” Roger agreed. “Once the monarchy was reestablished, the other nations would be willing to make peace—at least, I hope they would. That could occur only if no one decides to take advantage of the inevitable civil war—for there will be civil war, Leonie. The radicals will not give up without a bitter fight. If, as I say, Austria and Prussia and my own dear, generous government do not decide that the civil war will provide the right moment to dismember France—”
“They wouldn’t!” Leonie exclaimed.
“They might. However, they will get short shrift. If there is a unified government that has the trust
of the provinces, France will throw them off. The English government, I am sure, will come to terms as soon as they have their hand slapped. They really have very little taste for war; the commoners are businessmen and small landholders who don’t like the taxes war brings or the interference with trade.”
“So there will be peace and we can go to England—home to England.”
Leonie’s eyes rested on Roger. For the moment he was relaxed, although when she said “home” a look of longing crossed his face. It was odd, she thought, that she should call England home and feel a true desire to be there—a place she had never seen—yet she knew that anywhere Roger was would be her home. She turned away and busied herself with some unnecessary task at the stove to hide eyes suddenly full of tears.
Since Roger had spoken to Fouché about obtaining passports, Leonie had given considerable thought to living in England. She found she did want to live there, but she was less and less sure she could be content to have Roger only as a lover. He had a profession, a home, a son, a large family. How often would he be able to visit her? How much time would he dare spend when he did visit—a few hours? Leonie thought of the long empty days and nights. She had no friends or relatives. She would have to live alone, with a companion, perhaps, to give her countenance.
She tried to push those thoughts away, telling herself that Roger would not abandon her. He said he loved her. He would find a way. Deep inside, a voice cried—if he loves you, why doesn’t he marry you? She tried not to listen to that ugly voice, but it was hard to ignore it. And the day before, the fishmonger’s wife had said something to her when she had come in to buy mussels that had wakened both a new hope and a new problem in her. The beginning had been innocent enough. The woman teased her about her cooking experiments that sent Roger to the cafetier for three days. Leonie had given a light answer to the effect that she was buying mussels to prevent that happening again.
“One cannot spoil mussels, after all,” she said.
“Ah, but you do right,” the woman replied. “Now is the time to tease him and be sharp and make him run errands and cook meals that cannot be eaten. Then, when you are heavy with child and ugly, you can bind him to you with sweetness of disposition and delicious food.”
Somehow Leonie had managed a reply that did not betray her, but she was aghast. Not that she thought Roger would stray from a woman he loved because she was swollen and petulant with pregnancy. He was too tenderhearted for that. What had shocked Leonie was the realization that she was not pregnant. She had been living with Roger for over nine months and she had never missed her flux. She had not conceived of Louis either, but he had told her he would take care that she should not. Was Roger taking care also? What that a sign he would not marry her under any circumstances?
Leonie did not doubt for a moment that Roger would marry her if she got with child. She was not a shop girl but a de Conyers, and there could not be any doubt, after all this time, that the child was his. For a moment, Leonie was suffused with delight at the thought. She would have Roger and his child also. Then reality intruded. It was reality that brought tears to her eyes. The fact was that she was not with child, and although she could not guess what he was doing to prevent it, Leonie was ignorant enough to believe that her inability to conceive was Roger’s doing. Ah well, she told herself as her tears dried in the heat of the stove, probably he is doing it for my sake. It would increase their danger manyfold to have an infant or even for her to be swollen and unwieldy. This is a dangerous game we are playing, she thought. Who knows whether we will get to England at all.
The game was indeed dangerous, but either they were blessed with unusual good luck or de Rocheville was as clever and skillful as he was gallant. Roger came to believe the latter as the weeks passed and more and more men and women were funneled out of Paris. His house was only one of many that were used, he guessed, yet it was used with frequency. By the end of June, the people who passed through Roger’s hands were obviously no longer deputies of the convention. Some may well have been English or Austrian spies—Roger did not ask because he didn’t want to know—but many were simply people who needed to escape because they were threatened by imprisonment and death.
Once Roger said exasperatedly to de Rocheville that he was scarcely more secure than those he was helping to escape.
“Their need is more immediate,” de Rocheville replied simply. “You will not be forgotten, I assure you. If you are in real peril, we will open the gates for you also.” Then he frowned and cleared his throat. “If you wish to send Mademoiselle de Conyers…”
“I wish it with all my heart,” Roger sighed—which was true and not true at the same time, of course. “But she will not go and swears that I drug her or bind her she will escape and come back.” That was absolutely true, for Roger had once in a fury threatened to do just that to Leonie.
“I thought it might be so,” de Rocheville remarked, his face expressionless and his voice perfectly neutral.
“She believes she is serving her country,” Roger grated.
Then de Rocheville smiled. “Ah yes,” he murmured, making Roger wish he had held his tongue. “Women have become quite passionate about politics, have they not?”
Chapter Eighteen
Roger did not often protest against the “guests” de Rocheville sent to his home. The haggard faces of the men who passed through his house, the women who trembled and wept in Leonie’s arms, were sufficient evidence that they must continue to do whatever they could to help as long as they could. It would not be much longer, Roger feared. The hopes he and Leonie had discussed during the early days of June had died swiftly. Instead of joining forces with the royalists and coming to terms with them so that a unified front could be presented against the radical foes, both royalist and Girondist allowed their differences to prevail. Revolution against the dictates of the government in Paris flared, but it was disorganized and sporadic.
The opposition, of course, inspired even greater violence and suppression. Anyone who had ever been heard to oppose or even grieve over the massacres of September or the execution of the king—indeed, almost anyone who had been on speaking terms with a person who had expressed anti-Jacobin views—was regarded as a criminal. Also, the war was going very badly. The English had taken Dunkirk, and the Austrians the city of Valenciennes; Mainz had been handed over to the Prussians by treason; the Spanish invaded France at both ends of the Pyrenees.
This was particularly dangerous to Roger. If his accent were recognized as foreign—as Toulon had recognized it as English—he might be seized as a spy, even though there was no reason to suspect him. Then a weird act of violence—the murder of the darling of the mobs, Marat—by a sweet, gentle-looking woman from Normandy complicated everything. The sans-culottes went wild, attacking and looting anyone or anything they decided was “provincial”. To Roger’s and Leonie’s sorrow, the Café Breton was destroyed and the Aunays murdered. Fortunately, before the mob got around to Roger’s area, they had been pacified by the state funeral for Marat designed and presented by Jacques Louis David. Marat’s coffin was followed by young girls dressed in white, by the whole of the convention—at least, those who had not fled or been arrested—and by representatives of the Sections. Incense was sprinkled, revolutionary hymns were sung. Marat was changed by death from a diseased, repulsive, murderous madman to a pure martyr.
It was the death knell of all moderation in general and of the Girondists in particular. By the end of July the rising they had inspired in Normandy and that headed by royalists in Brittany were both defeated. Free of the fear that their friends would storm Paris, the remains of the convention decreed that those Girondists who had not fled would be subjected to a mass trial. To be certain of the result, a law was passed that permitted the jury, after hearing evidence for three days, to declare that they were “sufficiently enlightened” and the judge could order the trial ended. There were still people sympathetic to the Girondist point of view, however. In additio
n, the demands of the war and the battle against the rebellious provinces would call for great sacrifices. Therefore, Robespierre, who was not one of the dominant figures in the convention, decided to distract the people from the fate of the Girondists and the new hardships that were about to be inflicted by a more appealing sideshow. In August it was announced that Marie Antoinette, the hated Austrian who had seduced the French king into oppressing his people, would be tried for her crimes. She had already been moved from the Temple and was lodged in the Conciergerie prison.
To Roger’s relief, Leonie did not react much to the announcement of the queen’s imminent trial. She was sorry for Marie Antoinette, who would certainly be convicted and executed for crimes of which she was not guilty; however the queen was not completely innocent either. There could be no doubt that she had attempted to make her husband resist reform of any kind, had been dissipated and frivolous. Her “crimes” were not such as should call for the punishment she would receive, but Leonie was too aware of the horrible deaths of truly innocent people like the Aunays to be much moved by the queen’s troubles. Every few days the fugitives who passed through their house reminded her that the same fate awaited those who had never had power or influence and who had been condemned without any real reason by the bloody Committee of Public Safety.
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