by Emma Carroll
Sitting Coco on my knee, I refuse to speak to anyone. What could I possibly have to say, anyway? I feel like I’m looking down on the world, watching everything from a distance. Girls like me don’t belong with boys like these.
But after a bit I find I’m watching Sebastien. He speaks quickly, musically: people lean in to hear what he’s saying. He smiles a lot too, and it is, I admit, quite a nice smile. Perhaps he isn’t so bad. Maybe I just don’t understand rich people.
Then I remember something.
‘How d’you know we’ve just arrived in Paris?’ I ask.
Faces, shiny in the candlelight, turn to look at me. Sebastien stops mid-laugh. ‘What?’
‘You said earlier, “welcome to Paris”.’
‘Did I?’ he says, all breezy. ‘I really don’t recall—’
‘You did.’ I stare at him. ‘How did you know?’
Someone coughs. I glance at Pierre, who looks embarrassed and says under breath. ‘He was being friendly.’
‘I’m doing my best to be,’ Sebastien says. ‘Anyhow, you’re carrying that box around so it’s obvious you don’t live here, else you’d have left it at home.’
I catch Pierre’s eye: Don’t say a word.
‘What’s in it?’ Sebastien rises out of his seat, craning to see between our chairs.
‘Nothing.’ I say. Heat spreads up my neck.
‘Oh come on, it takes two of you to carry it – it must be heavy.’
‘It’s only papers,’ says Pierre. ‘Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t tell him!’ I snap.
Pierre holds up his hands. ‘I hardly think—’
‘He might be an English spy!’ I blurt out.
Sebastien, eyebrows raised, points to himself. ‘So I’m a spy? Is that what you’re suggesting?’
Around the table, his friends laugh uneasily; a glare from him and they stop.
‘You think I’m a spy?’ he says again. He’s not smiling any more.
‘You might be,’ I mutter. ‘How are we to know?’
With a look of disgust, he turns to Pierre. ‘Do you agree with her?’
‘Well, no, I—’
‘Someone must’ve put this idea into her head,’ he interrupts. ‘I can’t imagine she’d have the wit to think it up by herself.’
‘Being poor and dark isn’t the same as being stupid,’ I tell him.
Sebastien ignores me. He’s now locked onto Pierre.
‘You offend my honour, sir.’ He stares at Pierre, who’s gone visibly pale. I’m not sure why when I’ve heard far worse curses on the streets. But the others at the table share a meaningful glance, sort of horrified and excited.
‘Why’re you all looking at each other like that?’ I demand. ‘Pierre’s done nothing wrong. I’m the one who called you a spy, Sebastien, so you leave my friend alone.’
Sebastien’s response is to whip a leather glove from his pocket and slap it down on the table. His friends draw in one big sharp breath. Poor Pierre looks ready to faint.
‘Tomorrow, Monsieur Montgolfier,’ Sebastien says, ‘You’ll give me the satisfaction of meeting at the south entrance of the Tuileries Gardens, by the wall, at dawn.’
Out in the street, Pierre turns on me. ‘You idiot, Magpie! What did you go and say that for?’
‘What did I do?’ I cry, exasperated. ‘For all we know he could be a spy! Anyway, you were the one who mentioned the papers.’
‘But it was what you said that caused offence. Don’t you ever think before you speak?’
‘He was pestering me earlier, wanting to help carry the box! And what about his arm, the one in the sling?’
Pierre tuts in irritation. ‘He wasn’t wearing a sling.’
‘Not when you saw, no. But he was earlier – on his right arm – the one he’d probably use to hold a gun.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Think about it.’ Now I’m angry too. ‘There’s been talk of spies for weeks back in Annonay. On the road we get robbed by a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, then another one turns up in Paris and is unusually friendly.’
‘You think that was Sebastien?’ From the look Pierre gives me he clearly doesn’t.
‘It’s possible,’ I mumble, though the doubts creep in when I remember how the robber wore a scarf over his face. Just like I’d done, in fact, when I’d broken into Pierre’s house, and he’d not recognized me.
‘Mon dieu! You’ve no proof! You can’t just accuse people! What you said to him . . .’ Pierre splutters, ‘. . . why couldn’t you have kept quiet?’
Dropping his side of the box, Pierre takes a long breath through his nose. He picks up Voltaire, who’s flapping about worriedly, and tucks him under his arm.
‘Magpie,’ he says, trying to stay calm. ‘You know what all this means, don’t you? You know what Sebastien’s just said?’
‘Which part of it?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
I didn’t.
‘. . . the satisfaction of meeting . . .’ Pierre puts on Sebastien’s silky voice, but somehow it isn’t funny. ‘He wants to fight a duel. I’ve offended his honour.’
I stare at him in disbelief. ‘But I’m the one who offended him.’
I know what a duel is. Not that I’ve ever seen one, but I’ve heard stories of men shooting each other or fighting with swords. These aren’t messy, drunken, scraps like the ones I’ve seen aplenty in the streets. It’s how rich people settle their differences. And with a horrible, sickening realization, I see what trouble I’ve stirred up.
‘Let me go back to the café and explain,’ I plead.
Pierre shakes his head. ‘Leave it. It’s me he wants to fight. I’m a boy, you see, of a similar class. That’s how it works. If I don’t fight then I’m a coward. My reputation is ruined.’
‘Didn’t know you cared about your reputation.’
‘It’s not a joke, Magpie!’ Pierre is fierce. ‘Tomorrow at dawn I’ll go to the Tuileries Gardens. I have to accept Sebastien’s challenge.’
‘But it’s just stupid name-calling. You can’t risk your life over that.’
Yet no amount of arguing or begging will change his mind. This stubborn side of his character is new to me. It’s like shouting at a locked door.
‘Whatever you say, it should be me fighting him,’ I say miserably. ‘I was the one calling him a spy.’
Pierre sighs. ‘Girls don’t fight duels, Magpie. Not even ones with short hair.’
He’s wrong about that.
17
The wall in question is tall and made of stone: the next morning, true to his word, Sebastien is waiting beside it. He’s got a friend with him, a boy I recognize from last night, who’s carrying a small grey case under his arm. The city’s clocks haven’t yet struck four.
‘Well, well,’ Sebastien says, with a graceful bow of the head. ‘I assumed cowardice would get the better of you, Monsieur Montgolfier. Clearly I was wrong.’
I bite my lip: he is wrong. More than he knows. With my nose and mouth well hidden behind a makeshift scarf, I plan for it to stay that way.
Monsieur Pierre Montgolfier is two miles away across the city, locked inside a little room above a baker’s shop. He didn’t plan to be – when renting it last night he supposed he’d be the one meeting Sebastien Delamere at dawn – but I’d woken first. The rest had been easy. Before he could even sit up, I grabbed Pierre’s breeches and hat, and jammed the door shut behind me with a chair. He yelled to be let out, and I did feel mean, especially as I’d left him in sole charge of the valuables box and two grumpy birds. But they were all better off angry than dead.
And though Pierre’s shoes are too big and his breeches too long, I make a pretty convincing boy. Standing here now though, the easy part is over. I’m going to have to fight like a gentleman’s son.
The friend is called Olivier. We follow him over a locked gate to a far-flung corner of the gardens where the grass grows meado
w-deep. The air, still damp with night, makes gooseflesh prickle up my arms. Or maybe that’s fear.
Quite suddenly, we come out into a clearing. The grass here is flatter, shorter, stretching about one hundred yards in one direction, sixty or seventy in the other. Just the sight of it makes me shiver with dread.
Olivier calls over his shoulder. ‘What do you think of our field of honour?’
I stay silent, shaking. Sebastien, walking ahead of me, tenses a little. ‘Yes, it’ll serve.’
Trees surround us on all four sides: just beyond them lies a whole teeming city, though you’d hardly know it. The leaves and branches soak up most of the sound.
This is the moment I make up my mind: I’m not going to die here, hidden away like an embarrassment. Mind you, it’s easier thought than done.
Halfway across the grass, Olivier stops and with a click, opens the grey case.
‘Your weapons,’ he explains. ‘First choice goes to Sebastien,’ and he presents the case to his friend as if it’s a fine meal on a platter.
Sebastien reaches inside the case. He takes out a silver pistol. I’d been hoping for swords or something that might not kill you outright. Then the case is in front of me.
‘My father’s duelling pistols,’ Sebastien tells me. ‘It’s an honour today to use them.’
There it is again – that word, ‘honour’. Personally, I can’t even remember my father’s face. His name might’ve been Amir, but I couldn’t swear to it.
It’s a million miles from how things are for Sebastien and Pierre. At the merest sniff of threat to their families they turn from gentle young men into something wild-animal fierce. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that about anyone apart from my rooster. I’m way out of my depth.
‘Can’t we just . . . I don’t know . . . use swords or something?’ I stutter.
Olivier looks at me like I’m lily-livered. A coward. I’m also a boy with a rather high-pitched voice.
So, wiping my sweaty palms, I take my pistol from the offered case without another word. It’s surprisingly heavy with a long, pointed barrel. Though Sebastien seems to be checking his, I don’t know where to start. Tutting, Olivier takes it from me. A few clicks, a catch flicked and he hands it back.
‘That’s the safety catch,’ he says, pointing out a little lever above the handle. ‘You’ll want it off when we start.’
I nod.
Then he indicates a spot on the ground. ‘If you start right here it gives you both twenty paces. One shot each. First shot goes to Sebastien.’
‘Ten paces,’ Sebastien argues.
Olivier gives a nervous cough. ‘At ten paces your aim will be much more accurate so it’s likely you’ll—’
‘That’s the idea,’ he snaps. ‘This scoundrel called me an English spy, remember?’
‘A single shot at ten paces could easily kill,’ Olivier replies. ‘I don’t see how—’
‘Ten it is,’ I interrupt. Above us, the sky is turning light. We need to get this finished.
Olivier doesn’t look happy. But he beckons to us both, making us stand back to back. There’s a moment of quiet. I feel Sebastien’s breathing, the warmth of him. I hope he can’t hear my galloping heart.
Then Olivier says, ‘Begin.’
Sebastien sets off one way; I go the other. To my left, Olivier counts our strides.
‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’
Trying to ignore the churning sensation inside me, I focus on the pistol, cool and heavy in my hand.
‘Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .’
My strides are longer than usual: Sebastien’s, I guess, will be shorter.
‘Three . . . two . . . one. Stop. And turn.’
We turn to face each other. As I fear, Sebastien’s still too close. So close, in fact, I see the way his necktie trembles at his throat. He’s nervous too.
‘First shot to Sebastien,’ says Olivier, stepping backwards.
I breathe deep. Trying desperately not to move, I make myself look ahead at Sebastien. He stands, feet apart, his pistol in both hands. Raising it to shoulder level, he narrows his eyes. Then, he turns sideways, clicks off the safety catch, and raises the gun again, this time one-handedly. The barrel is pointing at my head. A strange calmness comes over me, as if this is happening to someone else.
‘Fire!’
Something hot whizzes past my ear. There’s a nasty, bitter smell. Smoke curls from the end of Sebastien’s pistol. Hands on hips, he kicks the ground. ‘He moved! The little pest moved!’
‘One shot each you said,’ Olivier replies. ‘Now it’s Monsieur Montgolfier’s turn.’
Realizing what’s happened, that Sebastien’s shot has missed, I almost grin. The relief doesn’t last.
‘Monsieur Montgolfier, are you ready?’ Olivier asks.
Shifting Pierre’s hat back so I can see better, I raise my pistol like Sebastien did and plant my feet firmly on the grass. With a click I lift the safety catch. Turn sideways.
‘Fire!’
Aiming at a spot to Sebastien’s right, I try to steady my hand. But I’m not ready.
‘Fire!’ Olivier says again.
I focus on Sebastien’s face. At the very last moment, I move an inch to my left. I squeeze the trigger. The gun roars. It bucks so hard I can’t hold it any longer. It falls to the ground with a thud. Smoke hangs in the air. Though it’s hard to see anything, I can hear Sebastien’s not happy.
‘It was a dumb shot,’ he protests. ‘Montgolfier didn’t even try to hit me.’
He’s right; I didn’t. As the smoke clears enough for me to see his furious face, I fear I’ve probably just made things worse for myself.
‘Two dubious shots do not satisfy my honour,’ Sebastien says. ‘I demand another attempt.’
Olivier glances between us, bewildered. ‘But you said one shot each.’
‘Proper shots, yes. Not half-hearted attempts.’
If there are actual rules for this duelling lark, then it seems they’re the ones people invent to suit themselves. Already, Sebastien is checking his pistol again. That done, he walks back to his spot.
‘I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ Olivier warns.
Sebastien ignores him. His eyes are blazing a strange, bright blue. The safety catch clicks off.
I hold up my hands. ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight any more. Can’t we just stop a moment and—’
The shot cuts me short. I hear whizzing. A force like a punch hits my head and sends me reeling. Pierre’s hat spins to the ground.
He’s shot me!
I wait for my legs to buckle. Any moment I’ll be lying down, looking up at the sky for one last time. I’ll never say goodbye to Pierre. Or Coco. This is it.
Gingerly, I touch my forehead, which I’m expecting to be wet with blood and brains. There’s a lump there, all right, but I’m surprised to find it dry. My legs crumple anyway. I yank the scarf off my face, suddenly needing air.
This time, as the gunsmoke clears, I hear laughing. Or perhaps I imagine it. I’m not sure what’s real. Then I see Sebastien striding towards me. I cower, fearing more pistol shots. But he’s looking at me with a sort of stunned delight.
‘Magpie!’ he cries. ‘I can’t believe it! It’s you!’
Still dazed, I let him clap me on the back like a long-lost friend. I’ve no idea what I’ve done to deserve it. Yet as I gather my wits again, I learn something else about duels: the one factor more important than winning is courage.
‘You faced two pistol shots!’ Sebastien gushes. ‘Two! I’m in awe!’
‘One shot,’ I remind him. ‘You said the first was a dumb shot which was why we’ve had to do it all again.’
That seems forgotten now. The way Sebastien looks at me so admiringly makes my stupid face redden.
‘You’ve done all this for your friend Montgolfier! What a lucky fellow he is.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I mutter.
‘Indeed, it’s true. You’ve defended his honour and proved your own.’
‘He didn’t have much choice. I shut him in our room.’ I pluck at Pierre’s breeches. ‘And I stole his clothes and all.’
Perhaps it’s shock or the fact I’m still alive, but suddenly I’ve a bad case of giggles bubbling in my throat. Catching Sebastien’s eye, we start laughing. We’re doubled up, holding our ribs like they’ll break if we don’t, and when we’re done I think, at last, we might be friends.
18
Afterwards, Sebastien and I walk back across the city. The early sunshine is already turning hazy. It’s going to be a hot, sticky day, and breeches, I’m learning, are not as cool as skirts. I’m also reminded, once again, that there are people – as well as poultry – I care about in this world. Life’s not just about looking out for yourself.
‘Shall we stop for breakfast?’ Sebastien says as we pass a chop house opening its shutters.
At the mention of food, my stomach growls.
‘Let’s fetch Pierre first,’ I decide, knowing he’ll be hungry too.
As we arrive at the baker’s where we took rooms last night, Madame Petit the owner leans out of an upstairs window. ‘Oh Mademoiselle! Thank goodness you’re back!’
Moments later, she’s downstairs, rushing through the shop doorway.
‘It’s the boy. He’s gone!’ she cries. ‘A man came for him and . . . oh . . .’
‘Who came?’ I’m taken aback.
‘They left so fast in a cart . . . Oh that poor child – and in his nightshirt, too!’
I glance guiltily at Pierre’s breeches.
‘Slow down,’ Sebastien says calmly. ‘Now, tell us again.’
But Madame Petit can’t get her words out.
‘Was it Pierre’s father?’ I can’t think who else would fetch him away. ‘Did the man have a bald head? Or – hang on – he might be wearing his wig?’
All she does is shake her head and sob.
I’ve a queasy feeling this is about the box. Pierre was right all along to think Sebastien wasn’t behind any of the theiving attempts. How could he be when these past couple of hours he’s been with me?
Which makes me think again of that nasty piece who held up our coach. Or the sense I’d had of someone trailing us along the main Paris road: if it wasn’t Sebastien, who was it?.