The Ruby Talisman

by Belinda Murrell

  A noise creaked eerily in the evening breeze. Tilly looked up and screamed.

  There, hanging from the lampposts, were three bodies. Tilly could tell from their pallid skin that they were aristocrats, their hair curled and coiffed and their faces – both male and female – painted with makeup. Their fine silks and satin shoes were gone, as were their stockings and stays. They were dressed simply in pale lawn chemises, like nightgowns, gleaming ghostly white in the lamplight.

  Henri grabbed Mystique’s and Angelique’s reins and led the horses out of the square. Tilly eventually stopped screaming and sobbed instead, doubled over the pommel of her saddle. She had never imagined death would be so vivid, so shocking, so violent.

  Tilly’s tears fell onto Mystique’s pale-grey neck. She clung there, gradually calmed by the horse’s warm skin, the comforting smell of her sweat and the gentle rhythm of her walk.

  They headed north into the centre of the city. The streets grew wider, the buildings more elegant. The sinuous, brown River Seine wended its way before them, shimmering in the darkness. Henri led them to a stone bridge that arched across the river.

  Gas lanterns glowed from the lampposts. They passed the golden facades of palaces and mansions, dark gardens and parks and open boulevards. Small knots of people pressed into the shadows, watching their passage suspiciously.

  ‘Over there is the Palace of the Tuilleries,’ whispered Henri. ‘To the left are the Petit Palais and the Grand Palais.’

  Tilly merely nodded, her bones aching with weariness, her mind and heart shocked by the scenes of violence and brutality she had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours. Amelie was swaying in her saddle with exhaustion, Claudette supporting her. Even Mimi was limp.

  ‘Courage, mes amies. We are nearly home,’ Henri encouraged. ‘Hot baths, clean clothes, a delicious supper and bed.’

  The horses sensed the surge of hope and quickened their step, lifting their feet and arching their necks proudly.

  At last they trotted up a wide avenue lined with plane trees and tall, stone mansions. The street lanterns had not been lit. Most of the mansions had their shutters closed and gates bolted.

  Henri halted at the arched double doors of one grand townhouse and knocked loudly. There was no response.

  Henri huffed in annoyance and rapped again more vehemently. Again, nothing.

  ‘Open up, in the name of Le Comte de Montjoyeuse,’ ordered Henri curtly.

  There was a slight creak above them and a shutter opened a crack, spilling out a ray of candlelight.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ hissed Henri. ‘Will you have us out here all night?’

  The shutter slammed shut. In a moment there was a clatter on the other side of the double doors, one door opening a fraction. A footman stood there, peeking through the opening. He had no wig and no livery, and his face was pale and frightened.

  ‘Pardon, monseigneur,’ apologised the footman, holding the door tightly. ‘We didn’t expect you, and the streets of Paris aren’t safe.’

  ‘Well, let us in,’ ordered Henri. ‘Do not stand there like a blabbering fool. Ma cousineis exhausted. We need hot baths, supper and beds. And see to the horses – they have travelled far today.’

  The footman glanced behind him, looking for reassurance. Juju pushed her nose into the gap, as though to force it open for her master.

  ‘Oui, monseigneur,’ replied the footman, opening the door and hurrying down to take the horses’ reins.

  Claudette eased down from behind Amelie and carefully helped her mistress dismount before unstrapping the luggage.

  Tilly patted Mystique gently on the neck to thank her for her efforts and slid down to the ground. She leant on Mystique for a moment to gain her strength, breathing in the earthy smell and stroking her velvety nose. Mystique hurrumphed sweet hay-breath into her face.

  ‘Are you all right, Tilly?’ asked Henri. ‘Do you need help?’

  Tilly straightened her back and smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine.’

  Carrying her blanket bundle, she staggered up the steps after Amelie and Claudette. Henri limped behind, followed by the ever-faithful Juju.

  Jacques, the Comte’s valet, stepped forward to usher them into the spacious hall, bowing gracefully. He, too, was not wearing his wig or livery. Without his customary attire, he looked completely different – his greying hair cropped very short and his own clothes practical and plain. Jacques looked grave as he opened the door into the drawing room.

  ‘Merci, Jacques,’ Amelie greeted him with a smile. ‘It is so good to be here.’

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle,’ replied Jacques, his face impassive as ever. ‘I’m glad you have found your way here safely. The streets are very dangereuse.’

  ‘So good of you to welcome us,’ snapped Henri. ‘The streets of Paris are indeed dangereuse, but not as dangereuse as my own chateau. Did you and the servants not think to help us last night? We were very nearly killed.’

  Jacques flinched. ‘My apologies, monseigneur. Perhaps we were cowardly, but the mob was so violent that we feared for our lives. I didn’t think the villagers would dare murder their beloved Comte, but a lowly valet would have little chance!’

  Henri nodded stiffly and strode into the drawing room.

  Amelie dropped her riding crop on the side table, took off her headscarf and sank onto a blue-and-cream-striped satin couch, stretching her sore muscles. Juju flopped onto the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, her head on her paws. Henri glanced around the drawing room, puzzled. Something was not quite right.

  ‘Tea or coffee, monseigneur?’ enquired Jacques politely.

  ‘Hot chocolatwould be divine,’ responded Amelie quickly. ‘And some food! I am famished.’

  ‘Hot chocolate would be wonderful,’ agreed Tilly.

  Henri nodded absent-mindedly. Jacques stepped away.

  ‘Jacques, where are the gilt clocks and the silver from the mantelpiece?’ asked Henri. ‘And the armchair that usually stands by the fireplace?’

  Jacques glanced at the empty mantelpiece and frowned. ‘Mobs of peasants have been roaming the streets of Paris, monseigneur, breaking into houses, robbing and murdering,’ he replied. ‘The house next door was raided only yesterday. We thought it best if we moved some of the valuables upstairs.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ Henri said. ‘But the servants are not wearing their livery?’

  Jacques looked down at his everyday wear of trousers, shirt, cravat and jacket and shrugged. ‘The rabble call themselves “sans-culottes”, monseigneur. Those without breeches. Anyone who wears breeches is considered an aristocrat, and many have been massacred. Even servants are not safe, so we thought it prudent to put away our livery. Just as you yourself choose to travel in peasants’ clothes.’

  ‘Oui, of course,’ replied Henri with a flush, glancing down at his filthy workman’s outfit. ‘So the riots have been violent in Paris?’

  ‘We only arrived here from the chateau ourselves a few hours ago, monseigneur,’ explained Jacques. ‘But we heard there’s no bread for the commoners. Since the peasants in the country have risen up, they’ve not sent food to Paris. July is always the worst month for famine, just before the next harvest, and this year is the worst in memory. Wagons and barges carrying grain into the city from the north have been attacked and bakeries ransacked. Yet still they starve.’

  Tilly winced, remembering the hungry faces of the workers as they entered Paris, and the emaciated country family who claimed to eat grass and husks.

  ‘The poor believe the aristocrats are deliberately withholding flour, while they feast,’ Jacques continued, his voice rising slightly, his usually pallid cheeks flushed. ‘Did you know that the cost of bread has more than tripled this year? A working man must spend most of his income just to buy bread. Children are dropping dead in the gutters of Paris.’

  Jacques stopped suddenly, collecting himself. He bowed stiffly. ‘Monseigneur, I’ll fetch hot chocolatat once,’ Jacques said, moving softly to the door.r />
  Claudette picked up Amelie’s portmanteau and Tilly’s blanket bundle.

  ‘I’ll set up your rooms, mademoiselle,’ offered Claudette.

  ‘Merci, Jacques,’ replied Amelie. ‘Merci, Claudette.’

  Claudette glanced back and smiled around at the three. She didn’t curtsey as she would have in the old days. Tilly thought she walked differently too – taller and more confidently. She was no longer invisible.

  Henri limped over to another sofa.

  ‘How is your leg, Henri?’ asked Tilly anxiously. ‘It looks as though it has been bleeding again?’

  ‘It is fine,’ insisted Henri, grimacing despite himself.

  ‘Look at us,’ cried Amelie in disgust, pouting as she caught sight of the three of them in the huge, ornately carved gilt mirror over the mantelpiece. They all moved to look in the mirror, framed together like a portrait.

  In the middle stood Henri – his dark hair hanging loose and wavy below his shoulders, his grubby trousers bloodstained and frayed, his pale face scabbed and scarred. On his left was Amelie in her shabby, brown dress, her black hair tangled. Mimi lay cuddled in her arms, in a gold rag. The picture was completed by Tilly to his right in pale-blue silk, knotted hair, red-rimmed eyes, a sword buckled at her waist and oversized boys’ shoes on her feet. On either side of Henri, glowing crimson as blood, were two ruby necklaces.

  ‘We certainly look a sight,’ said Amelie with a laugh somewhere between a sob and a hiccup. ‘I cannot wait for a hot tub and some food – I am starving. We’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday.’

  A vision of the street urchins searching through the garbage for a scrap of anything to eat came to Tilly. Her stomach twisted with shame.

  ‘Look!’ said Henri suddenly, pointing to a brown leather chest on a cherrywood side table. ‘It is Maman’s jewellery chest. Thank goodness the servants saved it from the chateau.’

  Amelie, Tilly, Mimi and Henri were drawn towards the chest like bugs flying to a candle flame. Tilly remembered the glittering piles of sapphires, diamonds, rubies, amethysts, emeralds and pearls from her dream. Reverently, Henri unclasped the latch and opened the lid.

  Henri swore.

  The chest was empty – every mulberry-velvet lined tray. Mimi climbed up on the table and thrust her tiny, wrinkled fist deep into the chest. It came up empty. She turned to Amelie, her face furrowed with confusion. The monkey chattered angrily at Tilly, blaming her for the loss of all those pretty, dazzling playthings.

  ‘Everything’s gone,’ exclaimed Henri, his voice hoarse. Juju came to him and rubbed against his leg, offering her tummy to be scratched.

  ‘The servants must have hidden them safely with the clocks and the silver,’ suggested Amelie, her voice uncertain.

  Henri strode to the sideboard and rang the bell. No-one came. He rang again.

  This time Jacques returned. ‘Monseigneur?’ he asked, bowing.

  ‘Where are the Comtesse’s jewels?’ demanded Henri, arms crossed.

  Jacques glanced quickly at the open chest, compressing his lips.

  ‘Monseigneur, we brought them to Paris for safekeeping,’ explained Jacques quickly. ‘We thought it best if they were hidden, because of the mobs.’

  ‘Merci, once again,’ replied Henri. ‘But perhaps you could bring them to me now for safekeeping. I would like to check that they are unharmed.’

  Jacques blanched and took a deep breath. He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Non, I don’t think so, monseigneur,’ replied Jacques. ‘It’s too late for that.’

  Jacques removed a heavy pistol and levelled it directly at Henri. Henri instinctively felt for his sword hilt. Juju growled deep in her throat.

  Jacques swung the pistol so it was pointing at Amelie, who cowered back against the sofa, clutching her ruby necklace, her black-brown eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Hold the dog and throw down your weapon,’ ordered Jacques.

  Henri appraised the lethal pistol aimed at Amelie. He hesitated for just a moment, then grasped Juju’s silver collar, unbuckling his sword with the other hand and laying the scabbard and belt carefully on the floor. Tilly froze, her mind whirring.

  Jacques reached into his pocket and drew out another object: a small box. He held it out in his palm. It was an apple-green and gold snuffbox, encrusted with jewels, with elaborate engravings of birds and flowers.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ asked Jacques. He flicked the lid open with one finger and the snuffbox, full of powdered tobacco, began to play a nightingale tune.

  ‘That’s my uncle’s, the Comte’s,’ accused Amelie. ‘He took it with him to the ball in Paris, the night the brigades...’

  Jacques smiled, waving the pistol towards Amelie. Juju growled deep and low.

  ‘It wasyour uncle’s,’ corrected Jacques. ‘Now, my pretty, perhaps you would be so kind as to take off that beautiful ruby necklace of yours and pass it to me?’

  ‘Non,’ Amelie cried, covering the talisman with both hands. ‘It was my maman’s.’

  Henri stepped forward, loosening his grip on Juju’s collar, his face white with anger and grief. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could you? You have been with my family for years.’

  ‘It wasyour maman’s,’ echoed Jacques, ignoring Henri and holding out his hand to Amelie. ‘Now it’s mine.’

  Juju leapt free from Henri’s restraining hand and lunged for Jacques, sending him staggering. The open snuffbox flung a cloud of snuff in the air, which Jacques inhaled, coughing and choking. He clutched the pistol, drawing it down to fire at Juju. Tilly lunged, heedless of pistol and long skirts, and shoved Jacques with all her strength.

  The pistol dropped and skidded across the floor, firing with explosive sound, the bullet burying itself in the wainscoting. Jacques floundered and fell. Juju leapt on his chest, snarling fiercely – her powerful jaws snapping at his throat. Henri swept up his sword and unsheathed it. Tilly leapt to retrieve the dropped pistol, pointing it shakily at Jacques.

  ‘Well,’ remonstrated Tilly in a croaky voice. ‘I toldyou we should have gone to England.’

  The door opened and two footmen carrying timber batons hurried in, alerted by the pistol shot.

  ‘Bon. Seize him,’ instructed Henri, covering Jacques with his sword.

  ‘Seize them,’ ordered Jacques, struggling to his feet. The footmen started towards Henri, swinging their batons threateningly.

  ‘Get back,’ ordered Tilly, waving the pistol at the footmen, trying to copy the cocky swagger of gangsters she had seen in movies. The footmen retreated, looking at Tilly warily.

  ‘Don’t worry, you fools,’ cried Jacques. ‘The pistol has discharged. It’s not loaded.’

  Tilly suddenly remembered she was in the eighteenth century, when pistols were single-shot weapons that had to be clumsily reloaded down the muzzle. She threw the pistol on the floor in disgust.

  The two footmen rushed forward and attacked Henri and Juju with their batons. Tilly unsheathed her sword and ran to his defence.

  Seeing Tilly’s headlong rush, Amelie searched around for a weapon and grabbed her riding crop on the nearby side table, clutching it in both hands like a baseball bat, ready to slash anyone who harmed them.

  Faced with a snarling dog, two wicked swords and a riding crop, Jacques and the footmen faltered.

  ‘Did you kill my parents?’ asked Henri quietly. ‘Where did you get my father’s snuffbox?’

  ‘Your parents?’ snarled Jacques. ‘The Comte and Comtesse deserved to die. They were selfish, extravagant, vain and cruel. They were responsible for the suffering of many people, through sheer indifference and arrogant spite. You can’t begin to imagine the misery they caused.’

  Henri flinched as though he had been struck. ‘I will admit my parents were thoughtless and extravagant, but hardly cruel,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘Do you even know what goes on in the very fields and villages you presume to own?’ demanded Jacques. ‘I have worked for the Comte for twenty years, but do you even know if I
have a family? Do you know where I come from, what I have had to put up with? Do you even know my real name?’

  Henri blushed. He did not know.

  ‘Do you know what a lettre de cachetis?’ asked Jacques. He did not wait for Henri to answer. ‘They are orders signed by the King to throw a person in prison without trial for an indefinite period. The blank letters are signed by the King and handed out like sweetmeats to courtiers and nobles to use as they will. The Comte found them very useful.’

  Henri flushed again. ‘Non,’ he argued. ‘That is not possible.’

  Jacques tossed his head back angrily, throwing his hand out as though to push Henri away.

  ‘My only son, Pierre, was a footman at the Chateau de Montjoyeuse, as I was before him and my father before me.’ Jacques’s eyes glittered as he told his story. ‘Do you remember him?’

  Henri frowned. There were so many footmen at Chateau de Montjoyeuse – he had trouble keeping track of them all.

  ‘It was my son’s dearest ambition to be promoted in time to be a valet like me, or perhaps even a butler,’ continued Jacques. ‘Pierre worked hard from the age of twelve in the chateau. One day he was feeling ill, feverish and weak, but he knew his duty.

  ‘He was carrying a tray up to the dining room. He carried the pot d’oie – the stuffed goose. The Comte’s favourite dish. My beloved Pierre tripped and fell, dropping the dinner tray, smashing the porcelain serving dishes and ruining the goose.’

  Jacques closed his eyes, reliving the scene. He grimaced, took a deep breath and continued.

  ‘The Comte heard the smash and the running footsteps of the staff coming to help. When the Comte heard what Pierre had done, he had him thrashed with a riding crop in the stableyard like a dog until his back bled.’

  Jacques wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his voice harsh.

  ‘Then he signed the lettre de cachet. My fourteen-year-old son was taken to prison, sick and delirious. He did not last a week. My beautiful boy died in the filth and straw of a dungeon with no-one to nurse him. My wife came to your mother, begging on her knees for his freedom and his life. Your mother had her thrown out of the house ... My wife never recovered.’