Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution (32 page)

A few bent heads turned my way, then bowed once more. I chose one of the many radiating chapels of the chevet, and entered its small enclosed silence. I knelt on the cold stone, and Paul knelt behind me.

I did not know what we were going to do here, nor how long we would stay. We could not leave the carriage unattended for too long.

But I wanted to wait until the search had subsided somewhat, and the market in Louis XII Square was thronged. I extended my arm behind me, and Paul took my hand and squeezed it for a moment, then let go.

When I drew my hand back, I noticed there was blood on it.

I could not pray. I felt like a statue with a racing mind. The sunlight was bright in the little chapel, and I felt suddenly like the chapel was a prison, and we would never leave it. I bowed my head and thanked Lucette for our safety thus far.

Boots rang out on the stone floor far behind us, coming quickly down the nave. They were not reverent boots. I felt Paul stiffen behind me. For something to do, I opened my watch and looked at the time. It was twenty-five minutes past seven. Incredible. I felt two and a half hours must have passed. The steps were now in the transept. They paused. Two soldiers, perhaps three, but they sounded like more in the echoing vault of the church. The boots entered the chancel. They were definitely looking for something. I heard them come toward the apse and pause. The owner of one of the pairs of boots said, “We should check the chapels.” His voice snapped out in the stillness their boots had already fragmented.

I cast my eyes wildly about. The chapel offered a place of concealment, but not the altar, which seemed too obvious. I could not see Paul’s eye, under the wreck of Jean’s hat, but his face looked badly marked. I bowed my head again, and he did the same.

Then the older voice said, “He is probably far away from Blois by now, on his way to join counter-revolutionaries in the Vendée. We are always too late. And it is not our fault. We were minding our posts. It is the fault of guards inside. You check the rest of these chapels. I will look in the transept chapels, and then we will go.”

The boots paused before each of the radiating chapels, and the voice called out, “Nothing...Nothing...Nothing...,” until it came to ours.

“Excuse me, Madame, for interrupting your prayer.” I looked up from my hands, which were knotted, rather than folded, in prayer; it was Arnaut, the young guard from outside the prison.

His eyes flicked toward Paul.

“But you were going the other way, to the market, to buy your vegetables early. Who is this man?” he added. He seemed on the verge of calling the other guard, which I knew would be fatal.

“He is my coachman. I wanted to pray here first. This is a place of significance, Monsieur. I feel reassured here. And lately, I am needing much reassurance. It is a dangerous time to bring a child into the world.”

“Dangerous indeed, Madame. Your coachman, he accompanies you to the chapel?”

“We consider him part of the family. We are all citizens, now, as I have said.”

“A prisoner has escaped. He went over the wall near where your
carriage had stopped. And now your carriage sits in the square,
empty.”

“Surely, with the National Guardsmen about, the carriage is safe while its occupants pray in the cathedral?”

I was still kneeling, but I turned toward him now. I knew he didn’t want to arrest us. “The burden of motherhood sometimes frightens me, but I am praying for grace, for a Providence that protects one from danger. Will you join us, Monsieur? The more people that pray, the more powerful the prayer.”

“That is an old superstition, Madame. You can do nothing against the dangers that are around you.”

“I can put myself in the hands of the tenet behind all these candles lit in these various chapels, behind the very structure of this ancient church—mercy.”

The morning light was full on Arnaut’s young face, and he looked at me, then at Paul, silently kneeling, then back at me. “This coachman has yellow hair. Your other one had black hair.”

“I am praying, Arnaut, for my family. You had asked me if there was anything you could do to help.”

“I am not a traitor.”

“And you also know what is right.”

“I know what I ought to do.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I cannot help it, Madame.”

He put his hand out toward Paul, and it was trembling. “You,” he said, “come with me.”

“You don’t have to do it,” I persisted. “He wronged no one. What good will killing him do? We are leaving. We are fleeing France and will not return.”

Arnaut moved toward me, and I could see the sweat on his forehead. “You are not special,” he said. “But you are beautiful. And you are brave. I care nothing for this one, bruised and filthy like a criminal, but for you I would lie. I don’t know why. I’m a fool. Now go, after I leave. But if someone recognizes the prisoner, I will say where I saw your carriage, and it will not go well for you. You are, perhaps, more of a fool, than I.” He pivoted, and his boots clicked toward the transept chapels.

“Nothing, again,” Arnaut said crisply.

“It took you long enough. Saying a paternoster for your dead mother?”

“My mother is not dead.”

“For your girl to lie with you?”

“I have no girl. Let us go, I do not like churches.”

I heard their boots echo back down the long nave, and I loved that boy, and wished that he would not get killed in the war and that I would never see him again.

I stood up and leaned on the altar, and Paul put his arms around me, and I buried my head in his coat. Suddenly, I thought he looked so absurd in this coat that was too big for him that I started to laugh; trying to muffle my giggles. I realized how close we had come.

“Not now,” Paul chided softly. When the fit subsided, I brushed the laughter-tears from my eyes and looked down at my hands in Paul’s wounded ones.

“Your poor hands,” I said, then it seemed ridiculous that I should feel sorry for hands, when everything had been at stake, and I put my face into Jean’s old coat again and held on to Paul. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had come, and I felt a great need to relieve myself.

I asked Paul to go check on the carriage, as it should not be left unattended for so long, and said I would meet him there. When I heard his footsteps far down the nave, I rushed into the next chapel.

I did not want to use this one; it had protected us. I went behind the altar, said a brief prayer for forgiveness, knowing that I would be given understanding, and relieved myself. I felt the sound of water on stone could surely be heard out in the transept, but no one came.

Before I left, I took off one of my petticoats and mopped it up and left the petticoat rolled up behind the altar. When I left, I looked above the entrance of the little chapel and saw that it was the private chapel of the mayor of Blois and his family.

There was still so much that I wished were over. I did not want to risk going through the square, nor going along the quai near the abbey, where they would probably also be looking, so we would have to go out of our way, up the hill, around the huge château de Blois, and back to the bridge that way.

I wanted to skip over time and have us all traveling north in the carriage on peaceful country roads and hear Gérard ask if he could ride up front with his father. Marguerite would say no. I walked back down the nave, dipped my fingers in the holy water, and walked out into the brightness of a still early morning.

When we drove by the officer at the intersection, I nodded my head politely to him. Now we took the narrow road around the château. I glanced up. If things went right, it would perhaps be the last time I would see the crazy asymmetry of those windows and balconies of old François I, looking like some eastern palace, not like the abandoned château it was, now barracks for the military. I had always liked it. It was the château of my city and it was unlike any other, with its different wings built in different centuries. And I liked the winding, sculpted stone staircase in which Marguerite and I had once, in another life, chased each other around and around, and stood on the balconies and imagined the torchlit carriages of guests stopping below. Even then it had been abandoned.

The château de Blois had seen murders of dukes and cardinals, the poison collection of Catherine de Medici. My little intrigue was laughable in comparison. I pulled out Etienne’s watch from a pocket in my dress. We were almost thirty minutes behind the schedule I had made. I imagined the ghost of Catherine de Médicis, the witch queen from Florence, cackling at me from the window of her ransacked room.

I prayed to Sainte Lucette that we make good time, that we get back to chez Vincent well before the inevitable arrival of the National Guard.

I finally felt the roll of the carriage down the hill toward the bridge.

Guards at the bridge stopped us, and it was the same as at the intersection. Paul seemed to pass as a coachman. Perhaps it would have been that way in the market square too, and I had made a wrong decision, but I had been afraid at the square. We were among the traffic of the bridge, and the blue water moved lazily beneath us. I could see the vineyards on the slopes of chez Vincent now. Paul had made good time. We had only lost an hour, going into the church and taking the long way back by the château.

I closed my eyes and realized how tired I was. Marguerite and the children would get in the carriage, and then I would sleep, even with Gérard chattering. Paul must be tired, but he was a man who had to protect his family, and he would not let himself be tired for a long time yet. I wanted it all to be over now. A dim fog floated behind my eyes. Then I opened them.

Paul jumped down, and Marguerite came running out of the house, with the children following, and embraced her husband.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked her.

“We ’ve been ready for an hour. When I heard your carriage, I prayed that it was you and not the National Guardsmen.”

Paul hugged Marie and kissed her cheeks, then squatted down and took Gérard by the shoulders.

“Are you ready to take a trip to England?” he asked.

“Papa, your face is hurt.”

“It’s fine. I fell from a friend’s horse. We will have good riding in England. Come, help me put the bags on.”

In a matter of minutes all the bags were on top of the carriage and roped down, and I put one small bag and a basket of food inside.

Cook had prepared a last meal before she and Françoise left for the house of Isabelle, an old friend of Marguerite’s and mine.

“Come, let me wash your face before we start,” Marguerite said to Paul.

“We don’t have the time,” he said. “Quick now, everyone in the carriage.” Paul stood beside the door and helped each of us in. He kept looking back toward the road.

We commenced along the side of the house and into the vineyard.

Across from me were the children, each with their favorite pillow, and I could smell the sausage and cheese in the basket. For the first time that day, I thought I could eat. I leaned out the window, took a last look at chez Vincent, and saw the dust rising from about six horses rapidly approaching the front of the house. I could make out the blue jackets and black hats. And at this short distance I knew we could not outrun them. I shouted up to Paul to stop. “National Guard,” I said to him.

He stopped the horses. “What’s wrong?” Gérard said.

“Hush,” Marie said. “Bad people are here.”

“You can drive, Annette,” Paul said. “It’s me they want. Come, now,” and he jumped down and opened the door to help me out.

“Papa, I know a place to hide,” Gérard said.

“Gérard, we can’t hide,” his father said gently. “This is not a game.

You ride on, and I’ll meet you later.”

“No,” started Marguerite, and a look from Paul stopped her.

“It
is
a good place,” Gérard insisted. “No one ever finds me. It’s my secret place.”

“Is it the one on the other side of the terrace?” I asked.

“Yes, that one. Come.”

“It’s a good place, but a dangerous one. It’s a narrow ledge, hidden from view from above. They would still follow us, Paul, if I drove.

It is worth a try. What can it harm? If they find us there, things are no different.”

“Let’s go,” Paul said.

We left the carriage at the edge of the vineyard and almost ran back up to the terrace. I held Gérard’s hand as he proudly ushered us behind the chestnut tree. “Down there,” he said, and pointed over the low wall to a little path just on the other side that descended to the left, then stopped suddenly on a narrow rock ledge, directly below the terrace, where, a lifetime ago, Gérard had shouted, “Find me!” then froze with fear. Now we were all afraid.

“I don’t like his place,” Marie said.

“Show us, Gérard,” his father commanded.

First, we climbed over the low terrace wall, then I could feel Gérard’s little hand enclosed in mine as he led us carefully down to his secret place. His fifth birthday was in two days. Then I let go of his hand before the path got too narrow to pass, and leaned back against the cliff wall so the family could go in front of me. I wanted them to be together. Paul held Marie’s hand. On one side was the cliff wall that turned into the terrace wall above us; on the other was a sheer drop into a ravine, then the vineyards sloping down toward the river. It was a good place. You could not see us unless you were hanging over the terrace balustrade, and then only if you looked straight down.

They all quietly passed me, and for a moment I looked down at Marie’s lambskin slippers, then beyond them to the drop. When I was rescuing Gérard, I had been too intent to notice it. Now I knew why he had frozen. All I could think of was falling, my body breaking on the rocks.

I felt bad in my stomach, then my head began to spin. The vineyard swayed beneath me, and the cliff swung down toward the valley.

I lurched, and Marie gave a shriek of fear. I knew I had to get away from the cliff. I would endanger them all. Right now I didn’t care about the National Guardsmen as long as they didn’t find the others; and it wasn’t me they wanted. Someone shouted from above me that he had heard a cry. I stepped back off the cliff and gave a look to Paul and Marguerite. I didn’t know when I would see them again. Paul’s eyes were questioning, but my sister’s broke my heart. She knew. I waved to them and pointed from them down to the carriage in the vineyard, so they would have no doubt as to my meaning: I wanted them to escape, and this wasn’t my time.