Daughters of the Storm (55 page)

His stomach growled with nerves. Notching his belt tighter, he made his way as best he could down the passage towards the grille that separated the men from the women. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the crowd was thickest at this point and the daily interchange between friends and lovers was in full swing. Louis elbowed his way through and peered into the women's courtyard which was packed. He searched the sea of faces that swirled around the confines of the small square, swearing with admirable fluency at anybody who tried to take his place.

He was prepared to be patient, convinced if he stood there long enough he would be rewarded by the sight of Héloïse. As he waited, the iron gate into the yard was yanked open and three of the prison turnkeys walked into a small enclosed area close to the grille. The first was having trouble reigning in his dog, the other two consulted lists but they were drunk and had trouble focusing on their papers. Louis glanced at his watch. This must be the roll-call of women prisoners selected to stand trial the next day.

‘Quiet, you scum.'

The turnkey managed to cut through the hubbub and a hush fell. The dog barked, and one of the turnkeys aimed a kick at its face. It subsided, whimpering.

‘Ravage is not so well today,' called out one bold spirit from Louis' side of the grille. ‘He doesn't like the accommodation.'

The jeers and sallies that greeting this witticism caused Ravage's owner to frown.'Get on with it,' he shouted to his companion.

Now, there was complete silence, broken by a few apprehensive gasps.

‘Jeanne-Marie Clain, Juliette Cailleau, Thérèse Olivier...'

A shudder went through the waiting company, and a neatly dressed woman fell to her knees. Her companions hastened to help her to her feet. The turnkey hesitated, peered at his paper and swore.

‘I can't read this,' he announced to the other two.

‘Claire de Herry,' he hazarded at last.

There was no response. No one stepped forward to claim the name.

‘Claire de Herry.' The turnkey was livid. ‘Which one of you is it?' he shouted, and spittle trickled down his chin. ‘If you don't own up, I'll take one of you anyway.'

‘I am Athenée de Thierry.' A voice spoke from the crowd. Louis drew in his breath as a young woman pushed her way to the railing that separated the guards from the women.

‘Perhaps, it is me that you want,' she suggested.

‘You'll do,' said the turnkey. ‘I need ten.'

Athenée de Thierry prized the indictment from him and placed it in her pocket.
'Le voilà,'
she said, patting it with a smile. ‘No need for alarm,
mes amis.'

‘Teynière, Aimée; Marie-Jeanne de Lescalet; Bonnard, Marie-Victoire; de Choissy, Héloïse; Laville, Violette...'

It was over for the day.

‘Oh God...' cried Marie-Victoire.

The lucky ones moved off to reassume their places round the fountain or to retire to their cells. Some of them supported their stricken friends but most ignored the condemned – as if they feared contamination. Louis could see their point.

He focused on the two women. Marie-Victoire was calm after her outburst, but as white as a sheet. Héloïse tugged nervously at her dress. Dressed in a simple cotton robe, her hair was swept up by her combs and revealed the planes and shadows of her neck and face. His throat tightened. She was even more lovely than he remembered her.

The two women embraced. Then Héloïse disengaged herself and disappeared. Louis was only prevented from shouting out her name by making a supreme effort of will. Behind him the babble intensified as the men discussed the roll-call and fought to gain a space at the grille. Louis shrugged off the most importunate and grasped the bars harder, willing Marie-Victoire to come closer.

Obedient to his silent entreaty, she looked towards the railings and walked towards them.

‘Marie-Victoire!' Louis hissed her name.

Marie-Victoire started in surprise and came closer. ‘Monsieur,' she breathed.

‘Quiet,' he said sharply. ‘I am Louis to you.'

She nodded, understanding at once what he meant, and an unselfish joy spread over her features.

‘I will fetch her,' she said simply. ‘I am so glad.'

‘Marie-Victoire,' he said, ‘tell her I am not a prisoner and I've only got a little time.'

Without saying anything further, Marie-Victoire sped out of sight.

And there she was, a whirl of skirts, a rapturous face and huge dark eyes masked with tears. Murmuring his name over and over, she clung to the grille.

‘You've come. You have come to see me.'

‘Did you not think I would?' Ignoring the bars, Louis bent and kissed her, tasting the salt tears on her mouth, and its softness. For a minute there were no words, only hands that clung.

Louis wiped the tears that continued to stream down her face.

‘You look hungry,' she said, tracing his features with a finger which trembled.

‘You too, Héloïse.' He had already noted the sharp curve of her shoulder under her bodice. ‘Is it so bad?'

‘Not now,' she replied. ‘Nothing matters now. I can face anything. It is enough that I have seen you and know that you are well.' She cast a quick look round. ‘You must go at once. If you are found out.... It is the end for me, I know it, but not for you.'

Again, she kissed his hand over and over.

‘Not yet, Héloïse.'

‘Only one more minute, then. Are you safe?'

‘Thanks to William, I have protection.'

‘Sophie?'

‘They are on their way.'

‘Thank God. Louis, no more. Spies are everywhere.'

He reached through the grille and pulled her close. So close he fancied he could feel her heart beating. ‘It's been so long, Héloïse.'

‘Louis, I order you to go.'

‘I'm not leaving you. Not if it is the last thing I do.'

‘But it may be, Louis.
Please
understand.' In her desperation, Héloïse raised her voice and was subjected to curious stares.

‘Shush,
ma mie.
There is no argument.'

‘De Choissy is here. If I have been called, it is likely that he has been too. He was arrested on the border. If he sees you... Louis, I don't trust him.'

Louis frowned. He had not counted on the presence of de Choissy. ‘Curse him,' he said, and then thought better of it. After all, he could not deny that Héloïse was de Choissy's wife.

‘Where is he?' he asked.

Héloïse indicated the men's part of the prison. ‘Who knows? He's trying to obtain a cell for his accommodation.'

Louis tried to picture the fastidious de Choissy among the alleys and foul cabins, and failed.

‘Wait for tonight,' he told her. ‘I've bribed the turnkey to let me into your section of the prison. Tell me where you are and he will leave your cell unlocked. You must tie a handkerchief on the handle.'

Héloïse considered. At night, the men and women were locked into their separate areas, but it was not unknown for a lady's
cher ami
to bribe his way through the women's gate. Illicit meetings were dangerous, but not impossible as long as they were conducted discreetly, and several had slipped the net to snatch comfort in the concealing darkness. Accept, urged her inner voice. The worst might happen tomorrow and you must take what little time there is. Louis has risked so much for you that you cannot deny him now. Nor did Héloïse wish to. She wanted him so urgently, so selfishly, that tomorrow did not seem to matter any more. Only today had any meaning, and the rest was lost.

Louis was waiting. ‘Héloïse?'

‘Yes... oh yes,' she said.

He caressed her cheek. ‘I would have come, even if you said “No”. I made a promise to Sophie, and to myself, that I would not leave you.'

‘Enough, madame,' said a woman behind Héloïse. ‘If you will be so kind as to let me into your place, I must speak with the gentleman through here.'

A polite, but firm, fellow inmate pushed Héloïse away. With a little sigh, Héloïse released her hold on the bars and stood back. Louis sent her a private smile and mouthed a kiss. He waited until she had crossed the yard before yielding up his place and melting back into the corridor.

When Héloïse informed Marie-Victoire of Louis' plan, Marie-Victoire sprang into life.

‘Madame will remain here,' she announced. ‘I will fetch water and wash your hair and then I will make you a very special toilette.'

She was as good as her word. From somewhere (God alone knew what it cost her, thought Héloïse), Marie-Victoire procured a piece of scented soap. Héloïse seized it and sniffed at it with the hunger of someone who had almost forgotten that such things existed. Marie-Victoire lugged a bucket of water up from the yard and insisted that Héloïse strip down to her bare skin. She proceeded to scrub Héloïse from top to toe, until Héloïse's flushed pink from the treatment.

‘Luckily, I have a clean chemise ready,' said Marie-Victoire as she combed out the mass of Héloïse's wet hair. Héloïse twisted around to look at her. ‘We could almost be back at the hotel.'

Mairie-Victorie tackled a snarl. ‘We could. But wherever you are, madame, your hair is just as tangled.'

Héloïse gave a soft laugh. That luxury – all luxury - had vanished with the wind, never to return. But it was good to feel clean and fresh again.

The hair dealt with, Marie-Victoire laid out her gown . ‘To die is not so bad, is it Maire-Victorie?'

Maire-Victoire straightened up. ‘No.'

‘How strange that we two should begin together and end up together,' continued Héloïse. ‘We've been woven us into the same cloth and Fat has seen to it that you and I shall not be parted.'

‘I am glad it's so,' said Marie-Victoire. ‘It's the only thing left to me.'

The sadness in her voice checked Héloïse's joy. ‘Without you, Marie-Victoire,' she said and paused, ‘I could not have got through. I want you to know that.' She touched one of Marie-Victoire's rough little hands to her cheeks. ‘I hope... I hope I helped you.' She smiled up at Marie-Victoire. ‘Did I? Please say that I did.'

Marie-Victoire flushed and bit her lip. But she returned the smile and there was a fleeting glimpse of the old Marie-Victoire in her look: the younger Marie-Victoire who had once stood, flushed and dreaming, in the gardens of La Joyeuse. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes.'

In the passage outside there was a sudden clamour and a shouting of orders. Marie-Victoire disengaged her hand and went to look out of the door.

‘I think it is something to do with Madame la Reine,' she reported over her shoulder.

‘Poor lady,' replied Héloïse, who had often thought of her royal mistress in the next-door cell. ‘Madame de Lamotte told me only today that they are preparing her trial. She heard it from her brother.'

‘They seem to be moving her,' Marie-Victoire reported. ‘I did hear they wanted to keep her under closer watch.'

Regardless of her damp hair, Héloïse leapt up to take a look. Thin and exhausted looking, but still elegantly dressed, the queen walked slowly out of her cell, down the corridor and out into the main body of the prison. A hundred eyes watched with Héloïse's, many praying, some plotting the impossible dream of rescuing her, others indifferent and contemptuous. Marie-Antoinette appeared neither to see nor to heed them, but kept her eyes fixed ahead, lifting her dress over the refuse to reveal red prunella shoes of excellent quality.

‘God go with you,' Héloïse breathed after the departing form, and wished that somehow she could have comforted her sovereign and former mistress.

Marie-Victoire resumed her ministrations.

‘What else are they saying in the prison?' asked Héloïse - the prison network being, by far, the most efficient method of gaining information.

‘They are having trouble finding a defence lawyer for Madame la Reine and many of the documents have gone missing.'

‘Perhaps, then, it will not be possible to try her,' replied Héloïse. ‘Unlike us,' she finished, as the thought of the morrow struck both of them.

‘Madame.' Marie-Victoire sank to her knees. She spoke hesitantly and with obvious emotion. ‘Will you help me? I am not afraid to die. At least, I think I am not. There is nothing left for me to live for, but I fear them. Those men... and the carts...'

‘Tell me what will help.'

‘Help me not to appear weak?'

Héloïse considered before she replied. It was important to choose the right words. In the short space during which they had been reunited, Marie-Victoire had grown very dear and the friendship which bound them could not be treated lightly. Six months ago, Héloïse would still have considered Marie-Victoire as her servant but all that had changed. Rightly. Their's was friendship that had grown out of a mutual need - and a mutual recognition of what was important. Both had been changed and moulded by experience, and they recognized that in the other.

‘I will help you, if you are prepared to help me.'

Marie-Victoire was surprised.

‘I help you, madame?'

‘I, too, am afraid,
chère amie.
I need you to support me, and we should support each other as long as we are able.'

Marie-Victoire blinked at the unaccustomed endearment, which sounded sweetly in her ears. The haunted look faded, and in its place dawned a more peaceful expression. She got to her feet, dusted down her ragged skirt and made some last adjustments to Héloïse's hair.

‘If you need me, madame, then all is well. I am content to die.'

She picked up a lock and smoothed it softly and expertly.

‘Madame will look
ravissante
for monsieur by the time I have finished with her,' and a smile curved at her lips that had no envy or bitterness in it.

*

Marie-Victoire was as good as her word. By the time dusk poked its first fingers over the yard, Héloïse was dressed in her white robe, her hair piled high over her head and falling to her shoulders. Marie-Victoire tied a velvet ribbon round her neck.