Season of Light (30 page)

‘Paris is in the grip of dread and turmoil; spies, arrests, public abuse for anyone who does not agree with the Convention … So much for liberty. So much for the freedom to speak our minds. So much for the revolution that makes us equals, one with another, men of Caen with men of Paris.’

The crowd was growing restless. Only a few voices murmured agreement. Nobody applauded.

‘What I am asking of you, my fellow citizens,’ the orator continued, ‘is that you join our insurrection. It’s time to make a stand. They have abused our delegation and arrested our Girondin friends, Barbaroux, Brissot, Petion, although they accuse them not of crimes but of differences of opinion. Brissot is denounced because he regrets the death of the king, advised war with Europe and resists the capping of grain prices. But we Normandy farmers don’t want to sell our grain too cheaply to Paris. Why should we? What will we get in return?’

The mention of Normandy’s grain finally did the trick; the crowd unleashed its rage. Impossible not to be entranced by the speaker’s ardent eyes, the emphatic, Didier-like leaning on the first syllable of significant nouns:
Li
berté,
Bar
baroux,
Bri
ssot. The orator now lowered his voice, as if only this particular crowd could be trusted with his confidences: ‘The very freedom of Caen is under threat, my friends. Two deputies, Charles Romme and Claude Antoine Prieur, have been sent from Paris to ensure that Calvados pledges obedience.’

‘Oh God,’ whispered a woman in a blue skirt, standing next to Asa. ‘If deputies from Paris are listening to this they’ll have us all arrested.’ She crossed herself, then clapped her hand to her mouth when she realised what she’d done. But Asa was distracted. Just visible through the crowd and framed by a muslin cap with a deep brim like the one Madame had worn since landing in France was a face she recognised: Beatrice Paulin, surely. She was a little plumper than five years ago, and with her hair more sternly drawn back, but the deep brow and blue gaze were unmistakable. Her arm was linked with that of a younger woman, who had a delicate complexion and tumbling brown hair, and whose eyes were fixed unswervingly on the speaker’s face.

Asa ducked under the arm of a man blocking her way and tried to dodge past another. ‘Caen will not be crushed under the heel of the Parisian mob,’ the speaker called, raising his voice. ‘Caen has sent its own armed men, our Carabots, to fetch Romme and Prieur – who are currently busy dismantling the democratic council in Bayeux – and take them to our own chateau. They will be our hostages until such time as Paris comes to its senses and releases the Girondin deputies.’

The crowd was impenetrable. Asa was told angrily to stay still and keep quiet. ‘Meanwhile Caen will raise an army of Carabots and other volunteers to march on Paris and liberate it from the Marats, the Robespierres and the Dantons, so that the great Revolution might be allowed to flourish.
Vive la France. Vive la Liberté. Vivent les Carabots de Caen
.’

A couple of people gave a feeble cheer, others clapped timidly, others still muttered to each other and backed away. At last the crowd was loosening and Asa was able to slip through. There was no sign now of either Beatrice or her companion, though Asa searched one side street after another. In any case, the clock was striking the half-hour; it was high time she returned to Madame.

The room at the auberge was empty. Madame must have gone to buy food for the journey. Hot and weary, Asa flung down her purchases, took off her shoes and lay on the bed. Insurrection … an army to be raised … One moment the stillness of the Paulins’ entrance hall and Didier’s smiling eyes, the next talk of violence and rebellion. For the last three nights she had scarcely slept. Her eyelids grew heavy and her mind clouded.

When she woke the clock was striking again: 2.30. Still no Madame. Drowsily Asa turned her head on the pillow then raised herself abruptly on one elbow as she registered that Madame’s portmanteau was gone. So was the spare cap that Madame had hung behind the door and the walking shoes placed beside the bed. Only one of Madame’s possessions remained. Spread out on the washstand was the fan that Madame had offered Asa at Ardleigh, the design on the silk leaf of a blue urn and birds of paradise perched among slender branches, its guard sticks decorated with gold leaf and lacquer, and then a second layer of silk, like an inner wheel, on which was painted another garden, with a carriage containing a pair of lovers dashing through it, the young woman’s hair flying out in the breeze.

Asa told herself to be calm. Madame would be back at any moment. While she waited she prepared herself a little meal and chewed each mouthful carefully. Then she tidied the room, washed her face and brushed her hair. The clock struck half past three. No Madame. For the second time that day Asa had to borrow a pen and paper, this time to leave a message for Madame that she had gone back to the Paulins’ house but would return by early evening. Surely it was now too late to set out for Paris today, she thought. Every action she took was precise, convincing herself that this was nothing more than an ordinary step in ordinary circumstances.

It was nearly four by the time she reached the rue Leverrier again. ‘
Mademoiselle Paulin n’est pas ici
,’ said the same servant.

‘
S’il vous plaît
…’

‘
Je vous répète, elle n’est pas ici
.’

‘
Elle retournera à quelle heure?
’

An eloquent Gallic shrug.

‘You said she would be back this afternoon.’

‘No, mademoiselle, it was you who said that
you
would be back.’

‘Please. I need to see her badly. Did you give her my note?’

‘As I said, she is not at home.’

‘Tell Mademoiselle Paulin I called again. Tell her I glimpsed her in the square this morning and that I tried to speak to her. I’m staying at the Auberge St-Jean. I’ll come back this evening. Or perhaps Mademoiselle Paulin would care to call on me.’

She walked away rapidly, taking the most direct route back. Hurry, Asa, what if Madame returns to the auberge and doesn’t see the note? But she was delayed again; this time by a troop of armed men, Caen’s Carabots, and in their midst a carriage guarded by four soldiers bearing pikes. The procession was accompanied by clusters of townspeople who watched in silence as the carriage rolled up the long slope of the castle mound. ‘It must be the commissioners from Paris,’ was the rumour, ‘Romme and Prieur.’

An elderly man leaned on his stick and muttered: ‘I hope to Christ they know what they’re doing.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

He studied Asa resignedly. ‘Let us hope they are well treated, these emissaries from Paris, because what terrible consequences there will be for us if they are harmed.’ He brought his face closer to Asa’s. ‘You’re a stranger. I don’t recognise you. Where are you from?’

Madame had been right. Caen was a trap. By standing among the crowd Asa was colluding with insurrection and therefore guilty. She ran, certain that Madame would be back now. Soon she was in the familiar square, had gained grumbling admission to the auberge and raced up the stairs.

The room was still empty.

She sat on the bed. It couldn’t be true. Madame would not be so cruel. Asa possessed nothing but Madame’s fan and her own case, which she turned upside down, scattering its contents across the threadbare quilt: a change of linen, a spare pair of shoes, stockings, an old dress of Madame’s with the seams let out – in order to convince as mistress and maid they had swapped clothes – Asa’s purse containing just a few thousand sous because Madame held the bulk of their funds, a comb. Thrust between the folds of her shift was the final proof that her companion had gone, Asa’s false papers, previously kept by Madame: the passport with Asa’s new name and trade,
Julie Moreau, fermière
. And there was a further envelope containing a little more money upon which Madame had written in her firm, flowing hand:
Je vous en pris, retournez chez vous. Elle est trop dangereuse pour vous, La France. Au revoir, mademoiselle
.

Retournez chez vous
. Why? How? What had happened at the end of mass to drive Madame away? Was it because of the argument they’d had yesterday morning? Perhaps it had simply been expedient for Madame to use Asa as a travelling companion thus far, and then discard her before Paris. But surely Madame knew Asa better than to expect her to leave France without first finding Didier. Besides, Asa had insufficient money either to reach Paris or return to England. Beatrice Paulin might refuse to speak to her; she might not know Didier’s address. What then?

At last, having secured the room for another night and worn out with speculation and anxiety, Asa fell back on the hard mattress but still sleep did not come; her pulse raced, she was too hot, too desperate when she considered her remaining choices. Take the nearest coach to the coast and find a boat to carry her back across the Channel – impossible, surely, for so little money. Write to John Morton or her father, tell them what she’d done and beg for assistance – imagine the fuss, the embarrassment, the distress when as yet they didn’t even realise that she’d left the country. The news would be bound to reach Compton Wyatt, reverberate through the lavish rooms and filter down to the lake, where the swans floated so indifferently. Write to Didier’s old address in Paris and await a reply. But he might have moved. And what if the letter fell into the wrong hands?

Again and again she scrabbled for an answer. Why had Madame left her alone in France, in the thick of the Revolution?

Next morning she washed her face, dressed with great care and tidied the room as if she might somehow save herself by organising her shoes and petticoats. She then set forth again for the rue Leverrier and at last struck lucky; a solitary woman was approaching from the opposite direction, dressed in a white cap and grey gown, her muslin under-shift open at the neck and a basket on her arm. Asa pronounced her name, Beatrice, in the English way and ran towards her. ‘I am Thomasina Ardleigh. I left a note for you yesterday. Don’t you recognise me?’

Beatrice actually held out the palm of her hand as if to keep Asa at bay. She retreated a couple of steps and looked nervously up and down the street. ‘Don’t come any nearer.’

‘What do you mean? I need to speak to you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Beatrice,
please
. I’m alone. You can’t send me away. One minute is all I ask.’

Beatrice turned aside and unlatched the gate.

‘I have come so far. Please, Beatrice.’

Again Beatrice looked back and forth along the street. Her head went down and she seemed to be deciding what to do. But at length she seized Asa’s arm and pulled her into the shady courtyard. Once inside the house she bundled her across the hall and up the stairs to a parlour on the first floor.

‘Stay back so you can’t be seen from the street.’ The room, at one corner of the house, had two windows and was full of light. Asa had a dazzled impression of books, dappled sunshine and white walls. Memories flickered; Madame de Genlis’s salon, the atrium of the Hôtel Montmorency and the serene, upturned face of this young woman, Beatrice Paulin.

Beatrice flung down her empty basket. The blood had returned to her neck and cheeks in a blotchy flush. ‘What are you doing here in Caen?’

‘I needed to see you. Didn’t you get my note?’

‘Which note?’

‘Your maid …’

‘Madame Vadier, our housekeeper, is protective of me. Why are you in Caen?’

‘I am looking for Didier.’

These words were impossibly brazen. No wonder Beatrice’s eyes emptied of expression. ‘Are you mad? What do you mean, looking for Didier?’

‘He sent for me but he didn’t give an address.’ Even to her own ears it sounded naive.

‘I can’t help you. I’ll show you out. Don’t come here again.’

‘Beatrice. For pity’s sake.’

‘Was it you in the square yesterday? I thought I recognised your face but decided I was foolish to think it was you. I wish I’d been right. Mademoiselle Ardleigh, your being in this house, or even in Caen, places us all in great danger. I can’t expect you to care what happens to us but for your own sake I beg you to go.’

‘You can trust me. I am your friend.’

‘The last thing we need is an English friend.’

Beatrice was the same only in looks. The girl who in Paris had stood shining eyed, holding her brother’s confident arm during the salon, and who had moved in her queenly way between father and brother, had changed into a bitter-eyed woman, her expression unyielding and her skin roughened by exposure to the sun. Asa was a little nervous of her.

‘Beatrice, please … We were good friends at one time. Help me, if only for the sake of your father’s friendship with Mr Lambert. In May I wrote to Didier and this was how he replied. He sent for me. Look.’ She took out the notes from Didier and the turquoise handkerchief.

From the kitchen came the familiar clank of a pan lid, exactly as if Mrs Dean were putting on the dinner at Ardleigh. At the sight of the handkerchief Beatrice’s breath grew shallow and she retreated, fists clenched. ‘We are supposed to report any strangers we see in town to the authorities. This house is already under suspicion. Good God, you have no idea what might happen to us …’

Sunlight spilled on to the painted floor. Asa returned Didier’s letters to an inner pocket and straightened her skirts.

Beatrice said more calmly, ‘You spoke of Mr Lambert. How is he?’

‘Mr Lambert is dead.’

‘Father will be sorry to hear that.’

‘He was arrested for sedition because he would not keep quiet and he collapsed on the way to prison. In England radicals such as Mr Lambert are being persecuted because their cause has become associated with the Revolution here in France.’

After a pause Beatrice said: ‘Mademoiselle Ardleigh, I have been very cruel. This is not like me. It’s the times, you see. Stay a while longer. Sit down, please. You seem ill.’

‘I don’t mean you any harm. Believe me.’

‘I can’t be of much help, that’s the trouble. I haven’t seen my brother for nearly a year. We do have news of him occasionally. The last we heard, a few weeks ago, he had been sent on a mission to the south of France, to visit the troops posted at Toulon where your British army is likely to invade.’