Sovay (32 page)

He drained his glass and poured more. He drank in silence. Sovay did not know how to break his brooding contemplation. No words of hers could bring solace or comfort, so she sat quietly, waiting for him to speak again.

‘Tell me of your home,’ he said eventually, as though remembering that she was there with him. ‘What is it like there?’

She told him about Compton, how much she had longed for adventure, but how much she missed the measured normality of that life now.

‘Do not seek excitement, lest you find it.’ He laughed. ‘I, too, come from the country. From Gascony. I was sent away as a small boy, to attend school here in Paris, but I never felt I belonged here. My heart was elsewhere, walking in the fields, hunting in the woods, fishing in the streams. I have faced death many times, and know that Gascony will be the last place I visit in my mind when it comes time to leave this life behind.’

‘Will you go back?’

He smiled. ‘Maybe sometime, when all this is over. I will take you there!’ He took her hand. ‘You will come with me! Although our lands are gone. Foxes look out of the chateau. There will be not much to see.’

‘Your family have all gone?’

‘To America, yes.’ His laugh was bitter. ‘The others to an even better place. I have no one. Nothing. I live on my soldier’s pay. When I get it. Like my men.’

‘Why did you not leave, too?’

‘Because I believe in the Revolution! I still hold to those first ideals!’ His green eyes lost their pebble dullness. ‘If you were there at the beginning, you would understand. To be there was to see the world split apart and a new one emerging. To see everything change. For ever.’ He looked at her, his eyes hard and bright, like polished agates. ‘To want equality, freedom, for all men – and women. How can that be wrong?’

‘I have heard the same words all my life, from my father, my brother, and I never doubted either, but to see what we have both just witnessed . . .’ She wanted to believe still, but the memory of the guillotine made her shudder.

‘It is hard to live through these days, it is true. But they are
days
only. They will soon pass. In the life, the history of a nation, what are days, weeks, months, years even? What began here, in 1789, will affect the whole world for centuries to come.’ He leaned forward, his green eyes intense. ‘What is happening now is an anomaly. It is a diversion, not part of that great movement of change. It has to stop. In the name of the Revolution. All this killing has to stop.’

‘Is that why you have returned?’ she asked.

‘Partly.’ His reply was noncommittal. He threw some money on the table. ‘But not my only reason. We will talk while we walk.’ He took her arm as they crossed the square. ‘This morning, my men picked up an English spy trying to leave the city. There was a scare in St Germain the other night, now there are English spies everywhere. We are besieged by them.’ He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in unspoken enquiry. ‘This particular fellow will say nothing of his mission, but the papers he carries have your name on them, Sovay.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At my headquarters. I will take you there. It is not far from here. Just across the river.’

The streets were still deserted, one side in shadow, the other in bright sunlight. They turned a corner to see a group of men were approaching. In the front were a burly pair of
sans-culottes
, in striped trousers and liberty caps, who walked with fixed purpose, eyes on the street, stout cudgels at the ready. The two behind them were dressed as gentlemen. The smaller one was exquisitely turned out in a sky-blue coat with lace at his neck and immaculate white stockings. Underneath his dazzlingly white wig, his small features were pinched in concentrated thought. He wore green eye glasses which caught the sun as he looked up at his taller companion who was, by contrast, dressed in black, blond-haired, extraordinarily good-looking and very young. As soon as he saw them, Léon put his arm round Sovay, pulling her close, as if they were lovers.

‘Saint-Just and Robespierre,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Do not stare.’

‘Citizens!’ he said and stepped out of the way to let them pass.

Deep in conversation, they did not return his greeting. Robespierre did not look up, only Saint-Just glanced in their direction. He had the face of an angel, with eyes as blue and empty as the sky.

‘Robespierre does not live far from here,’ Léon said. ‘In the house of Duplay the carpenter on Rue St Honoré. The family worship him. The place is a fortress. He is guarded day and night, doubly so since that girl, Cécile Renault, tried to kill him with a fruit knife. He sees conspiracy everywhere. Renault and her whole family have paid the price, but his eyes are in the wrong place. The threat will not come from the widows and servant girls the tumbrels bear every day, but from some of those most near to him. The tigers are beginning to fight. He has succeeded in uniting good men and bad against him. Idealists like your friend Fernand have been joined by rogues and scoundrels who fear they will be next. Who will go first to the guillotine? We have an expression:
he who
sows the wind reaps the storm
.’

As Léon and Sovay continued along the narrow street, a man in uniform appeared round the corner accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man dressed in civilian clothes.

‘
Merde!
Hanriot and Carnot! They are all out today!’

‘Who are they?’

‘Carnot is on the Committee of Public Safety. Hanriot is Commandant of the Guard. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m dead if he sees me!’

He dodged into the sharp shadow of a doorway, pulling her after him. He swung her round so that her back was to the street and held her in a passionate embrace. His skin was rough against her cheek and his mouth tasted of wine. Sovay felt as though she was falling. She put her arms round his neck, weaving her fingers into the thickness of his soft, black hair. When, at last, he released her, she was slow to return to her surroundings, as if she was gradually resurfacing through shimmering layers of water.

‘Have they gone yet?’ she whispered.

He looked down at her, smiling. ‘Oh, they went a long time ago,’ he said, and gently replaced a lock of her long, dark hair, ‘but I fear others may follow.’

He took her in his arms again and pressed her against the wall. This time his kisses were softer, less hurried, but more searching and no less urgent. She returned his caresses with equal fervour. Her breath came faster, the strength of her passion sweeping through her. She was not aware of time passing, their embrace might have lasted hours or only a moment, but when he finally let her go, she knew that she was his, body and soul.

They went on together, arms round each other. Nobody looked twice at them, or pursed their lips in disapproval. Paris was a city for lovers, even the Revolution could not change that.

They crossed the river and walked along the quays before turning into one of the side streets. To Sovay, Paris was still somewhat of a maze, and looked different during the day, or she might have realised that she was near where she and Virgil had been the night before. Léon was taking her to his personal headquarters: some old noble family’s grand hôtel, seized by the Republic. A red flag flew next to the National Guard tricolour and
Propriété Nationale
, inscribed over the gate, obscured the ancient, weathered coat of arms. Two guardsmen stood, pikes crossed over the entrance. They jumped smartly to attention when they saw Léon and drew the pikes sharply back .

Sovay and Léon walked under the wide arch with its big swinging lantern and on into a paved courtyard. A flight of steps led up to an imposing front door. Above it, a shield showed a lion rampant, remarkably unweathered and not obscured by Republican paint.

‘Welcome to my family home,’ Léon said, and laughed.

The inside resembled a barracks. All grand accoutrements had been stripped away and off-duty guardsmen lounged around drinking wine and smoking pipes. Some gossiped together, while others played cards. A particularly lively game was going on in the corner, with loud exclamations of triumph followed by good-natured disagreement. As they came in, one of the guardsmen shouted, ‘Remove this fellow, Léon, before he takes us for everything we’ve got!’

‘Not yet!’ one of the other players objected. ‘Not before we’ve had a chance to win some of it back.’

Their opponent stood up and made a mock bow. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘And your money.’ He laughed as he made a show of counting the sheaf of black-and-white
assignats
that he had collected before folding them and putting them into his pocket. His smile died when he saw Sovay.

‘They caught me,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m sorry for it. Is there somewhere that we can talk?’

Léon took them into the room he was using for his office.

‘This used to be my mother’s drawing room.’ He looked around with faint nostalgia. ‘It has changed a bit from those days.’

The elegant furnishings had been removed, replaced by plain wooden chairs and tables. The primrose-and-white striped wallpaper was torn and marked with greasy fingerprints round the door and a grimy stripe at shoulder height. Various weapons: pikes, guns and swords, lay in boxes or stacked against the sides of the room.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Greenwood started.

‘Not like you,’ Sovay smiled, but he did not smile back at her.

‘I’m serious, Sovay. I’ve had a look at the letters.’ He patted his pocket. ‘Virgil is right. There’s enough to condemn Dysart, but he’s far from stupid and no one is more alert to changes around him. At the first whiff of suspicion, he will run for the coast. If he escapes, you will be in considerable jeopardy.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Sovay said quietly. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘No,’ Greenwood shook his head. ‘Come with me now. You have done enough.’

‘But it is not safe for me in England. Dysart is not defeated yet.’

‘I will get you out of the country, to Switzerland,’ Léon interjected. ‘You will be safe there with others who have fled from Paris.’

‘No! I will not leave while my father is held prisoner and Hugh faces who knows what dangers.’

‘Hugh can look after himself.’

‘What about Papa?’

‘There is nothing you can do for him.’ It was a brutal message, but Sovay knew the truth of it. ‘Would he not want you to be safe?’

‘Of course! But what am I to be kept safe for? The only people I care about in the world are here! Without them, my life will mean nothing. I am proscribed in my own country. I do not want to go back to skulk and hide, or to wait in another country until it is safe. When will that be?’ She turned to face him. ‘You did not run away. You stayed, even though your life has been in constant danger, to fight for what you believed in.’

‘That is different!’ He took her by the arms. ‘I am –’

‘A man! Is that what you were going to say? I will not be treated differently because I am a woman! Anyway, this is not about me. The most important thing is to get Greenwood away.’

‘Because I am a soldier – that is what I was going to say.’ He shrugged his defeat and turned to Greenwood who had been watching the exchange with frank interest. ‘She is right. You should go. The local Committee here is most zealous. Their leader is a Jacobin crony of Robespierre and he dislikes us being in his
Section
. We need to get you away before he gets wind of your presence. I will disguise you as one of my guardsmen.’

‘Good luck, beautiful,’ Greenwood whispered as he prepared to leave with Léon. ‘I told you it would happen,’ he said in English, nodding towards Léon. ‘I do believe you’ve met the man for you!’

‘What is he saying?’ Léon saw her blush and frowned at Greenwood.

‘Nothing,’ Sovay said. ‘Just telling me to keep safe.’

Just then, a guardsman appeared at the door.

‘Excuse me, Captain,’ he said, ‘but Dupré demands to see the English spy . . .’

‘Tell him to clear off,’ Léon growled. ‘He has no business here.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Citizen.’

A little man, his chest puffed with his own importance, strutted into the room, a soiled liberty cap like a rooster’s cockscomb perched on top of his large head. He was not alone, other members of his Committee crowded in with him, all here to see justice done.

One of their number stepped forward. Lefere. He pointed to Sovay, almost choking in his eagerness to make his accusation.

‘Her! That’s her! The English spy!’

Dupré looked up at the two National Guardsmen standing before him.

‘Good work, Citizens. I’ll take care of her from now on.’

As he took her by the arm, Léon reached for his sword. Greenwood stepped forward to join him. They were prepared to cut these men to pieces to save her. Sovay could see it in their eyes, the hard set of their jaws, and what would happen then?

She put a hand out to each of them, stilling their sword arms.

‘Thank you, Captain. Guardsman,’ she looked from one to the other, willing them not to jeopardise themselves. ‘But I cannot impose on you further.’ She turned to the men who had come to take her. ‘I am ready.’

CHAPTER
3
7

T
he place they took her to resembled a tavern, stinking of spilt wine, stale sweat and tobacco smoke. Dupré swept ends of sausage and crusts from a rough table for the waiting dogs to snarl over and the Committee took their seats. Sovay was not allowed to speak in her own defence. Her papers were dismissed as fakes. She was accused of being the daughter of a
Milord Anglais
and, de facto, a spy. Her appearance was used as supporting evidence. They squinted at her, pronouncing that she had an English look about her. At a time when a person could be arraigned for merely appearing aristocratic, failing to prosecute the Revolution with enough vigour, or thinking the wrong kind of thoughts, it was enough to condemn her many times over. She stared at them in mute defiance as they went through the motions of deliberation, scribbling on scraps of paper, heads together. They were as capable of administering justice as a troupe of gibbering apes. She found their posturing tiresome and just wanted the charade to end. She was guilty. She would appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal. When that would be, they could not say, but whenever it might be, it would be a formality. As far as these men were concerned, her life was over.

Two officers of the Paris police appeared and she was pushed into a carriage. One policeman rode inside, but he did not speak or answer her questions. She looked out of the window. The slogans, scrawled in dripping paint across the walls, seemed written in blood:
L’Egalité, Fraternité, la République ou la
Mort
. She was beset by sudden apprehension, wondering which way they would go. Back across the Seine could take her to La Force, the scene of the worst of the September Massacres. She sank back with relief as the driver urged the horses, turning away from the river.

As they bounced over the rough cobbles, she thought of Léon. He would have cut that man down as soon as look at him. What would have happened then? He would have been arrested for interfering in the Committee’s Revolutionary duty, Greenwood with him. She would still have been arrested. Dysart would have won. What she had done was for the best. He would save Greenwood, make sure Hugh knew of her arrest. But still . . . He might have done something. If this was a story, he would come galloping after her, fight the gendarmes, sweep her up into his arms, take her . . . Where? She had no idea. Some vague place of safety.

But this was not a story, it was real life. He was a man, a patriot, a soldier, strong and fearless, but he was just as powerless as her. Nothing that had so far happened brought home to Sovay the hopelessness of the situation, the helplessness of everyone in the face of these violent forces of unreason. Their destination began to gain superstitious significance. If they arrived at the Luxembourg, then there was hope for him, for her, for the both of them. If they were destined for some other dismal fortress, then all was lost. Looking out of the window again, she caught a glimpse of the huge towers of Notre Dame, the great cathedral now devoted to the worship of Reason. Sovay closed her eyes against the irony of that and offered a silent prayer to the deity who used to reside there. The Conciergerie, the most feared prison of all, was next to it. The only way out of there was by tumbrel. The coach slowed. She forced herself to confront her fate, but found they were held up by the press of people in the narrow streets. They were not going there after all.

‘Luxembourg.’ The policeman interpreted her apprehensive glances through the window. ‘That’s where you are going. You were supposed to go to the Conciergerie, but I owe Léon. He saved my brother’s life at Verdun. I changed the order for him.’

So Sovay was delivered to her place of incarceration. The receiving officer scarcely looked at her. She was one of a whole line of people waiting to be processed. He took down her details and she was dismissed as he passed on to the next. She was taken into a room, stripped and searched. She stood in her shift, determined not to show her humiliation while any shred of dignity and what little money she had was taken from her. She was allowed her clothes back with a curt ‘Cover yourself, Citizeness.’

From here, she was taken into a public room full of others who had just been brought to the prison. People of all descriptions, from the ragged to the well-dressed. Nobody spoke. Everyone seemed sunk into their own misery. Even the children were quiet, looking round in slow bewilderment or clinging to their mothers. Sovay sat down and waited. For what? She could not guess.

When the intake was complete, the prisoners were divided, men from women, and taken to their places of confinement. The palace’s apartments had been divided up and converted into cells. Some were tiny cupboards, barely large enough for one person, others were more like dormitories. She asked anyone she saw if they knew of her father, of Dr Thery. The guards ignored her enquiries, or told her roughly to keep quiet. The prisoners were just as indifferent, either too wrapped up in their own misery to speak to her, or afraid to talk to anybody, lest they be suspected of conspiracy. Despair sucked at her spirit. How would she ever find her father in this vast place? That she might see him, that they might be united, had been her only solace. At length, she gave up and lay down on the straw pallet which was to be her bed. She stared at the decorated ceiling high above her, a peeling, cracked and stained vision: plump cherubs peeping from behind billowing pink and white clouds, set against the blueness of the heavens, and wondered when she would be under the sky again.

She must have dozed, trying to escape into sleep as many around her were doing. She started awake as a hand shook her shoulder, although the touch was not rough and the voice that spoke was gentle.

‘I’m sorry to startle you, mademoiselle.’

She looked up into a pair of tired grey eyes. The man looking down at her was obviously a gentleman. His clothes were stained, worn and frayed, but they were of good material and he wore a grey wig upon his head.

‘I am Dr Thery,’ he said. ‘Are you the English girl just brought in? Daughter of John Middleton?’

Sovay nodded.

‘I’ve been looking for you, but with so many prisoners . . .’ He looked at the rows of sleeping forms littering the floor. ‘Come with me. I will take you to your father. You know my daughter?’

‘Yes, she has been giving us news of him.’

‘Your messages have been a great comfort. I’m allowed more freedom than other prisoners,’ he explained. ‘They let me do what I can to help the sick. Send out for medicines. Not out of any sense of humanity. Do not think that. They do not want people to cheat the guillotine by dying too soon.’ He gave a little hollow laugh. ‘Although they have been known to cut the heads off the dead. They keep a close eye out for poison, sharp instruments. They make sure we are fed and even allow some exercise. They want us to be as healthy as possible when we meet our deaths.’

Her father was in a small room on his own. There was little in it except a table, chair and a bed. Sovay was glad that he was asleep when the doctor took her in to him. She would not have wanted him to see her face when she saw him, or the tears that sprang into her eyes. He was so changed that, at first, she thought the doctor might have brought her to the wrong man. He had lost so much flesh that he appeared a mere husk of himself, his body scarcely swelling the thin blanket that covered him. He always wore a light brown wig and it was a shock to see his own hair, pure white, a sparse scattering on the pillow. His face was a greyish colour, apart from two hectic spots on his cheeks. Prominent blue veins showed through the thin skin on his temple and forehead. His mouth was open slightly, his jaw sagging, and if it had not been for a slight movement in his chest, she would have taken him for dead.

‘You find him much changed,’ the doctor said.

Sovay nodded, unable to speak.

‘He has been gravely ill but he clings tenaciously to life, mademoiselle. It will give him fresh heart to see you, although we must be careful given the circumstances. The shock, you know.’ He patted her hand. ‘Perhaps they will allow you to stay and nurse him. Sometimes they allow families to be together. I will see what I can do. Meanwhile, sit here quietly and wait for him to wake naturally. He has been told that you are coming. You must have at least one friend on the outside.’

He went away then and left them. Sovay did as he said and sat by her father, taking his hand in hers. It was smaller than she remembered, shrunken like the rest of him down to bone and skin. She didn’t know how long they sat like that, his fingers interlocked with hers, but the little light that came in from outside had almost faded when she felt his grip strengthen. His eyes remained closed but tears seeped from the corners, pooling onto the filthy striped ticking of the pillow.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again, Sovay,’ he said, his voice the faintest whisper, like corn stalks rubbing together.

‘Don’t cry, Papa!’ She was on her feet in an instant, leaning over him, brushing the wisps of hair back from his forehead.

‘It breaks my heart to see you in here,’ he looked up at her, his eyes full of anguish, and began to sob bitterly as he turned his face to the wall.

‘It is the shock,’ the doctor said when he came back. He examined her father quickly, putting his ear close to his chest. ‘His heart is steady, if a little weak in its beating. He has lapsed into natural sleep so we will let him rest.’ He led her away from the bed. ‘I have good news, mademoiselle; you will be allowed to remain here with him. A guard is bringing you a pallet.’

Sovay slept on the floor of his cell, caring for his every need. She kept the room swept and clean, and made sure that there was fresh water. She collected food from the dining hall and fed it to him in tiny spoonfuls. Day by day, she fancied he became a little stronger. Sometimes, he seemed near to his old self.

‘Mr Thomas Paine is in here, you know,’ he said to her one day. ‘He is working on a book, Thery tells me, called
The Age of Reason
. He is a great hero of mine. I would very much like to visit him when I am fit and well.’

Sovay promised to arrange a meeting, but she did not know when it would be. Mr Paine was sick with a fever and her father’s recuperation was painfully slow. Signs of recovery were often followed by relapses when his mind would wander and he was unable to rise from the bed. He slept much of the time and often, on waking, he thought he was home at Compton and would ask how she did and how her day had been. Sovay would make things up about what she thought would be happening now: how the crops were ripening towards Lammas; how pretty the hedgerows were, and the cornfields studded with cornflowers and red with poppies; how well the gardens looked now it was July. He would grow wider awake and his eyes would flicker round the tall room with its high dark walls and go to the window, boarded and barred. He knew well where they were then, but talk of home comforted him, so they kept up the pretence, hour after hour, until she almost imagined that they were there and she would walk out of his sick room to pass on orders to Gabriel or Stanhope, or to listen to Lydia talk of the latest gossip from the village as the day cooled and she dressed for dinner. Sometimes, her longing was so great that she couldn’t speak of it any more. Then, he would pat her hand and tell her he was tired and he would like to take a little sleep.

Sovay would leave him to slip into dreams of Compton and go out into the corridor. Sometimes the doors were unlocked so that prisoners could take exercise, or mix a little in society. The prison had its own rituals and, although discipline had been much tightened, at certain times of the day the prisoners congregated to look out of the windows that overlooked the Luxembourg Gardens.

Sovay remembered when she had been part of that sad parade loitering below. Day after day, many came in vain, not knowing that their friend or relative had long been moved to another prison. The next time they would see them was in a tumbrel. Sovay went with the others and peered out as eagerly as they did. It was the only glimpse of the outside world, the only bright moments in the succession of dull days. From in here, it seemed shocking to see people strolling about in the sunlight, walking under the shade of the trees. The prisoners beside her teetered on tiptoe, laughing, shouting, screaming and waving to people below who could neither see nor hear them, but who trusted that they were there.