The Chateau on the Lake (32 page)

Auguste groans and passes wind and I’m brought back to the full realisation of our plight.

I sit up and stare around the cell, my heart thudding with dread. ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ I whisper.

Etienne puts his arm around my shoulders but doesn’t answer.

We sit like that for a long time, deep in our fearful thoughts.

 

 

Into the quiet comes a murmur of voices.

Etienne’s hand grips my waist as he listens.

Grandmother Moreau whimpers and tucks herself further into the corner while Auguste snores.

The sound of voices swells and now we can hear footsteps.

Etienne pulls me to my feet and we stand side by side facing the stairs. I’m rigid with fear.

Heavy boots clump down them and then the small chamber is full of people again.

Gaston pushes his way through the crowd and stands with his hands on his hips in front of us. ‘Thérèse has pleaded for you,’ he says, ‘and we don’t want blood on our hands. Though, God knows, Auguste Moreau and his family have made us suffer.’ He points to a young man with ragged hair. ‘Joseph’s child died for want of a little compassion from that bastard.’

‘Then let me take Auguste away,’ says Etienne. ‘You’ll never be troubled by him again.’

There is silence while Gaston glances at the others. One by one, they nod their heads and I let out my breath very slowly.

‘If we see any of you again,’ says Gaston sternly, ‘you’ll be hung up by your ankles from the clock tower. We’ll disembowel you and make you eat your own hearts. Is that understood?’

Etienne nods.

One of the men kicks Auguste until he squeals assent.

Gaston unlocks the iron gate and two men drag Auguste to his feet and frogmarch him up the stairs. Etienne is surrounded next and then Grandmother Moreau and I are bundled after them. I trip and panic for a moment as the press of bodies threatens to engulf me, but all at once we are in the corridor and I gasp for breath before we are off again, jostled from all sides.

Grandmother Moreau is weeping as she stumbles along and I reach for her hand.

More and more villagers and servants arrive until the corridor is jam-packed. Men on either side of me lift me by my elbows so that my feet barely touch the ground and Grandmother Moreau’s hand slips from my grasp. She looks over her shoulder at me with terror in her violet eyes as she’s carried away by the mob.

A woman’s voice starts to sing the unofficial anthem of the revolutionaries as we’re swept along.

‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
 

The song echoes in my head with every step we take. ‘Ah! It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.’ My vision is spotted and I’m dizzy.

The horde, trebled in numbers now, bursts through a door and surges into the light outside.

‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
 

I gulp in deep breaths of fresh air. The mass isn’t so closely pressed now and I regain a little equilibrium, but the singing grows in volume as more people join in.

‘Where are we going?’ I shout. The men to either side ignore me as they sing along with the refrain.

‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
 

We reach the stables and gather in the yard. An ancient, sway-backed Percheron horse is taken out of his box and hitched up to a rotting wooden cart. Hands lift me up as if I’m on the crest of a wave and thrust me into the cart.

‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.’
The singing reaches a crescendo.

A moment later Etienne is sprawling at my feet and then a weeping Grandmother Moreau is lifted up high and thrown in after us. She lands in a crumpled heap and Etienne and I pull her on to the bench seat beside me.

‘Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,’
roars the crowd.

I put my hands over my ears but still the singing reverberates in my head. The cart jolts as people push against it. I see the girl we met in the kitchen, with her eyes shut and her head thrown back as she sings, completely swept along by the moment.

Two men clamber on to the cart and tie our wrists with rope, lashing them to the wooden seat so tightly that we cannot escape.

A terrified scream erupts over the clamour.

Etienne leans against me and nods. I follow his line of sight and see Auguste flailing his arms as a sack is pulled roughly over his face. Then his hands are tied behind his back and a noose looped over his head.

‘What are they doing?’ I shout.

The man called Gaston ties the other end of the noose to the rear of the rickety cart. Then he holds up his hands and shouts for silence.

Gradually, the singing dies away, leaving my ears ringing.

‘A fitting mode of transport for these aristocrats, don’t you think?’ he says.

‘A tumbril would be better!’ calls out one of the women.

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd.

‘Joseph?’ Gaston beckons to the father of the dead child, who pushes his way towards him. ‘In memory of your son,’ he says, handing him a horsewhip.

Joseph takes the whip and looks at the hooded figure with burning hatred. ‘For my son,’ he echoes, and then raises the whip, bunching the muscles in his arms.

Grandmother Moreau lets out a desperate cry. ‘Don’t!’

The whip lashes across Auguste’s back and he utters a yell of shock and outrage. Joseph’s hand falls three more times and Auguste sags to his knees, his screams of agony subsiding into sobs. Blood trickles from his lacerated shirt.

‘One for each year of my son’s life,’ says Josef. ‘I’m a more merciful man than you.’

Gaston drags the moaning Auguste to his feet and pulls off the hood. ‘Now it’s up to you to save your own life,’ he says, face twisted in an ugly smile.

Another man whacks the big grey horse on the rump. It snorts and tosses its head as the cart jerks forwards.

‘Etienne!’ I cry. ‘Look at Auguste!’

Gaston shouts encouragement to the horse, grabs its bridle and runs alongside as it begins to trot.

The cart bumps violently over the cobbles and we’re knocked together. Auguste stumbles along behind, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. The noose around his neck stretches in a straight line to the rear of the cart.

Etienne struggles to free his wrists but the knots are too tightly tied.

The people whistle and jeer, throwing clods of horse dung at Auguste.

Unused to physical exercise, he’s panting for breath and nearly trips over but rights himself just in time.

I look at Etienne in horror. ‘If he falls he’ll be dragged by his neck. He’ll hang!’

The crowd whoop and yell, smacking the horse’s flanks until it rolls its eyes in terror and begins to trot even faster.

We rumble along the carriage drive with the crowd running beside us, all shrieking abuse. Joseph jogs along behind, flicking the whip across Auguste’s back from time to time.

He screams every time he is lashed and heaps curses upon his tormentors until his breath runs out. Scarlet-faced, he concentrates on staying upright.

Gaston leads the horse just fast enough to prolong Auguste’s agony.

Grandmother Moreau moans and calls out to her son but he is oblivious to her cries.

At last we reach the gateposts and Gaston pulls the cart to a shuddering halt.

Unable to stay upright any longer, Auguste collapses to the ground, sobbing.

Several men gather him up and throw him in the cart behind us. One of the men spits on him and I stare fascinated as the gobbet slides gently down his face, mixing with his own tears and snot.

Then Gaston jumps on to the cart and leans towards me, brandishing a knife.

Frozen, I cannot even scream.

But he reaches for my left wrist and saws through the rope binding it to the seat. I whimper as the knife nicks my skin. My right wrist remains tied.

Gaston pushes his face towards me. ‘If you ever show yourselves here again we’ll flay the flesh from your bones and feed it to the fish in the moat. May you all burn in Hell! Now get out of our sight!’

The cart rocks as Gaston jumps off. He throws the reins into my lap and slaps the horse on its rump again. The crowd jeers and catcalls but I see Thérèse lift her hand in farewell to me.

The cart rolls forward and I snatch up the reins as we quickly gather speed down the steep hill and career along the winding lane towards the village.

Auguste writhes in agony as he’s thrown about on the floor of the cart and Grandmother Moreau shrieks as she is rocked from side to side.

I trap the reins between my knees and stretch out with my left hand to press the brake lever on my right but it’s just out of reach. I push Grandmother Moreau unceremoniously out of the way and lean over as far as I can, stretching out my fingers, but I still can’t reach it. The reins slip through my knees.

‘Hold tight, Madeleine!’ warns Etienne, as I snatch them up again. He lifts his knee as high as he can and crashes his booted foot again and again on to the slatted wood of our seat.

I manage to keep the cart in the centre of the lane as it barrels along but as we round a sharp bend we teeter for one agonising moment on two wheels.

Etienne throws his weight to the left and the cart regains its balance and crashes to the ground with a bone-shaking thud. The horse rears up, whinnying in terror, and gallops off, dragging the cart behind at break-neck speed.

Brambles slash at our faces as we hurtle down the hill along a narrow lane and Grandmother Moreau screams in terror.

Etienne finally smashes through the slats of the seat, which collapses under us so that we tumble to the floor. Pulling his wrists free of the splintered wood, he launches himself over me and Grandmother Moreau and drags on the brake lever with both hands. There is the scream of metal upon metal and sparks fly up from the wheels.

I pull hard on the reins and a moment later the cart comes to a shuddering halt.

We remain at the nearby inn for several days while the wounds on Auguste’s back begin to heal. He is not at all grateful to me as I bathe and dress the stripes on his fat, white body, and as each day passes I learn to loathe him a little more.

‘I shall return to Château de Lys, burn down the village and have the servants flogged,’ he pronounces.

‘And who do you think will assist you?’ asks Etienne, goaded beyond endurance at last. ‘Not I, nor anyone else of my acquaintance. Think yourself lucky that your niece has interceded for you. I would just as soon have left you in the dungeon so that the servants could ram a red hot poker up your arse.’ He strides from the room and slams the bedchamber door so hard that bits of plaster fall down like snow.

 

 

After supper that evening I sit by the open window in the dining room of the inn, reading in the newspaper disturbing stories of rioting and political unrest in Paris. I keep half an eye on the street outside, glancing up every time I hear the clatter of horses’ hooves. Etienne has not been seen since he stormed out of Auguste’s bedchamber.

Grandmother Moreau sits at an adjacent table, playing piquet with Babette. They have formed an unlikely comradeship, which relieves my conscience as I don’t feel obliged to entertain her myself. I have tried to talk to her about Papa but she simply shakes her head and says that it was all too long ago. I’m deeply saddened and disappointed that there is no warmth of affection between us.

I stare listlessly out of the window. A large black horse is crossing the square and I sit up straight as I realise that the rider is Etienne.

A short while later he enters the dining room, bows to Grandmother Moreau, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries comes to stand, ramrod straight, before me. ‘I apologise,’ he says. ‘My behaviour earlier today was inexcusable.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘If you hadn’t spoken to Auguste in that way I should have been obliged to do so myself.’

‘I went out with Diable,’ says Etienne in a low voice as he glances at Grandmother Moreau, ‘to ride off my temper.’

‘I should have liked to have done the same,’ I say, ‘instead of sitting here in a stuffy inn, fuming and reading about atrocities.’ I sigh. ‘I never imagined that the Revolution would bring such horror with it.’

‘In Paris, they call the guillotine the National Razor,’ he says. ‘Any person associated in the smallest way with an anti-revolutionary act is being denounced. People betray family and friends to save themselves, and more heads are falling day by day.’

‘Nothing feels safe any more.’ Depression settles over my shoulders like a mantle. ‘Shall we go out? I’m so tired of being cooped up indoors.’

The air is balmy as we amble around the town square and we nod to several other couples also enjoying a walk. Old men sit in groups outside the inn, drinking wine and arguing about politics, while a couple of dogs scrap over a bone under the tables. Everything appears so tranquil here it’s hard to believe that this is a country in the grip of war.

Crossing the square we take the road behind the church until we come to a bridge. We lean on the sun-warmed stone and watch the river flowing below. The evening light slants low across our vision and the sky is streaked with orange.

‘The nights are beginning to draw in,’ I say. ‘It’s almost autumn.’

‘There’s a certain
tristesse
as the summer fades,’ says Etienne, echoing my own feelings.

A little of the day’s tension disappears as I watch a duck paddling slowly downstream.

‘Is Auguste well enough to travel yet?’ asks Etienne.

‘If you can stand to listen to him moaning.’

A smile flickers across Etienne’s face. ‘I’m anxious to fulfil my promise and escort him and his mother to England as soon as I can. The grapes will be ready in two weeks and I must return in time.’

I bow my head. ‘I’m so sorry, Etienne, that my family are causing you to face such a hazardous journey.’ The worry of it knots my stomach. ‘I don’t know how you found it in your heart to help Auguste.’

‘Don’t you?’ Etienne’s dark eyes are gazing steadily at me. ‘I should have thought it was obvious.’

Slowly, warmth rises in my cheeks. It’s impossible for me to look away.

He reaches out and covers my hand with his and I study his long fingers and his clean, oval nails, remembering how he held me in his arms all night in the dungeon and soothed my fears.

‘Madeleine, you must know that you have captured my affections,’ he says in a low voice. ‘The journey to England will be fraught with danger and who knows what will happen? My heart is too full of you to go away and say nothing.’

‘Etienne…’ I whisper.

He holds up his hand. ‘I know. You love Jean-Luc.’ He shrugs. ‘How could you not? He has always been able to make women fall in love with him.’

My heart is fluttering and bumping against my ribcage. ‘I wish you had told me about your wife,’ I blurt out.

‘Isabelle?’ Etienne frowns. ‘But you knew about her. The scandal had reached as far as Lady Georgiana’s salon in London.’

‘But I believed she was dead. You never mentioned her to me. Ever!’ Suddenly I’m white hot with anger. ‘You knew I was falling in love with you and you never told me that Isabelle is probably still alive! Jean-Luc informed me, as a friend, because he thought it right I should hear the truth.’

Etienne releases my hand. ‘I thought you already knew.’ His voice is bleak. ‘Besides, when I realised you had fallen in love with him, there seemed little point in disclosing my feelings for you.’

Briefly, I remember the unsettling scene in the stable yard when Etienne returned from his travels to find me in Jean-Luc’s arms.

‘No, I hadn’t fallen in love with him,’ I say. ‘Though I did try to, it was hopeless when I already loved you.’

Etienne draws in his breath sharply and reaches for me, sudden joy transforming his face.

I move back, out of his reach. ‘Will you tell me about Isabelle now?’

His hands fall to his sides. ‘She was beautiful…’

‘Madame Viard showed me her portrait.’

‘Did she now?’ He sighs. ‘I moved it upstairs because her eyes appeared to follow me. I wasn’t sure if she was mocking me or trying to tell me I’d failed her.’

‘What was she like, Etienne?’

He looks out over the river, remembering. ‘My mother chose her for me and I wasn’t unhappy with her choice at first. But Isabelle wanted to live in Paris, which caused great difficulties between us. I grew tired of the endless quarrelling but, even so, I hoped that in time we might have grown fond of each other. She was accomplished and elegant but her foremost duty was to provide me with an heir, a son to inherit Château Mirabelle.’

Inside, part of me is singing. Accomplished and elegant Etienne’s wife might have been, but he doesn’t sound like a man in love. I look out over the river where a cloud of midges hovers. I watch them as they dance above the water while I summon the courage to ask the question that has to be asked. For good or bad, I have to know. I take a deep breath. ‘
Did
you murder her, Etienne?’

He looks at me, all expression wiped from his face.

I stare straight back into his eyes. ‘Did you?’

He’s silent for an aeon and it’s at this moment that I understand I will still love him no matter what he tells me.

‘Do you think I did?’ he asks, pain etched into his face.

I don’t answer him straightaway. I remember how he and Papa laughed together as they shared a bottle of wine, how he gave Sophie and me a home at a time of crisis, how he cared for the people on his estate and how deeply he wanted a son. It’s as if the veil of doubt has finally been lifted and now I can see the truth.

A heavy weight falls from my shoulders. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not.’

He lets out his breath in a long sigh. ‘But people talk and half the villagers still believe I killed her.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘That’s the most terrible thing. I have no idea. Isabelle had become…’ Etienne shakes his head. ‘Evasive. We always had different interests. Painting and music occupied her and she wasn’t interested in the workings of the estate. But she became unusually light-hearted and sometimes I heard her singing to herself. I wondered if she’d found a lover. Then one day she told me that she was expecting a child.’

Jealousy slices into me. ‘The news you’d been hoping for,’ I say.

Etienne bows his head over his clasped hands. ‘She was happy for once and I was ecstatic. But then, a day later, she simply disappeared. I looked everywhere. All the villagers and servants turned out to help and we searched every nook and cranny of the château and the estate.’ He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up. ‘I even dragged the lake.’

‘It must have been a dreadful time for you.’

‘Not as bad as what was to follow. It was then that the rumours began that she’d had a lover and that I’d killed her in a fit of jealousy. For a while it was as if everyone was whispering about me. A room would fall silent if I entered. It was torment. I couldn’t sleep or eat.’ Etienne’s complexion is ashen. ‘And the child Isabelle carried. Was it mine or not? How could I be sure any more?’

‘And you never discovered where she went?’

He shakes his head. ‘I made enquiries at all the nearby towns and offered reward money in all the inns and posting houses for news of her. Not a trace of her. Nothing.’

I see the anguish in his eyes.

He reaches blindly for my hand. ‘But if losing Isabelle was terrible,’ he says in a low tone, ‘it was nothing compared to the agony of falling in love with you and knowing that we can have no future together.’ He turns my hand over and traces the blue veins of my wrist with one fingertip until I shiver. ‘I may never be free to marry you.’

The terrible words hang in the air between us and it’s all I can do not to weep.

The sun has almost dipped below the horizon now and a cool breeze has sprung up. Unbearably sad, I shiver and rub my arms. ‘We’d better return to the inn,’ I say.

The lamps are lit when we arrive and Grandmother Moreau and Babette are tidying away the cards before going to bed.

‘Madame, we will leave tomorrow morning,’ Etienne says to Grandmother Moreau. ‘Please inform your son of my decision.’

She inclines her head in assent. ‘I bid you goodnight, Mr d’Aubery, and you too, Mademoiselle Moreau.’

Babette follows her upstairs.

Etienne draws me away. ‘Madeleine, for all that your grandmother is so proud, she is an old lady and too frail to ride. I must convey her to the coast in my carriage. Besides, it’s wiser to keep Auguste out of sight as much as possible. I’m not comfortable having to abandon you in this way and it leaves the question of whether you prefer to stay at the inn until I come back for you or if you and Babette will feel safe returning to Château Mirabelle on the diligence?’

‘We’ll return on the public coach. It stops here at the inn so please don’t look so worried, Etienne.’

‘Then sleep well.’ He turns my hand over, kisses the palm then folds my fingers over the kiss. ‘Until the morning.’

 

 

I awake, heavy-eyed, to find that it is raining. Outside in the square the church clock chimes and I hurriedly wash and dress.

Downstairs Auguste and his mother are seated in the dining room with Etienne and Babette, their breakfast nearly finished. I notice that Auguste wears one of Etienne’s coats, the buttons straining across his flabby stomach.

‘I’m still not sure that I wish to go to London,’ says my uncle, ignoring my presence. ‘I went there once as a young man and found it a most disagreeable place.’

‘Less disagreeable than Paris,’ says Etienne shortly, ‘at least if you want to keep a head on your shoulders.’

‘But you say you will take us to other nobles in the same plight as ourselves?’ asks Grandmother Moreau.

Etienne nods. ‘The other
émigrés
will advise you on how to find lodgings and employment…’

‘Employment!’ Auguste nearly chokes on his bread.