The Emperor (83 page)

‘
We don't know that,' he said quickly, taking her hand -
ah, the touch of her! ‘We don't know what may happen.’

Her eyes widened in her upturned face. ‘No, James, no,
you mustn't say so. If you think that, it is like wishing - like
wishing for her to die.' She took her hand away from him.
'If you think that, I must certainly go.’

They faced each other, a few inches apart on the gently
lifting deck. James examined her face, noted the tiny lines
around her eyes which had not been there before, found her
only the more dear. ‘I love you,' he said, low and desperate

‘I don't forget. I try to do my duty, but the days are so long,
and so lonely. I need to know that you are somewhere near.'
He took both her hands, and she let him. 'Sometimes, when
I wake in the morning, I don't know how I am to get'
through the day. I think of you, and -
'

_‘
I know,' she said. 'For me too. If it weren't for — ' She stopped.

‘For what?'

‘For Marie and Flon, I could not go on.’

He stared at her. 'That is not what you were going to
say.' He searched her face, and the knowledge came to him
like a physical thing, through her hand in his. 'A child,' he whispered. 'There was a child.’

She nodded once, painfully.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I thought it would make it harder for you,' she said. ‘Boy or girl?'

‘A girl. Sophie-Marie.’

He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Yes, it does make it
harder. But it wasn't for you to choose that. You should
have told me. We are one soul, you and I, one life. You
must not have pains that I don't share.’

Her mouth turned down. 'Must I not? But what of your
son? The pain of
that
is all mine.’

He pressed her hand, his expression gentle. 'You think
so?' he said.

‘
Madame!' Marie's voice, low and warning: someone was
coming. James released Héloïse's hand and they moved a little apart, and Mary Ann appeared from around the deck housing.

‘
You should have told me you were taking the air on
deck, James,' she said. 'I would have joined you.' Her eyes
passed on, burning and hostile, to rest on Héloïse's tired
white face. 'But I see you have company after all. Madame.'
She executed a slight and frigid curtsey, and Héloïse
returned it.

James looked a weary warning at her. 'You remember
my cousin, of course.'

‘Of course,' Mary Ann said in an icy voice. 'What a coincidence that we should all meet here. Shall we have the pleasure of your company all the way to Paris, madame?'

‘
I regret,' Héloïse said, very French in her distress. 'I
leave the boat very early. We shall not meet, I think. And
now I must go to my cabin. Madame — cousin James.' She curtseyed again and went quickly away, Marie falling in anxiously beside her, a hand under her arm to support her.

James watched her go, and then turned to remonstrate with his wife; but she met his gaze burningly, hurt and anger in her eyes and a retort on her lips, and his intention sank
under the weary weight of inevitability. 'You had better return to your cabin, ma'am,' he said quite gently. 'The
night air is not good for you.’

*

Often and often, Héloïse felt she should not have come. The
ways in which Paris was unchanged only emphasized
distressingly the ways in which it was different, and made
her a stranger in her own city.

The Parisians themselves, after a decade of upheaval, bloodshed, misery and war were rejoicing at the prospect of
_p
eace and stability, and were ready to enjoy themselves with
all the frivolity for which they had formerly been famous.
The theatres, the opera, the restaurants, the smart strolls
and the shopping streets were thronged, and at private
parties every night the native French and visiting English
met and wondered at each other.

But Héloïse wandered the streets like a restless ghost,
and everything hurt with a surprisingly fresh pain. She went to the Rue St Anne and stood before the gates of her own
house, on which a new, well-polished brass plate announced
that it belonged to the Ministry of Justice, Department of
Civil Proceedings. There was much coming and going, but
between each arrival or departure the gate was closed with a
clang by a gatekeeper with an uncompromising aspect. It
was evident that no-one without official business was
admitted.

Héloïse could only gaze wistfully through the bars at the house where she had grown up, and lived most of her life. She imagined its interior as it had been, the little white attic room of her childhood, the green saloon where Tante
Ismène had held her meetings, the bedroom and dressing
room Papa had fitted out and decorated for her on her
marriage, the handsome dining room where she and Olivier
had entertained the up-and-coming young men of the
Convention.

‘
It would have been foolish,' she said to Marie, ‘to
imagine it would stay the same; and yet — '

‘
Yes, madame,' Marie said wistfully. The gatekeeper had
begun to look suspiciously at them, and so they moved on.

The house in the Rue de St Rustique was closed up, the
shutters and the gate crossed with locked iron bars, and
judging from the condition of the exterior and the tangle of
creeper growing over the wall, it had been unoccupied for
years. Héloïse wondered what had happened to Duncan,
whether he had remained in Paris after Papa's execution,
whether he, too, had fallen a victim of the Terror. She thought that if he had come to England, he would have
sought her out, so she guessed that, alive or dead, he was in
France still.

Her enquiries could establish no trace of Marie-France
and the child. Héloïse had no idea even whether they were
alive, and if alive what name they used, or what part of Paris
they might live in. Nevertheless, she walked the grimier
faubourgs
with the uncomplaining Marie at her heels and
asked endless questions and parted with many a coin; and
every ten-year-old urchin who ran past her was followed
with a wistful and enquiring eye. The more she searched, the
more she appreciated what a hopeless task it was.

She saw James and his wife only once, when she was
coming out of the Palais Royal gardens, as they were
stepping out of a carriage outside the Comédie Française.
Mary Ann was looking magnifrcent in sables, with a vivid glitter of diamonds and sapphires at her throat, and James,
in evening garb and a silk cloak, held her elbow with
automatic courtesy as he ushered her across the pavement to
the foyer. Héloïse stopped still, too far away and too hidden
amongst the crowd to be seen, but before he entered the
theatre in his wife's wake, James turned and looked around him with a faintly puzzled air, as though he thought he had
heard his name called.

It was that evening, when they returned to their room at the posting-house, that Héloïse said to Marie, 'I am accom
plishing nothing here. I think we should go back.’

Marie's face lit with relief. 'Oh yes, madame.'

‘
You really wish to go?' Héloïse asked with a quizzical
smile. 'I would not insist, if you wished to stay in Paris.
After all, it is your
home.'
She used the English word.

Marie shook her head. ‘No, madame.
Home
is where you
are, and the children. They will be so excited to have you
back.' She hesitated. 'We don't belong here anymore.'

‘
No,' Héloïse agreed sadly. 'We don't belong anywhere
now.’

 
The Treaty of Amiens which ended the war was signed in March 1802. It concluded a peace of which everyone was glad, and no-one was proud, for under its terms, England
resigned all its conquests except Trinidad and Ceylon, while
France kept only Belgium. Everything was therefore much
as it had been before the war began, a suitable conclusion to
a conflict which had ended in the deadlock of French
invincibility by land and English by sea.

At the same time, Buonaparte signed a concordat with
the Pope in which he agreed to restore the Sabbath and
Holy Orders, and to allow the Holy Father to consecrate the
bishops, provided he appointed them.

‘
It's a clever move on the Corsican's part,' Father Jerome
said thoughtfully. 'It recognizes Catholicism as the religion
of the majority, without restoring to the Church its old
power, and allows the juring and non-juring priests to be
reconciled. All in all, it will tend to unite men and content
them with his rule.'

‘
Do you think he is so calculating?' Héloïse asked. 'Has
he really done it for those reasons, or is that merely what has happened?’

Jerome said, 'I am perfectly sure that it was intended. It
would be a foolish move to underestimate this man: every
thing he has done has been marked by an intelligence,
restless but acute, energetic but practical. I believe we will
see him rule France for a long time. After all, a benevolent
despotism is the most stable form of government.' He met
Héloïse's eyes with an apologetic smile. 'The concordat
means that I can go home.'

‘Yes,' said Héloïse. 'And will you?'

‘
I think I must. A new state is being born, and every birth
needs a priest on hand. But what will you do? Will you
come too?’

She frowned. 'I don't know. I don't know if I could.'

‘
There has been a general amnesty,' he reminded her,
'and Buonaparte is actively encouraging
émigrés
to return.
There are so many new institutions and official positions to
be filled.'

‘
I didn't mean that,' Héloïse said with a faint smile. 'I
meant that I don't know if I can leave England.’

Jerome regarded her for a long moment. There was no
need for him to remind her of the danger in which she
stood. He was aware both of her strength and her weakness: it was not the sins of the body he feared for her, but the sins
of the mind and heart. They, of course, might he committed
anywhere, but he thought that in France they would be eas
ier to resist. In the end he said merely, 'It would be better
for you to go.'

‘
Perhaps,' said Héloïse. 'At all events, I must give the
others the opportunity. If anyone wishes to go, I shall see
that it is made possible.’

She asked them that same day. Flon sighed and said she
wished more than anything to go back to France, but that she was too old to uproot herself. Marie said that she had
not stayed with Héloïse through danger and hardship only
to leave her in prosperity, and Barnard merely shrugged and
said, 'I cook for you. You live here, I cook here.’

Héloïse was grateful for so much loyalty, but as she said
afterwards to Father Jerome, it was a worry, too. 'For what
it comes down to is that they would all go if I went, and that
they stay here because I do.'

‘
You must have known that before you asked,' Jerome
said.

‘
I suppose so,' Héloïse sighed, 'but it means that I can't
decide whether to stay or to go on my own account alone. I
must consider what they really want, and act accordingly.'

‘
All love is a responsibility,' Jerome said. 'My advice to
you is to take your time and think about it carefully. After
all, now that there is peace, there is no hurry for you to
decide. France will always be there.’

*

Roberta and Lucy met at the door of Harding and Howell's
in Pall Mall as Roberta was being bowed out by two senior assistants. They greeted each other with pleasure.

‘I didn't know you were in Town,' Lucy said.

‘
We only arrived yesterday,' Roberta said, 'and I haven't
a thing fit to be seen in. I have just been choosing some
materials to have sent round to my mantuamaker. Were you
about to go in? I rather thought your Madame Genoux was
too autocratic to allow you to choose your own materials.'