The Thief of Time (22 page)

‘And you, Therese,' I asked. ‘How did that make you feel? Seeing those people die. An innocent woman, a young boy, a king. How did you feel at that moment?'

The wine glass balanced against her lips and its reflected rouge seemed appropriate to the conversation. In a quiet, deep voice she looked away and answered me with a single word.

‘Avenged.'

We stayed in Paris longer than I had anticipated. Therese's influence on Tom had become so strong that her own revolutionary ideals were almost eclipsed by the sudden ardour of his own. Although I appreciated the fact that he was not quite the wastrel he had been some months earlier, I was nervous about the direction in which his passions were being focused. I travelled back and forth from the country, preparing to sever ties with my nephew if necessary and return home but finding myself unable to do so when he relied upon my charity so much. I spent a little time in the south of the country – where the atmosphere was almost as highly charged as it was in the capital -before travelling to the Alps for a few weeks, where peace reigned and the sea of white snow provided a welcome relief from the familiar red, white and blue of the city. By the time I returned to Paris in late 1793, Tom was a fully signed up revolutionary.

In a short period of time, he had managed to infiltrate the ranks of the Jacobin powers and was working as a secretary with Robespierre, the chief antagonist of the Terror. His relationship with Therese had blossomed and they had left the boarding house together. Now they shared an apartment near the rue de Rivoli and it was there that I met them on a dark Friday night shortly before Christmas.

Physically, he had changed somewhat since I had last seen him. In six months, it seemed as if he had aged six years; he had cut his hair short, which accentuated the line of his cheekbones and made his face appear more masculine and serious. His body had grown strong and muscular through the physical workouts he put himself through on a daily basis. What in the past had been the traditionally almost feminine beauty of his line had been sculpted into a figure of true revolutionary power and one would not have wanted to cross him easily. Therese had changed too. Having converted her lover to her beliefs, she seemed content to turn away from them a little and allow him to take control of their destinies. She was extremely tactile with him, taking every opportunity to stroke his cheek or rub his leg, her busy hands going almost unnoticed by him, it seemed, as he talked to me.

‘What amazes me', I told him, relaxing after dinner by the fireplace, ‘is how you had never even been to France this time last year, and now you fight continuously for its survival. This new-found passion for an unknown country. Strikes me as a little odd.'

‘It must have always been in my blood,' he told me with a smile -more talk of that word. ‘I am partly French after all. Maybe it was just waiting to get out, citizen.'

‘It's possible, I suppose,' I acknowledged. ‘You are half French and half English, as you say. A troublesome combination. You'll find you're always at war with yourself. Your artistic and mundane sides will tear you in two perhaps.'

‘I have only one passion now,' he said, ignoring my statement, which I meant only in jest. ‘And that is to see the French Republic grow stronger and stronger until it is among the most powerful in the world.'

‘And the Terror achieves that?' I asked. ‘Growth through fear?'

‘Tom believes in the cause, citizen,' said Therese quickly, her pronunciation of her lover's name throaty and warm, ‘like we all do. Those who have died have contributed just as much as those who live on. It is part of nature's cycle. An entirely natural process.'

Nonsense, I thought. Absolute nonsense.

‘Let me tell you a story,' said Tom, settling back in his chair as Therese nestled herself in on his knee, one hand slung carelessly about his groin. ‘A few weeks ago if you had come here and asked me who my best friend in the world was, the man I respected the most, I would have told you it was a fellow named Pierre Houblin, who worked with me until recently in the National Assembly. He'd been there longer than I and was of course in a far more senior position. But Pierre was a young man, about my own age, maybe a little older, and somehow we became friends and he took me under his wing, introduced me to some people who could help my advancement. He was one of those who had been pushing for reforms from right back at the time when Louis XVI was still alive and in power. Pierre had worked closely with both Robespierre and Danton and had taken many chances to ensure that the full power of the Revolution would be realised. I looked up to him with the greatest of respect. He was like a brother to me. A wise, older counsel. We would sit for hours on end, the two of us, in the very chairs that we are sitting in now and talk about everything that interested us. About life and love and politics and history and what we were doing in Paris, for Paris, where the future would take us. No greater man, I thought, existed in France, for he opened up my mind to so many possibilities that I cannot even begin to explain them to you.'

I nodded, unconvinced. Sudden crushes, whatever form they may take, are almost always transitory. Their victims inevitably return to their senses and wonder what they were thinking of in the first place. ‘So?' I asked him. ‘And where is he now then, this Monsieur Houblin? Why are you telling me this? Citizen,' I added sarcastically.

‘I'm telling you this', he answered with some irritation, ‘to highlight to you my commitment to this cause. A few weeks ago, Pierre and I were sitting here in this apartment – Therese, you were here too, weren't you?' She nodded but said nothing. ‘And we were talking about the Revolution as ever. Always, always the Revolution. It obsesses us. And Pierre pointed out that over the course of the past month, over four hundred people had been guillotined in the city. I was a little surprised by the number, of course, but acknowledged it as being about correct, and then we sat in silence for a few more minutes. I could tell that Pierre was growing agitated and I asked him whether everything was all right, whether I had said something to upset him. Suddenly, he stood up and started pacing around the room in frustration.

‘“Don't you sometimes think”, he asked me, “that things are beginning to grow out of control? That too many people are dying? Too many peasants and not enough aristos for one thing?”

‘I was shocked of course that he could feel this way when surely everyone knows that the way to achieve our final goals is to get rid of so many traitors that there will be only true Frenchmen left, equal and free. I protested for some time with Pierre that he was wrong and eventually he let the matter rest, but it concerned me for I worried that he might no longer have the stomach to take part in history in the way that he once had.'

‘Perhaps he was simply growing a conscience,' I suggested, and Tom shook his head.

‘That's not it!' he shouted. ‘This has nothing to do with conscience! When one is fighting for change, to alter an unfair system that has existed for centuries, one must do everything in one's power to make sure that right wins through. There is no place within this struggle for half-heartedness.' He sounded as if he was making a political speech and even Therese had stood up now to allow his gesticulations to gain better freedom.

‘But a balance in the Assembly might turn out to be a good thing,' I said slowly, afraid that he would suddenly leap off his seat and throttle me if I were to disagree with him. ‘To hear both sides of this concept. You might find that Monsieur Houblin has more to contribute now than ever before.'

Tom laughed bitterly. ‘Hardly,' he said. ‘A few days later I sent word to Robespierre and told him of our conversation. I said that I believed Pierre was becoming too much of a moderate to be entrusted with any portion of state secrets or important documentation. I simply reported our conversation word for word and allowed Monsieur Robespierre to act as he saw fit.'

I stared at him and blinked quickly, sure that I knew where this was leading but afraid to see it actually reach there. ‘And he was ... dismissed from his post?' I asked hopefully.

‘He was arrested that afternoon, tried for treason the next day, found guilty by a court of law – a court of law, Uncle Matthieu! And then he was guillotined the following morning. There's no place for half-hearts, you see, in a Revolution. It's all, the full mind, the entire heart' – he paused for dramatic effect before continuing, slicing his hand through the air quickly, like the very blade itself – ‘or nothing!'

I sighed and felt myself grow a little ill. I looked towards Therese who was smiling slightly, watching for my own reaction. Her tongue extended slightly and moved around the edges of her lips and I looked back at my nephew and shook my head sadly. I thought they seemed a perfect match.

‘You informed on him,' I said quietly. ‘That is what you're telling me. You informed on your best friend, the man you claim to have respected the most in the entire world.'

‘I committed an act of extreme patriotism,' he replied. ‘I suffered the death of my best friend, my virtual brother, to help the Republic. What more can I do than that? You should be proud of me, Uncle Matthieu Proud.'

As I left the apartment that evening, sure that the time was right for me to leave my nephew, Paris, France, Europe entirely, I turned to Tom and asked him one final question. ‘This friend of yours,' I said, ‘this Pierre. He had a good position within the Assembly, am I right?'

He shrugged. ‘But of course,' he said. ‘He was a man of some importance.'

‘And when he ... died. After he was guillotined. Who replaced him?'

There was silence for a moment as Tom stopped smiling and stared through me with something approaching hatred. For a moment I wondered whether my own life might not be in danger, before thinking, no, I am his uncle, he could never betray me, before once again changing my mind and thinking, fool! Of course he could. Therese looked shocked by my question, as she already knew the answer and just wanted to see whether Tom would tell the truth or not.

‘Well,' he said, after what seemed like an eternity, ‘someone has to do the essential jobs of the Republic. Someone whose loyalty is beyond reproach.'

I nodded slowly and went back out on to the street, wrapping my scarf around my neck tightly as I went, the better to keep my head attached to my body.

Seven months later, in July 1794, I received a most unexpected letter. I had returned to London and was following the Revolution only through the newspapers which spoke of Paris as the very blood-filled vein of Europe, leaking and haemorrhaging across its own society. I shuddered when I thought what life must be like there and worried for Tom, even though I had left Paris with no more illusions about his character. I had decided that it would be best for me to stay out of the city entirely; for one thing, I didn't trust my nephew not to take it into his head one day to denounce me for a traitor, at which point I could be destined for a wholly undeserved appointment with the guillotine, and for another, I simply did not want to have any part of such great bloodshed. However, my plans were suddenly altered when I received the following missive:

Naturally, I was surprised, for I did not expect to hear from my nephew again, let alone the woman with whom he lived. I spent a day or two mulling over the contents of her letter, my mind swaying between a desire to stay as far away from Paris as possible and my inability to refuse her request, which she had made sound so urgent. A few days later, I arrived at her door.

‘All has changed and Tom is too closely aligned to Robespierre now,' she told me, settling into her chair breathlessly, her features more bloated than I remembered them, owing no doubt to her pregnancy. ‘He has become the most loyal general the man has, but the tide is turning against them. I have tried to convince Tom to leave Paris but he refuses.'

‘But how can that be?' I asked. ‘Surely he holds so much power here still? The newspapers say that -'

‘There is too much going on,' she said, glancing towards the window nervously, as if at any moment a counter-Revolutionary might spring through the glass and slit her neck from ear to ear. ‘Everyone in control – Saint-Just, Carnot, Collot d'Herboid, Robespierre himself – they are at each other's throats. Their alliance is falling apart around our ears and they will not all survive it, I promise you that. Now Robespierre is not even attending the meetings of the Committee of Public Safety after yet another argument and they are sure to try to arrest him because of it. It is inevitable. And if he falls, we all do.'

‘It's nothing like inevitable, citizen,' said Tom, suddenly appearing in the doorway and surprising us both. ‘Hello, Matthieu,' he said coldly, dropping the ‘Uncle' now. ‘What brings you back to Paris? I thought we disgusted you over here.'

I looked at Therese in surprise before staring back at him. ‘You didn't know I was coming?' I asked. ‘I assumed that -'

‘He came because he was worried about you,' said Therese. ‘Even in England they can tell what is going on here right now. They are not so far away as you think.'

‘What's going on', he said angrily, ‘is that we are going to win through. Robespierre is inspirational at the moment. He is going around forming alliances with even those who once opposed him. He will lead alone, just mark my words.'

‘In this atmosphere?' she screamed. ‘You are fooling yourself. The very nature of life here now is to distrust anyone with power. He will end up with his head on the scaffold the moment he achieves anything. That will be his reward. And yours too if you are not careful!'