The Blue Rose Page 13

  ‘Who ordered the doors locked?’ demanded a young man with greenish eyes and a grey powdered wig.

  ‘Orders of the king,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘Repairs need to be made to the room.’

  ‘What r-r-rubbish! The room does not … not need to be repaired. He is just trying to stop us from m-m-meeting, damn him!’

  The soldier raised his bayonet. ‘Speak more respectfully of His Majesty or I shall run you through!’

  ‘Hush, Camille! There is no need to be so intemperate.’ The green-eyed young man drew his shabby friend away.

  ‘But, Maximilian, you know it is noth … nothing but a ruse to shut us d-d-down!’

  ‘Yes, I know. But we shall achieve nothing if we have to spend the night in gaol. Try and think before you speak, Camille!’

  It was now raining hard. The deputies milled about, growing damp and irritable. Viviane ducked into the shelter of a nearby doorway.

  ‘What do you suggest we do then, Monsieur Robespierre?’ another man asked.

  ‘We must not allow ourselves to be shut down. Let us find somewhere else to meet,’ Robespierre said.

  ‘But w-w-where?’ Camille stammered.

  ‘The royal tennis court is nearby, Monsieur Desmoulins,’ a neat little man declared. ‘It’s not in use, and it has a roof. We shall at least be dry.’

  ‘An excellent plan, thank you, Doctor Guillotin,’ Robespierre answered. ‘Will you show us the way?’

  ‘And be quick about it!’ Desmoulins cried. ‘I only have one c-c-coat and it’s getting so … soaked!’

  The crowd of deputies hurried along the wet street. After a moment Viviane followed them. She was interested to see what would happen next. A few other onlookers came too, crowding into the indoor tennis court after the deputies. It had a smooth wooden floor and high vaulted ceiling, with rows of chairs for spectators. Viviane took a seat near the door, lowering her damp shawl from her hair and shaking out the drenched hem of her skirt.

  ‘M-m-may I sit here?’

  She looked up and saw Camille Desmoulins, his hair wilder than ever from the wind and the rain. Viviane nodded, and drew her skirts aside so he had room to sit.

  He pulled off one shoe with a wry twist of his mouth. ‘My feet are d-d-damned damp,’ he confided to her. ‘Holes in the soles.’

  Viviane was startled at his familiarity, but then realised that she did not look at all like a duchess in her simple muslin frock and old shawl. It was a relief to be treated just like an ordinary girl, and so instinctively she slipped into the accent of the lower orders.

  ‘It’s raining ropes,’ she said. ‘Not a good day to be locked out.’

  ‘That’s wh-why they did it. Damned aristos.’

  Viviane shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘I was m-meant to be here as a … as a deputy,’ Camille told her, ‘b-b-but, well, I have been ill and had to pull out. I would not miss this for anything, though! We are g-g-going to change the world!’

  Camille certainly looked as if he had been ill, with his sunken, feverish eyes and pallid skin. He pulled out a wooden writing box and balanced it on his knees, preparing to take notes with a threadbare quill and an almost empty inkpot.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ he explained, with only the slightest stumble in his speech. ‘I … I intend to record the g-g-glorious events for posterity.’

  ‘What have you written?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve written a p-p-pamphlet called Le France Libre, but no-one will publish it. They are all too afraid!’ He spoke scornfully.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said sincerely. ‘That’s a shame.’

  He gave her a swift grin, showing crooked teeth.

  The atmosphere was tense and feverish. Many expected the king to order the soldiers to fire upon them.

  ‘We shall stand firm!’ one man cried.

  ‘The king must be shown that we are serious!’ shouted another.

  ‘How dare he lock us out of our hall? Does he think we shall all just doff our hats and go meekly away?’

  ‘We must prove that we mean what we say.’

  ‘But how?’

  Camille leaned closer to Viviane so he could whisper the men’s names and backgrounds to her. He pointed out Isaac Le Chapelier, a radical lawyer from Bretagne who had founded a group called the Breton Club, and his friend Antoine Barnave, who had drawn up the club’s manifesto and rule book. The ascetic-looking man in the severe black soutane was the Calvinist preacher, Jean-Paul Saint-Étienne.

  ‘And you must know Monsieur Robespierre,’ Camille said with a worshipful air. ‘He is a man to watch, mark my words!’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Viviane asked.

  ‘We met at school. His family are very poor, but he won a scholarship. He is the most brilliant man I have ever met, if rather particular in his ways. So poor he can scarcely buy bread, but he still pays the barber to shave him and powder his wig for him each day!’ Camille shook his head in wonder.

  ‘And that man? The one huge and shaggy as a bear?’ Viviane asked.

  ‘That is the Comte de Mirabeau.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’ve heard of him.’

  The young man grinned. ‘So has all of France.’

  The comte had been thrown into prison four times, thanks to blank lettres du cachet employed by his father, and now worked against his own class, rousing the commoners to fever pitch with his passionate speeches.

  ‘We must refuse to disperse, no matter what comes,’ Mirabeau shouted now. ‘We must all agree to stand together and not be disbanded until we have a constitution that is fair for all Frenchmen, regardless of their birth or wealth.’

  ‘Let us sign an oath to that effect,’ cried another man. He was a lawyer named Mounier, Camille whispered, famous for his part in the Day of the Tiles in which the people of Grenoble had risen up and pelted the king’s soldiers with roof tiles and cobblestones.

  The men gathered around as the Abbé Sieyès hastily scribbled on a scroll of paper, many interjecting suggestions. At last he had an oath for them to swear, declaring their intention to establish a new constitution. One by one, the deputies read the vow aloud and then signed their name to the paper.

  Then a man stood up, his face defiant. ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot sign this oath,’ he declared. ‘My constituents did not send me here to Versailles to insult the king!’

  A roar rose up from the other deputies. Many leapt to their feet and shook their fists.

  ‘Come on now, monsieur,’ Mirabeau cried. ‘We all need to stand together!’

  ‘I cannot support any decree not sanctioned by the king,’ the man replied obstinately.

  ‘It is not up to you,’ someone cried. ‘You are part of the Third Estate, you must submit to the general view.’

  ‘I cannot take a sacred oath against my conscience.’

  Another great growl of indignation.

  ‘What is your name?’ Robespierre asked in a low, silky voice somehow laden with menace.

  The man replied stoutly, ‘Joseph Martin-Dauch, monsieur, from Castelnaudary.’

  ‘We shall remember your name, Monsieur Martin-Dauch.’ Robespierre took a small notebook from his coat pocket and wrote it down.

  ‘Come on, my friend, sign the oath,’ Mounier urged, pressing the quill into Martin-Dauch’s hand. ‘Do not be the only one to fail us.’

  ‘And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand,’ Saint-Étienne intoned.

  ‘I cannot.’ His jaw set, Martin-Dauch scribbled ‘opponent’ next to his name.

  Shouts of anger and disapproval reverberated through the room.

  ‘Get him out of here!’

  ‘Death! Death to the objector.’

  Pale-faced, Martin-Dauch was hustled out the back door and into the street.

  All five-hundred-and-seventy-seven remaining deputies signed their name to the oath.

  For the next few days, the palace and town of Versailles were in turmoil.

  The king declared the mee
ting of the National Assembly illegal. In response, crowds of angry people gathered in the streets, shouting, ‘Vive le Tiers!’

  The streets resounded with the stamp of marching soldiers. All through the royal apartments, small groups of courtiers huddled, agitated and afraid.

  On the 24th of June, numerous members of the clergy left the First Estate and joined the National Assembly. The Duc d’Orléans followed suit the following day, taking close to fifty liberal-minded noblemen with him.

  The queen was white with anger, the king miserable and bewildered at his cousin’s betrayal. The crowds were ecstatic, calling ‘Vive d’Orléans!’

  Some even began to shout, ‘Vive le Roi!’ as the duke rode along the streets of Versailles, waving his gloved hand, the sun glittering on the diamonds in his hat.

  Two days later, Louis gave in and agreed to allow the three estates to meet together. He was greeted with cheers and clapping. The royal couple stood on the balcony, waving to the crowd. Marie-Antoinette lifted the dauphin into her arms, and he smiled and waved his chubby hand, to the delight of the throng.

  It seemed as if all would be well.

  12

  The Devil’s Thimble

  6 June 1789

  The gardens at Versailles were vast and regimented.

  Marble statues of disdainful gods and goddesses, framed by tall yew hedges. Trees clipped into cones and spheres. Raked gravel paths. Fountains that magically began to spout as the king walked by, only to die away once he had passed. Viviane had been awed and amazed by this, as she was meant to be, until Clothilde had told her servants were posted everywhere in the garden, their only job to blow a whistle so that the gardeners knew when the king approached and could turn the mechanisms on and off.

  Viviane could not help thinking of David as she walked down the marble steps, her heavy skirts dragging against the gravel. She wondered what the garden at Belisima looked like now. Surely the rose garden would be in full and heady bloom? She imagined running through the maze in a light muslin dress, laughing, Luna leaping at her heels. She would find her way through all the twists and turns to the inner garden, where David waited for her, smiling. She would spring into his arms and he would clasp her close, his hands whole and unscarred. She would feel his heart beating fast under her cheek. He would lift her face so he could kiss her …

  If only she had been brave enough to flee with him when she had had the chance! David would still be alive. She would not carry the awful burden of his death on her soul. She would not be trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who took pleasure in her pain. She was as fettered as the falcons in their hoods and jesses in the royal mews. Just like them, if she tried to spring free, she would be dragged back down to earth.

  Her bitter thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a girl’s voice. ‘Oh you naughty dog, look what you’ve done!’

  Viviane looked up.

  The princess Marie-Thérèse was kneeling on the lawn, holding tightly to one end of a piece of cloth. A small dog had gripped the other end with its sharp teeth, and was trying to drag it from her hand, growling, even as its stumpy tail wagged furiously. Louis-Charles, the little dauphin, was sobbing in the arms of the royal governess, the Duchesse de Polignac. She was trying without success to comfort the prince, save the princess’s sewing, and stop the puppy from trampling all over her silk skirt with its muddy paws.

  Viviane ran forward to help. She bobbed a quick curtsey, then caught up a stick from the nearby garden bed and waved it in front of the dog’s nose. ‘Here, puppy!’ she called, ‘Fetch this.’ Then she flung the stick away from her. The puppy let go of the cloth and romped away after the stick.

  ‘It’s ruined,’ the princess cried, snatching up the cloth. ‘And I spent so long on it.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Viviane took the cloth from her hands and smoothed it out. It was not badly torn. ‘Never fear, Madame Royale. A tiny stitch or two, and you will never know a puppy had been playing with it.’

  Just then, the puppy bounded back, the stick in his mouth. Louis-Charles cowered into the duchess’s arms, his tears breaking out afresh.

  ‘He is afraid of dogs,’ the Duchesse de Polignac said apologetically. ‘I usually take such care to keep them away from him.’

  ‘There is no need to be afraid,’ Viviane said soothingly to the little prince. ‘See, he just wants to play.’ She threw the stick with all her strength into the bushes, and the puppy sprang after it, burrowing into the leaves till nothing was left in sight but the curly end of his tail. The dauphin sneaked a look between his pudgy fingers, then gave a watery smile at the comical sight.

  ‘Would you like me to mend your sampler for you, madame?’ Viviane said to Marie-Thérèse. ‘Indeed, I’m afraid my own puppy often used to run off with my sewing and so I was always trying to repair the damage before my great-aunt saw.’

  The princess nodded, her face grave.

  ‘May I sit, madame?’ Viviane indicated the rug spread on the grass.

  ‘You may.’

  Viviane sat down on the ground, then spread the sampler over her lap. She took up the princess’s sewing basket, rummaging inside for a needle and threading it deftly. She then found the silver thimble and slipped it on to her forefinger.

  ‘Did you know the Devil invented the thimble?’ she said.

  The princess’s eyes rounded. ‘That is not true.’

  ‘It is, according to the tale my wet-nurse used to tell me.’

  ‘Why would the Devil invent a thimble?’ Marie-Thérèse demanded.

  ‘Well, long ago in Bretagne, all the knights had ridden away to fight in the Crusades and the womenfolk were left alone. Lady Melita was one of them. She missed her husband with all her heart. But she was determined not to grieve. “We must not sit idle,” she told her ladies. “Let us find some work to do.” So the ladies opened their chests and brought out cloth of the finest wool and silk, and they began to sew beautiful tapestries and cushions and curtains, and warm clothes for the poor folk, and thick quilts for the old.’

  As Viviane spoke she was repairing the torn sampler with the finest and most fairy-like of stitches. The princess’s solemn eyes never left her face.

  ‘Now Old Nick saw this from his dark abode. All this useful and beautiful work did not suit his wicked plans. For you know the Devil likes idle hands. “I must put an end to this,” said Old Nick to himself. “And an end there shall be.” He called on one of his most mischievous imps, who cried, “Master, I will twist and turn their needles so their fingers are pricked with every stitch. They will be stung so sore they shall never sew again.”’

  The dauphin had lifted his face from the duchess’s shoulder and turned to face her, one finger in his mouth. At that moment, the puppy gambolled back again, the chewed-up stick hanging out of the corner of its mouth. Viviane laid down her sewing so she could once again throw the stick, and off the dog ran once more. The dauphin watched anxiously, but did not weep.

  Viviane took up her cloth and her tale. ‘You may be sure that naughty imp spent a busy night. Every single needle in the land was cursed. And what squeals and squeaks were heard the next day! Poor dames! The needles would poke and prick no matter what they did. Soon all the ladies but one had laid aside their work.’

  ‘Lady Melita?’ Marie-Thérèse whispered.

  ‘Yes, Lady Melita. No matter how her poor fingertips were stung, she kept on sewing, for she was determined that she would not sit idle while her beloved husband was fighting so far from home. “I must put an end to this,” said Old Nick to himself. “And an end there shall be.” And so he snatched up a shell from the seashore, and he spat in it, so that it was poisoned. Then he dressed himself like a pilgrim and, staff in hand, went to ask for charity at Lady Melita’s castle gate.’

  The children’s eyes rounded with fear and amazement. They wriggled a little closer. Viviane lowered her voice, leaning forward a little. ‘Melita’s kind heart was moved. She ran down to the gate and, taking the Devil by the hand,
said, “Come in, come in. Pilgrims are always welcome here; they are heaven-sent.” So Old Nick entered the castle, and ate and ate and ate. He ate till all the sacks and chests were empty. And he drank even more. He drank till every bottle and barrel in the castle was drained dry.’ Viviane looked up and smiled at the princess. ‘You must know that sobriety is not the Devil’s special virtue.’

  A faint smile curved the princess’s pale cheek. The duchess laughed, and settled the dauphin more comfortably in her lap.

  ‘Lady Melita said not a word, but took up her sewing. Soon her fingertips were beaded with blood, and she had to take care not to stain her cloth. Old Nick took out the shell from his pocket and gave it to her. “To protect your finger from the prick of the needle,” he said with a secret smile.

  ‘Melita took the shell and kissed it, then slipped it on to her finger. She found she could sew without any pain, and her stitches flew ever faster. Old Nick grinned to himself and slipped away, for he thought she would soon drop dead from the poison. But he was wrong. The poison did not hurt her, for no harm can come to the innocent. She sewed with such tiny delicate stitches, and created such rare beauty, that soon her fame spread far and wide, and all the other ladies wanted a thimble too. No-one realised that it had been invented by the Devil.’

  For a moment, Marie-Thérèse considered her solemnly, but then a real smile broke out on her face, transforming it. ‘I like that,’ she said. ‘I will think of that story every time I put my thimble on now.’

  Viviane gave her back the mended cloth. ‘Voilà! All fixed now.’ She put away the needle and thimble, then stood as the puppy pranced up again. She lifted him into her arms and bobbed a swift curtsey.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Mesdames, I shall go and find where this puppy belongs.’

  ‘That was a charming tale, madame,’ the duchess said. ‘I thank you for coming to my rescue.’

  The puppy was wriggling and squirming, wanting to be free. Louis-Charles stared at it in frightened fascination, then, when the puppy yapped, flinched back.

  ‘Would you like to pat the puppy, Monseigneur?’ Viviane asked. ‘He is so soft, and I promise you he will not bite.’