The Blue Rose Page 20

  The palace doors were battered in by gun hilts and hatchets. Throngs of people rushed in. Gunshots and screams.

  To arms, citizens,

  Form your battalions,

  Let’s march, let’s march!

  Let an impure blood

  Water our furrows!

  The king and the queen were hustled away from the palace, holding their children by the hands. Madame Élisabeth, the king’s sister, went with them, and the Princesse de Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel, the royal governess.

  With Luna at their heels, Viviane and Pierrick raced upstairs to the apartment she shared with her father and stepmother. It was in wild disorder. Clothes had been thrown onto the floor, and a coffee cup lay smashed. Her father’s iron-bound trunk of papers and money was missing. His wig lay discarded on the floor.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said blankly. ‘He left me.’

  ‘Come on, mamzelle, we need to go!’

  She could not believe it. ‘My father left me. He knew the mob was coming, and he just left.’

  The pain of her abandonment was acute. She had always known her father did not love her. It seemed heartless, though, to leave her to the mercy of the rabble, seemingly without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Your father always was a sack of shit,’ Pierrick said. ‘I hope the sans-culottes string him up from the nearest lantern. Come on, let’s get out of here. Have you any money?’

  She looked for her purse and jewel-box, only to find both were missing. She shook her head numbly. ‘My father took it all.’

  Pierrick caught up an old cloak and flung it around her shoulders. ‘We have to get out of here. Come on.’

  The glare of fire lit up the night sky, and the air reeked of gunsmoke. It hurt to breathe. Luna whimpered under the bed, and Pierrick fashioned a lead for her from his belt and coaxed her out. Together they ran through the palace.

  There was fighting all around. Noblemen with swords, commoners with axes and sledgehammers. Somewhere a woman screamed. The body of a boy lay in a puddle of blood. Viviane recognised the queen’s page, only thirteen years old.

  A sword had fallen from his grasp. Pierrick seized it.

  Maidservants were on their knees, their hands over their faces, a group of blood-splattered men threatening them at the top of the stairs.

  Raising high the bloody sword, Pierrick strode towards them, singing the sans-culottes’ anthem at the top of his voice.

  To arms, citizens,

  Form your battalions,

  Let’s march, let’s march!

  Viviane hurried behind, Luna whining and fighting against her leash. ‘It’s all right, mon chouchou,’ she crooned. ‘It’s all right.’

  Pierrick then shouted at the blood-splattered men, ‘What are you doing? We don’t kill women! You disgrace the nation!’

  At his words, the men stepped back. One said roughly to the maidservants, ‘Get up then. The nation pardons you.’

  The maidservants scrambled away, weeping. Pierrick saluted the men, crying, ‘Vive la Nation!’

  Viviane shakily echoed his words. The men let them pass, laughing even as their weapons dripped blood onto the marble floor.

  Singing the sans-culottes’ bloodthirsty anthem and shouting Vive la Nation, Pierrick and Viviane managed to escape the palace, Luna dragged along behind them. Musket shots whined over their heads. The air was full of smoke and the stink of gunpowder. Bodies littered the ground. Many had been hacked apart. Heads were impaled on pikes and carried high, or were kicked back and forth as if they were balls. Women danced around bonfires, the queen’s velvet gowns pulled on over their rags.

  As she ran, Viviane saw that the hem of her white muslin dress was stained with blood.

  ‘Just a little further,’ Pierrick panted, ‘and we’ll be free.’

  Then Viviane saw Camille Desmoulins, standing on the toppled statue of the king, a pistol in his hand. He was urging the crowd on, his face begrimed with smoke, his shirt torn. She was afraid he might recognise her. She caught Pierrick’s hand. ‘Not that way,’ she panted.

  They ran towards the Seine, hoping to lose themselves in the crowd.

  One man was hacking apart a fallen soldier. He flung a haunch of meat to Luna, and Viviane had to exert all her strength to drag her away. The hood of her cloak fell back. Light from the flaring torches fell full on her face.

  ‘I know her! She’s an aristo!’ a voice suddenly cried. ‘She’s the Duchesse de Savageaux. Turned me out on the streets when her husband died, the bitch.’

  It was Yvette, the duke’s former mistress, filthy and ragged. Her matted blonde hair straggled down her back, and her hands and arms were bloodstained.

  Viviane stared at her in dismay.

  ‘She’s an aristo, I tell you!’ Yvette shouted.

  A heavy hand fell on Viviane’s shoulder. ‘Come with us.’

  Viviane let fall Luna’s leash. She looked past the man’s burly arm to Pierrick. For a moment their eyes met, then he bent, caught up the end of the dog’s leash and faded away into the dusk.

  Viviane was dragged away.

  Her cell was small and bare. A pile of dank straw. An old bucket as a chamber-pot. A slit of a window.

  Viviane spent her days pacing the floor, reciting poetry to herself, trying not to let despair overwhelm her. She thought often of her father, fleeing the palace without a thought for her or Pierrick. She wished that she had defied him and gone back to Belisima when she could. The château was hers, inherited from her mother. Her father had no right to take its income for himself, simply because he had gambled his own inheritance away.

  She was in La Force prison, she learned from her gaoler. A place for harlots and prostitutes. All day and night, the women shrieked and sang and clanged their tin plates against the bars of their cells. The noise was incessant. Viviane could only press her hands over her ears and try to sleep as the long hours of the night dragged past.

  Some days later, Madame de Tourzel and her daughter Pauline were thrust into her prison cell. Clinging together, weeping, they managed to share what little news they had.

  ‘We spent the day in the press-box,’ Madame de Tourzel said.

  ‘It was tiny, with wooden bars like a cage,’ Pauline said. ‘And they did not bring us any food or water. The Princesse de Lamballe fainted.’

  ‘The deputies harangued us all day, shouting.’

  ‘They accused the king of treason,’ Pauline said, her eyes wide.

  Her mother snorted with derision. ‘How can the king commit treason? It is ridiculous!’

  ‘We could hear the screaming.’ Pauline shuddered. ‘Oh, madame, it was so horrible.’

  ‘What of their Majesties?’ Viviane asked urgently.

  ‘Taken to the Temple,’ Madame de Tourzel replied.

  ‘To the palace or the prison?’ Viviane asked.

  The older woman just lifted her shoulders and let them fall.

  A few days later, the three women were taken from their dungeon and hustled upstairs to a much larger and airier cell. The Princesse de Lamballe rose to her feet as they were pushed within, holding out her hands in welcome.

  ‘I heard that you were held here too. So I bribed the guards to let us be together. Money still holds sway in this new republic of theirs.’ Her soft voice was full of disdain.

  Madame de Tourzel embraced her tearfully, and Viviane and Pauline curtsied and thanked her in shaky voices.

  Marie de Lamballe was dressed as exquisitely as always, in a gown of silk and delicate lace, her curls unpowdered but tied back with a ribbon. Her room was furnished with a few items of luxury – a comfortable chair, a bed with a mattress and soft counterpane, some candles, a pile of books, a sewing box.

  ‘What news?’ Madame de Tourzel asked breathlessly. ‘How is Her Majesty?’

  ‘I do not know.’ The princess’s eyes welled with tears. ‘They tore me out of her arms so roughly Her Majesty almost fell. Oh, my poor Toinette. Why do they hate her so?’

 
‘They are rough with her?’ Madame de Tourzel clasped her shaking hands together. ‘Oh, the brutes!’

  ‘They blow smoke in her face, and call him Fat Louis.’

  ‘Quelle horreur!’ Madame de Tourzel sank down onto a stool. ‘What is the world coming to?’

  ‘They have created a new government,’ the Princesse de Lamballe continued. ‘It is those madmen Monsieur Robespierre and Monsieur Danton. They have made him Minister of Justice! His idea of justice is to break down doors all over Paris, and arrest anyone who they think supports the king.’

  ‘What will happen to us?’ Pauline asked, her voice cracking.

  ‘Do not worry, my pet,’ her mother said, trying to summon up some courage. ‘The queen’s brother will not let anything happen to her. He will march upon Paris and rescue us all.’

  A few days later, it seemed as if she was right. Viviane heard a newsboy shouting the news outside the prison walls. The Austrians had won a great victory, and were now pressing on towards Paris. Viviane never would have thought she would celebrate a foreign victory on French soil, but the four women revelled in the news, laughing and weeping and hoping they would soon be delivered.

  Their guards were surly and resentful that night, and the younger one spat in the princess’s jug of water. Two days later, he came in boisterous and laughing. ‘They have a new killing machine,’ he told the princess. ‘It chops off heads as fast as a stroke of lightning. We saw it used last night. Took off the head of an old friend of yours. Collenot d’Angremont, his name was. The great royalist enlister. What do you have to say to that?’

  ‘God rest his soul,’ the princess whispered, all colour draining from her face.

  ‘They call it the guillotine,’ he said. ‘After the good doctor who designed it. Three of you treasonous royalists killed last night, as fast as you could please.’

  ‘They will be proud to have lost their lives in service to His Majesty the King,’ Madame de Tourzel said quietly.

  The guard came up close and thrust his unshaven face into the old woman’s. ‘What about you, old bag? Would you be proud to have your head sliced from your body too?’

  She tried not to flinch. ‘Indeed I would,’ she replied staunchly.

  When the guard came the next day, he took great pleasure in addressing the women with the title Citoyenne, instead of Madame or Mademoiselle.

  ‘No more monsieurs or mesdames,’ he jeered. ‘We are all equal citizens now. Even that fat old pig, Louis Capet.’

  The older guard, a lean man with a badly pockmarked face, looked pained but did not speak. Viviane was puzzled. She did not know who the guard meant.

  Madame de Tourzel exclaimed in outrage, ‘How dare you name His Majesty so.’

  Only then did Viviane remember the House of Bourbon was descended from a man named Hugh Capet, who had been the King of the Franks in the tenth century. It was not, however, a name that was ever used. The kings of France had no surname. They had no need of one.

  ‘Eight hundred years our kings have ruled,’ Madame de Tourzel cried, so distressed she could scarcely speak. ‘The most ancient rulers in the world … may God strike you all down dead!’

  The younger guard raised his hand as if to hit her, and she cowered away. Pauline rushed to embrace her.

  ‘Have you no shame?’ Viviane said quietly. ‘She is old and sick and filled with sorrow. Leave her be.’

  The gaoler bowed mockingly to her. ‘As you wish, madame la duchesse … I mean, citoyenne.’

  And with one hand he struck Viviane full across the face, knocking her to the ground.

  Then, laughing, he swaggered away.

  The older guard looked troubled. He bent and lifted Viviane up, and put her on the bed, then brought her a cloth soaked in water to press against her swollen cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Not right to hit young ladies … I mean, young citoyennes.’

  He glanced at Pauline and her mother, weeping in each other’s arms, and the Princesse de Lamballe, who had sunk to her knees beside Viviane, her delicate face ashen.

  ‘Not right,’ he said again, and went away, locking the door behind him.

  On the 2nd of September, the French troops surrendered to the Austrians without a fight.

  The women huddled together on the bed, listening to the rage of the Parisian mob. It sounded like a menagerie of wild beasts had been set loose. All night, bells rang the alarm, and faint screams filled the air.

  Guards ran along the corridors, their sabots setting up a terrible clatter. The woman in the next cell begged for news.

  ‘They’re killing all the prisoners,’ the bearded guard said shortly. ‘You’ll be next if you don’t shut up.’

  As the news spread around the gaol, the prisoners began to weep and cry out for mercy. The noise was almost unbearable.

  ‘We must pray,’ Madame de Tourzel said.

  And so the four women knelt on the filthy floor, crossed themselves, and prayed.

  An hour or so after midnight, Viviane was woken from an uneasy sleep by the scrape of the key in the lock. She sat up, pushing the tumbled hair away from her hot forehead.

  It was the older guard, with the pockmarked skin. ‘There’s evil work afoot tonight,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘The most evil I’ve ever seen. I can smuggle one of you out. Only one, I’m afraid.’

  The women all looked at each other.

  ‘Pauline,’ Viviane whispered through stiff lips. ‘She is still only a child. She should go.’

  ‘Yes, please, take my daughter,’ Madame de Tourzel gasped in relief. ‘She is only sixteen. Please save her.’

  ‘No, no, maman!’ Pauline protested.

  ‘Yes,’ the princess said. She stood up, took out her purse, and pressed all the money she had into the guard’s hands. ‘You are a good man. I thank you. Please keep her safe.’

  Pauline wept and grasped at her mother’s hands. ‘No, I do not wish to leave you, please, Maman.’

  Her mother seized her hands and kissed them passionately. ‘Go, my darling! All will be well. God shall look after me. I shall see you soon.’

  Still Pauline protested. The guard looked out the door uneasily. ‘We must go.’

  And so, wrapped in the guard’s cloak, Pauline was smuggled out.

  The women left behind could do nothing but sit down, and weep, and pray, and wait.

  Late the next day, they were pushed out into the courtyard. The sky was darkened with smoke, the damp ground littered with fallen leaves. A table had been set up, with men in rough coats and long trousers smoking pipes and scrawling notes on long scrolls of paper. Throngs of thin, shabby people pressed close on all sides.

  Marie de Lamballe was interrogated first. The questions came as hard and fast as bullets.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Princesse de Lamballe.’

  A hiss from the crowd.

  ‘Indeed? And what is your employment, princess?’ The question was asked in a mocking, sneering tone.

  The princess was pale as skimmed milk, but she answered steadily, ‘I am superintendent of the Household to the Queen.’

  ‘To the woman Capet!’ someone called from the crowd.

  ‘The Austrian whore,’ someone else yelled.

  ‘Have you knowledge of the plots of the court of the 10th August?’ the interrogator rapped out.

  ‘I know nothing of any plots,’ the princess replied.

  ‘Swear to Liberty and Equality, and hatred of all kings and queens!’

  ‘I will swear readily to the former, but I cannot to the latter. It is not in my heart.’

  ‘Madame,’ Viviane whispered in agony. ‘Please, take care.’

  The princess glanced at her, and gave a crooked little smile. ‘I have nothing more to say. I will never swear to something I do not mean. I love and honour their Majesties, and pray for the day that they will be returned to their rightful thrones.’

  There was a short pause, then the judge said in a tone of indifference
, ‘Let Madame be set at liberty.’

  The princess staggered a little in her surprise and relief. She looked at Viviane and smiled. Then she was led through the gateway and into the street.

  A great howl rose up from beyond the thick stone walls. Then a high unearthly scream. For a moment it lingered in the smoky air, and then a great thud cut it short.

  Viviane’s knees weakened. She put out one hand blindly, and found a chair-back to cling to. Madame de Tourzel moaned and staggered. Viviane put her arm around her. The older woman was all bones. They held each other up, unable to help the tears coursing down their cheeks. From behind the high wall came grunts, groans, thumps, thwacks.

  ‘Who is next?’ the interrogator asked.

  Madame de Tourzel stumbled through her answers, shaking and weeping so hard her words could hardly be heard. The man behind the bench looked exasperated. He was about to give his verdict when the guard who had saved Pauline cried out, ‘She’s nothing but an old woman. Does our great nation kill old women now?’

  The interrogator looked displeased and stared around, trying to see who had spoken. After a moment, he frowned and said, ‘Oh very well. Vive la Nation!’

  ‘Vive la Nation!’ the crowd cried. Madame de Tourzel was led back into the prison.

  It was Viviane’s turn.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man rapped out.

  ‘I am Citoyenne Viviane de Ravoisier,’ she answered faintly.

  ‘Is that so? And what do you do, citoyenne?’

  Viviane thought of the Château de Belisima-sur-le-lac, floating amongst fields of deliate blue flax flowers in the spring.

  ‘I grow flax, citoyen,’ she replied in an unsteady voice. ‘I weave linen to make babies’ beds soft, and warm smocks for our workers, and handkerchiefs for the widows of our brave soldiers, and bandages for the hurt and wounded, and shrouds for the dead.’

  She hardly knew where the words came from. They rang with truth, however, and the crowd shifted and murmured in appreciation.

  The judge stared at her intently, then said sharply, ‘And what do you think of our principles of liberty, equality and fraternity then, citoyenne?’