The English Heiress Page 25

  Fouché changed color and Roger gasped. “You cannot mean that he did! What grounds could there be?”

  “She was never loved,” Fouché replied, “and truly, she was probably more guilty than Louis of the things of which he was accused. She was a strong and generally a bad influence on him. Anyway, the motion was not carried to the convention. It was something thrown out to see whether the idea would take. Let us hope it will never come to pass. She is powerless now. As to your problem, I do not know what to say.”

  “Do you think it would be wise simply to go? The barriers are not so carefully watched now. Since the Prussians were defeated, the patriotic fervor is somewhat dimmed. Times are hard, too—although God knows not for me—and if I used a golden key I think the lock might open easily.”

  “You might get out of Paris,” Fouché said. “There is so much contempt for all authority. But the roads are the towns are all most carefully watched for émigrés. Besides, how would you get out of the country?”

  “I have a friend in Brittany who has a ship and knows the English coast well,” Roger replied.

  “Ah,” Fouché breathed, “I remember. In that case, come back tomorrow—” Suddenly Fouché shuddered. “No, not tomorrow. Come back the beginning of next week. I will ask Joseph… But you know, my dear St. Eyre, it is not really reasonable for a man to abandon a thriving business and travel all that distance in the depths of winter to ‘pay a visit’ to relatives.”

  Roger sighed. “Yes, and we are likely to be held up by the weather from crossing the Channel too, which might put my friend in danger. Let it go then. I am certainly in no danger, and the lady I was sent to bring home is taken for my wife and not suspect. I would be foolish to bring attention to ourselves. However, give my compliments to your cousin and tell him I would be happy to serve him at any time.”

  The last was a polite nothing, spoken without much consideration. Roger’s mind was on the events of the following day. He found the notices up, as Fouché had said, and read them with horror. Louis was to be executed in the Place de la Revolution—only a few streets from their house, which sat in the shadow of St. Roche. He could do little for Leonie except warn her and when the drums began to sound—they had been ordered to beat continuously so that no cries of mercy or support for the king nor signals for rescue could be heard—take her in his arms to kiss and comfort her.

  The drums stopped once. Roger heard later that the king had wanted to say a few words but had not been permitted more than a single sentence lest his dignity and generosity inflame the crowd. Leonie had shuddered and sighed with relief that it was over, but before Roger could release her the hideous rattling began again. The second time they stopped, a salvo of cannon fire followed. Then Leonie had wept.

  “It is ridiculous,” she sobbed. “I don’t know him. But it is so unfair. He wasn’t a bad person. He meant well. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  By the next day Leonie seemed recovered, but for Roger the sound of those drums lingered in the house. Then three days later, he had been working a pressure-fitted piece into place with quick, repeated taps of a hammer, which caused another piece of metal sitting in a pewter dish rattle. When he was finished, he heard Leonie crying in the kitchen. She apologized for her silliness after he rushed in to ask what was wrong, but she was shuddering with horror, and Roger knew she heard the drums also. Then, the day after that, a man came asking by name for the tailor who had been accused of conspiring with the royalist party. Roger said as blankly as he could that he knew no one by that name. That did not silence his visitor, who explained. Roger then said he still did not know the man and had no idea what had happened to him.

  “I will leave my name,” the man said.

  “For what?” Roger asked angrily.

  “Oh, in case someone asks for Janine. You can say that I was asking for him also.”

  “I am not a messenger,” Roger growled, and the man turned away.

  Later, Roger found a card—enough in itself to suggest aristocratic or bourgeois connections without the elegant printing it displayed. He showed it to Leonie.

  “It is time for us to move,” he said. “I do not know whether I am being tested by my republican ‘friend’ or by the royalists—although I am pretty sure it is the latter—but it is unhealthy either way.”

  “Yes,” Leonie agreed with every sign of relief. “Oh yes, Roger. I—I would like to move away from here.”

  All they needed was an excuse, and by the end of the week they had that, although Roger would have preferred a less harrowing one. Times, as Roger had said to Fouché were very hard. There was no work, prices were very high, there was real suffering among the laboring classes. Moreover, the king’s death, in a typical reversal of mob feeling, had not pleased the people. There had been considerable sympathy for Louis, which had been displayed in various ways, one of which was the cheering of any royalist sentiment in a play. The convention promptly closed the theaters, which did not please anyone much either.

  Also, even among those who had approved Louis’ death, there was dissatisfaction. They seemed to have expected some miraculous result, a solution to all the economic and social problems of the nation. Undisciplined mobs—smaller than those organized to depose the king on August tenth or initiate the massacres on September second, but also destructive—broke into the convention several times to demand or protest. On their way to obtain their “civil rights” they uncivilly assaulted and robbed whomever they met and often looted shops.

  One of the first streets to be visited by these furies was the one that held Roger’s shop. The mob broke into the baker’s at the corner and beat the poor man severely—because the price of bread was too high. Roger had heard the noise as the small mob moved from the avenue into his street, but he was engaged in a delicate piece of repair and did not look up from his work. Leonie came from the kitchen, where the sound had been muted, and looked curiously out the door just in time to see the invasion of the baker. She uttered a muffled shriek, which brought Roger to his feet with an oath.

  “Damn it, Leonie—”

  “The sans-culottes,” she gasped, “they are breaking into the bakery.”

  Roger said a word, fortunately in English, that later he could only hope Leonie did not understand, but he did not waste time in mouthing further obscenities. A quick glance told him it was too late to shutter his shop. He thrust Leonie back toward the area where sales stock and finished work lay.

  “Load,” he ordered. “Load every gun you can—don’t forget the patches. I would like to murder them all, God knows, but—”

  He broke off to call to the grocer, who held the shop next to the baker and who had just fled his premises with his wife and son on his heels and his infant daughter in his arms. The movement attracted the tail of the mob, those who could not fit into the bakery. A shout was raised and a few turned to pursue the grocer. Roger fired one pistol over the heads of the crowd. There was a hesitation, then a surge in his direction. He took careful aim and brought down the man closest on the grocer’s heels.

  From the door of the shop, another pistol barked. A second in the crowd fell. If Roger had not been scared nearly witless, he would have laughed, knowing that Leonie’s success was pure accident. The grocer and his family had reached them. Roger pushed the man toward his shop as Leonie’s other pistol went off. By the counter near the door, guns lay in a row. Roger snatched up two more. Leonie began to load the guns that had been empted. Had the mob been a large one, all in Roger’s shop would have died. As it was, the defenders were driven back from the street into the shop itself. There the odds were somewhat in their favor because only one or two of the mob could enter the doorway at the same time. Even so, there were three dead and five wounded in the doorway before they convinced the rest of the mob that their street was too thorny a branch to grasp and break. Cursing and threatening, the mob retreated to find easier pickings.

  Roger and the grocer ran to see what could be done
for the baker. Leonie stood, pistol in hand, watching the heap of men in the doorway where groans and movement warned there might still be life enough to be dangerous. The grocer’s wife tried to comfort her screaming children. In a few minutes, Roger returned, his face black with rage. The other shopkeepers were out now, shuttering their premises in case the mob should return. Then they came to give what help they could.

  Among them they separated the wounded from the dead. Leonie and the other women bandaged the wounded while Roger and the men carried the dead away. What they did with them, Leonie never asked and Roger did not mention. The wounded were eventually piled into the grocer’s cart and carried to the nearest hospital. Finally everyone went to help the grocer and baker salvage what they could from their ravaged shops.

  That night the men came as a deputation to thank Roger for his defense.

  “You are very kind,” he responded, “but I do not deserve any special thanks. I was saving myself. I am glad you benefited also, but I must point out to you that we are in equal or greater danger now. If anyone from that mob complains to the convention or the Section, we may be accused of ‘incivism’ and you know what comes of that.”

  “The guillotine!”

  “Yes.”

  “What is to be done?”

  “I am not sure,” Roger replied to the frightened questions and exclamations, “but it seems to me that the safest thing is for us to go all together tomorrow and complain also. At least that way our side of the story will also be heard and Citizens Chouar and Dillon can ask that their shops be examined as evidence of the violence. Otherwise it may be said that we fired upon harmless citizens marching peacefully for a redress of their injuries.”

  A brief discussion ensued, but no one could think of anything else to suggest and it was decided to do as Roger suggested. When they were gone, he said defensively to Leonie, “It is the best thing to do, even if it will serve my particular purpose also.”

  Leonie had been sitting with her hands in her lap, starting out the window. Mob violence always brought back the horrors of her own experience and her losses. She turned now to look into Roger’s troubled eyes and smiled at him. “Of course it is the best thing to do. Even if no one in that crowd of animals should think of complaining, or be listened to if they did complain, everyone in the street knows that sans-culottes were driven away from here. There is bound to be talk—and God knows what distorted talk. Sooner or later someone will accuse someone else for private reasons—” Leonie shuddered. “Perhaps us. Women have remarked to me when I was buying food how many people come to our shop. Perhaps it is only curiosity, but times are bad. Curiosity can become envy.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Fouché is looking for a new place for us. We should be out of here in another week or so. The quarter ends with February, and I can give notice on the first of the month. I’ll say you are frightened to be so near the meeting place of the convention because you think the mob will return, that you have been having nightmares.”

  “And so I would be,” she said, getting up and going over to him, “if you weren’t there. You’re so warm and solid, Roger. I can’t be afraid when you’re beside me.”

  Roger stood up too and put his arms around her. He hoped she had not seen the pain in his face. It would be cruel to make her feel guilty over an innocent remark meant as a compliment, but it was a bitter lesson to him. Probably it was true that she did not find him repulsive, but it was clear enough that she did not love him either. He had been mistaken in thinking she was no longer afraid and welcomed his lovemaking for its own sake. Well, he was a fool to have thought of reaching the sun. At least he would have her as long as they were in France.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roger’s plan for moving out of an area in which he and Leonie were too well known, and which had become distasteful to them, worked moderately well. By the time he gave notice, the convention had been mobbed twice more. Fortunately, their street had not been invaded again, except by the noise and a few individual rioters, but it was reasonable that a young woman would be frightened and that a man who had no roots in the district might want to move. There was some resistance, gunsmiths were not so plentiful that a Section liked to lose one, but Roger pointed out that he was not leaving Paris, only moving to the rue de la Corderie, and he would be available.

  The only serious drawback was that the papers permitting Roger to move and work in another district were now marked “within the environs of Paris”. Roger asked with a slight show of indignation why such a restriction should be applied to him. It was not him alone, he was told. In these perilous times his trade was very necessary. All skilled artisans who could be of use to France in her time of peril must be available and where they could be reached in an emergency.

  “What emergency? What peril?” Roger asked. “Are not the armies of France victorious? Have we suffered a defeat?”

  “No, but England has sent home our ambassador heaped with insults and has decreed a day of mourning by the entire nation for that tyrant Louis. I believe the convention will declare war on them today or tomorrow, and likely on Holland also.”

  “I see,” Roger murmured, his well-trained face giving no indication of his concern although the news was as bad as it possibly could be.

  He said nothing more about the papers. The last thing he wanted was to raise any suspicion that he intended to leave Paris, particularly now that England and France would be at war. So far, the few people who had been aware that his accent was foreign had thought little of it. However, if an all-out attack should be launched at France, all foreigners might become suspect. Worse, all the northern coast would be watched and guarded with ten times the care shown in the past.

  If he had been alone, Roger might have considered escaping from the city and making his way across country on foot, avoiding the roads, to find Pierre. That would mean sleeping in barns or in the open, living worse than a tinker, who at least had a wagon for shelter and a pot to cook in. To inflict such suffering on Leonie at this season of the year was impossible, particularly when there did not seem to be any acute danger. In the summer, if the situation grew worse, Roger knew he might have to reconsider his opinion. For now, it was best and safest to continue the pretense they had been living thus far.

  Roger was not the only one hit hard by the announcement that France and England were at war. In the elegant breakfast room of his London house, Sir Joseph stared at the newspaper that had been laid beside his plate as if it had turned into a venomous serpent.

  “What is it, my love?” Lady Margaret cried.

  “France and England are at war.”

  “Oh no! But I thought there was not to be a declaration of war. I thought—”

  “We have not declared war, Sir Joseph interrupted. “France has.”

  “Those madmen!” Lady Margaret exclaimed. “Was it not sufficient to cut off their poor king’s head? It may not have been much of a head, but he was certainly not guilty of anything beyond stupidity, and that has never yet been a capital offense.”

  “Perhaps it should be for kings,” Sir Joseph remarked bitterly. “Louis’ innocent stupidity has already cost the lives of many better men than he, and now thousands will die.”

  “But why did they declare war?”

  “Because they oppose tyranny. They will free all mankind, whether they want to be free or not, from the yoke of the tyrants.”

  Lady Margaret had very pretty, well-set blue eyes. They opened so wide in amazement at that response that one might have feared they would fall out. “Tyrants? Old George? Prinny? Oh, I would laugh myself sick if I weren’t so worried about Roger. How will he get home, Joseph? Oh, dear! I shouldn’t be adding to your worry, my love.”

  “Roger will manage, if any man can, but I won’t pretend to you that it will be easy, especially burdened with Henry’s child.”

  “A child? Is she a child? I thought—”

  A wintry smile curved Sir Joseph�
��s lips. “They are all children to me, Margaret, but actually she must be a young woman. However, all those ‘gently reared’ French girls are beautiful nincompoops I only hope she does not betray them both by some stupidity—desiring service or acting the ‘lady’ at the wrong moment.”

  He thought back on the three letters he had received from Roger, searching his memory for a hint of whether Henry’s daughter was likely to be the death of his son. The first letter had come, in devious ways, to cheap alehouse near Kingsdown, which Sir Joseph strongly suspected was a smuggler’s den, and from there by a groom who had ridden over to Stonar Magna. All that letter had said was that Henry’s wife and son were dead and Roger had arranged to get Henry and his daughter out of prison. Roger had not said how, and Sir Joseph had assumed bribery. Now he wondered, because somehow Henry was gone and Sir Joseph could not believe that the man would abandon his daughter voluntarily.

  The second letter had said even less than the first, but the clerk who had delivered it provided more information. It appeared that Roger and “mademoiselle” were well, but trapped in Paris. They were safe and unsuspected, but because Roger’s business was nécessaire he could not obtain a passport to leave. Sir Joseph had raised his brows at that. What business? Ah, naturally that was not Monsieur St. Eyre’s normal profession. He was a gunsmith. Sir Joseph thought that funny? But he was a very good gunsmith, and Sir Joseph was not to be concerned, the clerk assured him. Maître Fouché would watch over Roger’s safety.

  The third letter had been no more explicit, except for saying that Roger “intended” to remain in Paris for some time to come and that Sir Joseph should not expect him at any time soon. Sir Joseph realized, of course, that Roger’s “intention” was far more a matter of necessity than volition, and the phrasing was chosen equally to spare his father worry and to deceive anyone who might open the letter. If it had served the second purpose, it had certainly not served the first. Sir Joseph had been inquiring about the situation in France and what he had heard appalled him. He did not blame himself for allowing Roger to deceive him or allowing his son to go. Even if he should have known better than to believe Roger’s glib explanations, there was nothing he could have done to prevent him from sticking his neck out. Nonetheless, he was worried.