Alaric Longward - Cantiniére Tales) Read online

  I stiffened in regret and Pierre saw this. He placed a hand on mine, a friend rather than someone you flirt with and I was happy he was there. ‘I will not ask more. Do not worry.’

  But I did, for Pierre was a carefree man, even if likeable.

  It was March 14th, 1790 when Camille came to visit, heavily disguised in a flowing cape and tall hat and brought us a letter. We watched from the dark cellblock as he walked to the central hall, waiting for us, but we refused to meet him. He walked back and forth, agitated like a locked up wild animal, his face clouded in anger and pain, and then, after much time had passed he left, leaving the letter on the desk. I looked after him from a thin sliver of a window, as he walked in the muddy yard. Andre clapped my back as he saw me eyeing the sad form of my former friend. ‘There goes a man who is in danger.’

  ‘Danger?’

  Andre made a dismissing motion. ‘He is going mad. His writings? He attacks people, he drinks more than me, and he faces lawsuits from Mirabeau and Baron Moulet. Let us hope Monsieur Danton manages his plans soon, for even Cordeliers and Jacobins look askance at Camille there. He is getting married, so hopefully he settles down. It is touch and go. It is. If Georges Danton dies?’ Andre smiled. ‘My brother Pierre told me a story. I figured out who you are. I know a boy who is looking for you, or your grave. Best hope Danton survives.’ I nodded at him, trying to shed the tendrils of terror, cursing Pierre. I faced him and smiled calmly, as bravely as I could. Disappointed, he handed me the letter Camille had left behind, scowling because he had failed to make me quake. Andre was apparently a man who enjoyed inflicting such pain. I prayed to God Pierre would not speak of us to anyone else as we learnt of Jean and Julie, both who had been severely sick, but were growing hale and stronger. Both were speaking already. We missed them so much.

  The rest of the 1790, we got used to being prisoners. There are very few things, Marie; a person cannot get used to. Regulated, relatively safe life inside a stone building with other non violent people is actually acceptable and even satisfactory way of spending one’s time, as you start to forget what life was like before. The lingering fear of Gilbert and his machinations was always on my mind, but I endured it day in, day out, and concentrated on books and chess. We sat in the cluttered courtyard that fine summer, having been given more hours to do so, competing for the few sunny spots on the yard in the midday, enjoying skillful birdsong echoing down from the old towers. Mother and Robert seemed happy, though in love? I doubt it. They were just living life, with what they had.

  From the papers, we looked on as Georges played a dangerous game with the regime. She sighed and leaned back after having read the latest developments in the battlefield called Paris. ‘If Georges fails, we will die,’ she said.

  ‘We should, perhaps, think about escape? Does Robert know anyone important?’ I asked her, though I had an idea, one she would not enjoy.

  ‘No, he is old, widower, out of favor,’ she told me, smiling at the older man who was walking back and forth in the sun, not far.

  ‘Did you dislike Camille, mother,’ I asked, carefully. Her eyes flashed my way. I cleared my throat. ‘Georges said he does not trust him. For you. If you were to make his some kind of a commitment, he might spring to our rescue like a proper hero. It would be as elegant as a drunken cow running, I doubt it not, but he would help. I…’

  ‘Uhum,’ she said, putting the paper down. ‘If we are to escape, love, it is not through him. He is too weak to trust, and I am not a whore anymore, dear. It is up to you, if you will speak with Camille, and lie to him,’ she said sternly, ‘but I will not let him near me, not that way.’ I brooded and prayed Georges would succeed, and set us free.

  Months flew by and we lived our lives in a strange world, cut off from the reality. We were not exactly lonely, yet somehow detached. Christmas came again; we celebrated with many new faces. I danced with the sturdy and honorable nobles, and then with happy Pierre, whom I had forgiven his loose tongue. He was blushing as the inmates edged him on, and I kissed Pierre lightly in the lips as a reward for his bravery and the mockery he had to endure. It was, in truth, a friendly kiss, yet Agnés saw it, and I was young and foolish in these matters.

  When Camille came to visit in January 1791, I met him.

  His eyes were surprised as he entered, not expecting to see me in the dark hall. Andre grunted in amusement as Camille stammered a bit, but Camille had found his voice. ‘Get out,’ he said, forcefully. Andre nodded, angrily, but went away, bashing the door closed and yelled at Mathilde who was down the stairs in the kitchen. Camille and I looked at each other. He was pallid, fey, his eyes were red. There was a devilish look on his face, but some of the old Camille came out as he cleared his throat. There was a sword and a pistol on his belt, and I smiled at the thought of him having to use them. He was visibly relieved by my smile and tore at his neckerchief. ‘By God, you have grown. Have you forgiven me? I honestly did not know Georges had decided to kill you. He did not tell me. For good reason.’ His eyes flickered to the door, and he was hoping Henriette would come meet him, and I saw he was also terrified that she should.

  I shook my head and his hands shook as he sat down heavily. ‘I do not know, Camille, what to think. What are Georges and Gilbert doing?’

  He grabbed a bottle of white wine from some mysterious hide in his coat, nervous, as if struggling with the great decision of his life. ‘Georges is consumed by acute fear and then filled with mad bravery. He is driven and feverish, having forgotten all the other joys in life than power. Gilbert is of great use to him, gathering fanciful smear on the people in charge, and shit on those who might one day be great. Your cousin is everywhere. The Revenant is famous in the shadows of power, the dead one serving Georges Danton. Gilbert has told terrible stories of your death, the revenge he took on you, and many fear him. He has some of Georges’ sans-culottes, the trash of Paris on his heels as servants. As for the cause? Whole France listens to us, more former nobles are fleeing. We hope to force the fucking king to make final mistakes. We have plans. Ungodly plans, as you likely know. Mirabeau is still stubbornly on the way and we will not make a martyr of him. Will be hard. But we have a plan. It needs our highest people to approve of it. They will, but Georges is afraid. Men will take risks, Jeanette, and hang if we are found out. Damned contract.’ He drank deeply, drunk and talking too much and sat there, brooding. ‘I am married to Lucile. Georges told me it would be wise, and she has forgiven me, though…’

  ‘I know. Congratulations,’ I told him woodenly, as I thought about his words. All their plans depended on Mirabeau dying, and dying of apparently natural causes. And Gilbert was involved. How could my cousin achieve something like that, I wondered, but shook myself out of my thoughts. I put my hand on his and squeezed it. ‘Georges would encourage you to marry, no doubt, having no strange motives but your happiness,’ I added, and saw he understood the irony, despite being drunk.

  ‘Lucile is a good woman, he is right in that,’ he mumbled angrily.

  ‘Georges thinks he might one day continue from where he left off,’ I hissed, ‘and woo mother again. Or perhaps he just does not want to see any man succeeding where he failed.’ I cursed myself for manipulating the paranoid man in front of me, despite what Henriette had told me.

  His foolish eyes betrayed anger and then uncanny hope. ‘With the church gone, people are marrying and divorcing as they will. I have coin, Jeanette. I have power. But I lack one thing, the most important one. I might leave all this behind for her. I could arrange for us all to flee.’

  There it was, our chance. I did not even have to suggest it. I opened my rotten mouth, but then thought of mother, and all she had gone through and her stern words. I had asked her not to whore for us. Could I ask her to do so now? She was happy with Robert, a prisoner, yes, in danger, certainly, but happy.

  ‘Jeanette?’ he asked me with dread, seeing the struggle.

  ‘No.’ I took a ragged breath. ‘Mother loved Georges, Camille,’ I said, th
rusting away the insistent thoughts of using Camille to escape. ‘Georges loved money.’ He sat there as if stricken. ‘She does not think of you like that. I am sorry,’ I added.

  He took a deep breath, as a man whose last chance to change his life had passed. ‘It is a sickness, Jeanette. This thing in my head. I will have to endure it. Nothing matters. I will give this shit of life all I have, and be smeared in it. I will pray for you then, for Gilbert is now a powerful boy. He knows secrets about my friend Georges, about others too. Clever, arrogant little rat. He is close to my friend Maximillien as well, especially to Augustin Robespierre. Your cousin is no Desmoulins though. While he is feared he can never be known and celebrated, not like I am.’ He looked smug as he leaned on me, whispering. ‘I saw Gilbert write a pamphlet of fiery propaganda, aimed at the king and others in power, things I know Maximillien thinks about. It is even viler stuff than I cough up, but he has his scribe hold the things he writes, and hide them. No balls to go public, for he has no talent for poetry, only violence and shit and shadows.’ He took a long swig of the bottle and cursed, as it was empty.

  I smiled at him while taking hold of the bottle. ‘Gilbert has a scribe?’

  He smiled at that, snapping out of his misery. ‘Oh, yes. He needs someone to keep his records in order.’ He hesitated and it was my turn to dread his words. ‘I dare not bring more letters to you, but will keep them safe for you, when you get out.’

  ‘Why? Why not bring…’

  He shrugged, apologetically. ‘I hoped to spring you from here and this would not have mattered then. But I must tell you now. Gilbert has changed. Something has changed, at least. There is a rumor that someone has been mocking him for having let his bane live on, and that bane was his female cousin. Have you spoken to someone? You were supposed to be dead.’

  I forced a stern face, shook my head in denial and cried inside for Pierre’s loose lips. Gilbert suspected we were alive, and he would be tormented and fey, unable to rest until he found the source of the stories.

  Camille looked deeply suspicious, but nodded sagely. ‘Very well then. As you see, I think he is going to be single-minded in his drive to find you, and as he searches for clues, I doubt I am stealthy and clever enough to avoid his spies. He has been trying to get to Georges and the supposed letters my friend holds, but now, he might start to look at others as well. I regret coming, but it was nice to see you, lovely one. We will see when times are calmer and hopefully, I am still alive then. If I am not, then you will also die a nasty death, and we shall meet in whatever place is reserved for fools.’ He got up, and left, and I felt sorry for him and for us. I nearly called him back, and sold mother to him, but kept my mouth shut after a mighty struggle.

  God paid me back unkindly for my scheming and the day after he left I bled for the first time. I will never understand, Marie, why women have to endure that, though, thankfully, I no longer have to, where you will soon start your long punishment and blessing. I hope that your mother explains it before it happens, like mine did.

  Life went on. We read papers, bored with the struggle going on outside. Mirabeau was the man ever holding the coming revolution at check, keeping the king barely co-operating, and the queen silent and barely in check.

  Then, Mirabeau died.

  Mother and I looked at each other and wondered what would follow. They had succeeded, but would it bring them power? Georges might rise so high, we would be freed. They might hang. Anything was possible in mad France. Later, we both wagered it would soon be the turn of Lafayette, the commander of the National Guard to be on the focus of the Cordeliers. The poor man was fabulously rich, insufferably noble, and eminently affluent, but stood no chance to keep Mirabeau’s great work going since he was also dull as a headless hammer. His command of National Guard was tenuous, at best, and he was easy to confuse and irritate. He ran for high office but lost the elections for the Paris mayor ship. He was no man to replace Mirabeau, and the royals knew it, dreading for their lives.

  It was at this time that Robert started to show me how to fence. One morning, I had savagely and furiously used a stick to execute fine mock attacks and kindly Robert had sat with amused Henriette, gazing at my display favorably. He stopped me, and showed me how to hold the rod. ‘Aids, the last three fingers, so. Gently, not too gently. Balestra, hop forward, then feint, and perhaps a fleche!’ He took the stick as we stood back to watch him. He was fast for an older man, practiced from boyhood, and when he stopped, we were speechless. ‘Did you see? You try now.’

  Henriette walked to him and kissed him gently. ‘Robert, she was trying to kill a fly.’

  Nonetheless, he offered to show me the secrets to fencing and I agreed though it was far from what I thought I would love, but soon, I discovered the world of challenge and deceit. Fencing was a game of wits, speed and will to win, not unlike chess, and Robert and I found endless hours of enjoyment from it. In fact, we spent day’s food allowance and procured mediocre wooden swords, which would not break, like the rods did. I would tire quickly at first, and learn slowly, but as days and weeks passed, I was much stronger and faster, gathering fewer bruises though I could never hit Robert. It was like when I had played with Florian and Gilbert, but this time, I was getting fluent with the movements, not beaten by two awkward boys.

  News reached us. When Mirabeau was buried in pompous splendor in the Pantheon, the deceitful royal family made a shoddy run for it on 20th of June 1791. Pierre told us about it and while I hated him for spilling my story to Gilbert and pretty much anyone who would listen, it was an exciting story. The royals, unused to travelling incognito amongst the commoners stuck to the eye like a pink thief on a market day. They were caught in Varennes, and brought back to Paris in shame, through the silent and resentful lines of people they had claimed to support in the change of monarchy. Time was ripe, for the people were not harboring any more illusions about their king, hated the arrogant queen, and the threat of terrible war was looming heavily over France. Many a nation, Prussia, Austria where Marie Antoinette came from, were increasingly worried over the fate of the hapless French monarchs, and ultimately their own future. French revolution was not an import they would have on their lands. The Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold II, especially, demanded other monarchs to come to Louis XVI’s aid. The foolish National Assembly, fearing a coup, declared the king inviolable, but it did not help his cause what happened in Champs de Mars.

  Pierre told us that Georges, after Mirabeau died, had been clamoring for trouble. He needed it and he smelled success. It was so close, so close he could feel it, taste the advancement in life. One foe remained, Lafayette. Pierre, shaking his head told how Danton, amongst others, wanted to put forward a petition to the confused National Assembly, one that would depose of the king, one that would be endorsed and publicly signed by all men and women willing to do so, and there were many. Brave Danton and fanatic Camille, with the Cordeliers, and the more radical parts of the Jacobins hoped it would be refused bloodily and what would follow would be like Bastille. People would listen, demand a change.

  They went forward with these plans. In order to make the crowd even angrier, Georges sent Lafayette a personal letter, Pierre told us, as if he had been there. Rumor or not, it was said Georges insulted Lafayette rudely, and the old proud and dull war hero detested Danton, to his core. When the crowds, rioting their hearts out, loud and dangerous came to sign the petition, Danton saw the National Guard arrayed there in serried ranks. Georges had paid some braver men and some desperate women to pelt the guards with sharp stones, and what followed, was an epic massacre.

  At first, some shots were fired over people’s heads, resulting in people screaming murder, then, more, more and more shots to calm what would be impossible to calm, until the guardsmen, wild with fury and shivering with fear killed some hundred civilians at Champs de Mars, and after that Lafayette was a thing of slime in everyone’s eyes, something that was barely tolerated, no matter his denial of responsibility.

  By the
end of the year, Frederic William II and Leopold II had issued a declaration that was a final, heavy warning to France. King must stay sacred. On September, the king signed the constitution. National Constitutional Assembly was done, and Legislative Assembly convened. They condemned the émigrés, the self-exiled nobles, ordering them to return. The king, much bolder by the support from the outside, vetoed the ruling. He signed his death warrant at the same time, and Georges used money to buy more and more favor and created more and more chaos.

  While these great events were taking place, I was calmly reading with Adéle, who was getting even thinner and at times, very ill. I fenced, mother made gentle love to Robert, we waited and celebrated Christmas again, unable to comprehend another year had passed. Fear changes your outlook on time, Marie. I was suddenly a woman.

  CHAPTER 9

  Year 1792 began with usual hunger, terrible illness and very real threat of war in France, and now, hunger and illness caught up to us in the prison as well. Our number had doubled in few haphazard weeks, people were held on other levels as well as ours, and men were frantically building new cells. Adéle fell ill with lung disease, and I spent my meager rations of food to make her better, daubing rags in water, wiping bloody froth from her dry lips. Mother helped me.

  Then, one day, Pierre did not show up to duty.

  His brother looked grim, worried and did not speak much, and did his duties haphazardly. In a week, we all noticed Andre would sit silently still in the great central room, looking out of the small window, sometimes gazing at us, then at his wife. ‘Where is Pierre?’ I tried to ask him, but he did not answer, having a sort of a far away look in his eyes, and I cried for I Pierre was likely dead, having succumbed to some of the many diseases of Paris and part of me dreaded Gilbert had found his source of rumors. Something was happening with Andre, though, for Mathilde and Agnés would whisper to him, and Pierre’s widow would gaze at us shrewdly and nod and I thought this was Gilbert’s doing and my piece of mind was gone. I thought back on the threats Gilbert had made and the ones against the siblings were haunting me and I prayed for a change that would be favorable for us.