Authors: Vanessa Royall
Hugo and Sebastian, in contrast to their passengers, were in fine spirits. Their heads were high, their chests puffed with pride at the great success of the people. In the new manner of the day, they addressed each other and everyone else as “citizen.” There was to be no more rank, no more titles in this new France.
“Let me help you into the coach, Citizen LaRouche,” said Sebastian to Martha, and since they did not know Francesca’s name or true identity—they thought she was a servant too—Hugo addressed her now as “citizen mademoiselle” then as “citizen
cherie
.”
Even the two mounted guards who took up positions on either side of the carriage—the presence of the guards also adding to Hugo and Sebastian’s sense of self-importance—did not escape the ritual of this new order. “Citizen yeomen,” Hugo called them.
Even the king, riding three coaches ahead of Selena in this fateful procession, was being called “Citizen Capet.” As the horses and carriages at last began to move toward Paris, a hoarse, rowdy cry arose from the ugly, triumphant mob: “We have the baker and the baker’s wife and the little cook-boy. Now we shall have bread!”
Martha slunk down in her seat; Francesca stared gloomily out at the trudging mob, her hand in Selena’s. But Selena herself could not see enough of the spectacle. All along the roadway, in the ditches and the fields and the villages through which the procession rolled, she saw overwhelming evidence that things were no longer as they had been just yesterday. There was no respectful lifting of hats on the part of the peasants, no calls of greeting, but only jeers and obscene gestures as the royal coach passed by. In spite of all he had done, by omission or commission, to bring this fate upon himself, Selena could not help but feel a certain pity for Louis XVI. When history itself turns against one, there is no refuge. She thought of what it must have been like to have been the last of the knights, the Middle Ages gone, feudalism dying,
chivalry dead. In the new age, a knight would have been as out of place as a toad on a dinner table. She thought of this last knight riding into a village somewhere, his armor glistening, his sword and lance polished to a luster, only to be made fun of by the townspeople and called a fool by louts on the village green.
Even the evil have hearts that are capable of breaking, and Louis XVI was not an evil man. His fault—and she had a feeling it would cost him his head—was that he was ineffectual and indecisive in a time when the Bourbon dynasty demanded a leader capable of reading conditions and changing to meet them.
That huge carriage in which he rode
was
rather toadlike in the midst of this sea of jeering people.
“We have the baker and the baker’s wife…”
“It is the end of the world,” said Francesca again. “I shall never see my William in this life.”
“Hush,” replied Selena, passing on the advice that had sustained her in so many a dark hour: “The sky begins here. You are never defeated unless you believe it.”
“What if the mob has invaded my home?” fretted Martha. “All things are possible now.”
Presently, Selena grew warm in the coach and removed her greatcoat, laying it on the seat beside her. It was only twelve miles to Paris, but progress was slow because of the milling throng, which would grow enormously once they reached the city. She leaned out the window and saw that the royal vehicle was reasonably well-protected. Lafayette rode beside it on one side, and Royce on the other.
Royce Campbell, guarding a tyrant! Selena had never dreamed that she would witness such a thing. Well, it was his life, wasn’t it? If he had changed so greatly that he would do such a thing—or rather, if he had not changed at all—so be it.
No
, she decided, in the next moment,
I can’t accept that, I just can’t
.
He turned then, swiveling in the saddle, and saw her watching him. Before she could withdraw back inside the coach, he had slowed his horse and was dropping back. When his horse came abreast of Selena’s carriage, he gave her a friendly, if casual, smile of greeting. It was as if they had never meant anything to each other at all!
“Selena,” he said, peering into the coach at Francesca and Martha Marguerite, “I presume you’re safe?”
“That I am,” she replied. She wanted at least to thank him for the piece of plaid he’d left on her pillow, but the presence of the other two women made her cautious. As it was, both Francesca and Madame LaRouche were staring admiringly at Royce. He looked just as splendid as always—perhaps more so in a white uniform and a blue jacket, with a white-plumed hat to which he had affixed, hypocritically, the cockade—and he seemed not to have aged a day since she’d last seen him in New York.
“When we reach the Tuileries,” he told her, “leave your coach and come with me.”
Beside her, Selena felt the princess grow tense.
“She is to remain with me,” Francesca told Royce. “It is all planned.”
“Your Highness,” said Royce, civilly but emphatically, “the mademoiselle and I have much to discuss.”
Selena was somewhat astonished that Royce knew Francesca—the girl had spoken to him quite objectively, superior to subordinate—but no doubt his position in the royal entourage made him privy to a lot of things.
“I
would
appreciate the opportunity to speak with you, sir,” she replied coldly, “but not today.”
He laughed. “Come now, Selena. I feel that you may be confused about certain things.”
“Perhaps I am. But my friend has asked that I remain with her during this unpleasantness, and I have agreed.”
“Who is that?” whispered Martha Marguerite suspiciously.
“I know what is troubling you, Selena,” said Royce then, in his direct way, his eyes locked on hers. “You feel that I am on the, well, the wrong side of things, don’t you?”
“That, sir, is your affair.”
“Sir?
Sir?
Are matters that bad between us?”
After thinking and worrying about him all night, after those suspicions about him which had begun when she’d found the pouch of jewels in the cabinet in their New York hideaway, Selena could not restrain herself. Neither Francesca’s nor Martha’s presence was sufficient to stop her tongue. “Once,” she declared, “you seemed to have a place in your heart for the downtrodden and suffering of the world—”
“I did—” he started to interrupt.
“—but that is gone now, I can see full well. Look at them,” she added, pointing at the dozens of poor men and women who had come near the coach to witness this exchange between lofty cavalier and fine lady. “See how they hunger! See the poor clothes they wear, even in this chill.”
Royce shrugged. “Walking will warm them,” he said.
“Hah! And they shall eat cake too.”
“It seems to me, Selena, that your current situation is not unduly bereft of comfort. A coach of your own, horsemen—”
“Who is that man?” hissed Martha Marguerite. “I say, he is rather splendid.”
Francesca may have agreed, but she did not want to lose her friend to Royce.
“Look, Selena,” said Royce, laughing again, “I think you must prove your concern by making a sacrifice for the good of the citizenry…”
Before she could stop him—before she had fully realized just what he was up to—Royce leaned down from his horse, reached in through the open window of the coach, and grabbed her greatcoat.
“Wait!” she cried, trying to snatch it back.
But he held it in the air, inspecting it. “Fine workmanship,” he declared. “It would keep a chill from the bones too.”
Then he looked around, scanning the faces of the poor who trudged alongside his horse. “Here, citizen!” he cried expansively.
And tossed the coat down to a woman marching along there!
No, it was not a woman. The recipient of this largesse was another of those men in disguise, who had fomented and executed the march upon Versailles. Selena saw his arms go up to grab the coat, caught a glimpse of an intense, captivating,
familiar
face, and saw the man move off and melt into the crowd.
Pierre Sorbante!
“Good Lord, what have you done!” Selena cried.
Royce looked perplexed. “You spoke of suffering,” he said. “You spoke of chill and hunger and the heart. Don’t you feel better for having donated something of yours to the cause of human comfort?”
Was he mocking her or not? She couldn’t be sure. Angry words came to her lips, but she called them back, smiling instead.
All
right, so be it. His
secret treasure was gone now, and good riddance. The irony, in fact, was just too good not to savor. His own ill-gotten plunder, unbeknownst to him, had gone to the unfortunate of the world after all.
“I hope you know what you’ve done,” she said, still smiling. “I look forward to telling you sometime.”
“Ah! That means you will come away with me when we reach the Tuileries.”
“No, it does not.”
“We shall see.” He touched the upswept brim of his plumed hat, touched his spurs lightly to the stallion’s flanks, and rejoined Lafayette at the royal carriage.
“Who was that?” asked Francesca and Martha Marguerite in unison.
“A man named Royce Campbell. I used to know him.”
Royce’s departure, not to mention their somewhat contentious exchange, had left a sudden, empty feeling in her breast, as if some subtle but sinister power had hollowed her out and gone away.
“Campbell?” wondered Martha Marguerite. Too late, Selena remembered that Madame LaRouche knew of the lost love, the one who was supposed to lie buried beneath the sands of La Tortue. “The same Campbell? My God, yes! He was at the ball last night!”
Selena saw in the older woman’s face, not curiosity that Royce should have turned up here in Paris very much alive, but a fear that her favorite, Jean Beaumain, Selena’s betrothed, might be betrayed.
“Is that Monsieur Campbell something special to you?” Francesca was asking.
Before Selena was able to explain, Martha spilled the beans. “It seems that they were lovers once,” she sniffed, patting the young girl’s hand, as if this portentous information must be imparted maternally. “But Selena has now promised to marry someone else.”
The princess’s eyes sparkled dramatically as she regarded Selena with new respect. “Oh, my goodness, two suitors!” she exclaimed. “How marvelous!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” replied Selena.
All Paris went wild at the arrival of the captive King. Oh, there were cogent, even plausible reasons advanced by Louis XVI to explain his return from Versailles to the Tuileries. He was, he claimed, a “part of the revolution now, at one with the people.” From now on, his minions proclaimed, he would “put the cause of the people first.” Reforms would be made. The decisions of the National Assembly would become the law of the land. Things would “get better.”
That was what the royal ministers said. In truth, the King was in desperate straits and everyone knew it, from the most eminent crowned heads of Europe to the raggedy waifs in Parisian alleys. News that Louis was a veritable prisoner in the Tuileries swept like wildfire through the courts of Europe, and conservatives of the monarchistic persuasion immediately began schemes to aid or rescue him.
When the King’s procession finally threaded through the mobs of Paris and pulled into the courtyard in front of the palace, no one believed—save, for a time, the King himself—that he might, somehow, take control of events.
Selena climbed down from her carriage, aided by Hugo. He and Sebastian were acting almost lordly now, having spent the night at one royal residence and been escorted onto the grounds of another. Princess Francesca took Selena by the hand and led her to the royal coach, from which the King, Marie Antoinette, and their children were descending. The entire scene was a human maelstrom, skittish, fretful horses, anguished functionaries, cold, dispassionate politicians, nervous guardsmen, and the howling, numberless mob outside the gates.
“Aunt Marie,” said Francesca, unceremoniously presenting Selena, “this is my friend. I want her to stay here with us.”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I couldn’t,” said Selena.
The Queen did not seem to hear either of them, but hurried into the palace with the dauphin and his sister.
Louis paid no attention to the two young women, either. With one terrified glance at the mob, some of whose members were screaming for his blood, he also hastened into the sanctuary of the Tuileries.
“What am I to do?” wailed Martha Marguerite.
“Hugo and Sebastian will take us home,” said Selena. “Francesca,
you stay here. You’ll be safe. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, I promise.”
“No—”
“Do as she says, Your Highness!”
It was Royce on horseback. He looked down at them for a moment, then leaned from his saddle and put his arm around Selena’s waist. She saw a glint of white teeth as he smiled, felt his long, strong fingers close about her ribcage. Then she was whirling in the air, coming to rest behind him on the horse.
“Where are you taking her?” Martha Marguerite demanded fearfully.
“To my apartments,” he replied, wheeling the stallion expertly in the crowded quarters. “Sixty-nine Rue St. Denis. She’ll be safe. Your Highness, I’ll have her here for you to see tomorrow. Madame LaRouche, don’t be concerned.
Martha emitted something like a wail of woe and consternation, but to no avail. Royce Campbell, with Selena on the horse with him, was gone from the courtyard, off through the gates, and free in the city of Paris.
Free too, that day, of the burden of vengeance that he had borne so long, Jean Beaumain docked the
Liberté
at Le Havre. Leaving Rafael in charge of his ship, he immediately booked passage on a riverboat up the Seine to Paris. With him he carried a heavy wooden box, but it was no weight at all. It was lighter than air. All the world was light for him this day, and filled with promise. News had it that the accursed monarchy was in its last gasps. He had a sweet journey to make, a son to see for the first time, and a woman to marry and hold, once again, in his arms.
Charging on horseback through the streets of the city, clinging to Royce, Selena rehearsed everything that she would say when they were alone. She would keep her distance. She would be cool. She would demand—no, she would ask—for explanations. Why had he concealed the jewels in New York? Why had he consorted with the smuggler, LaValle? Why had he left a false grave? Why had he reverted to his previous, ignoble behavior and beliefs? Why—?