Henri and Amelie exchanged long-suffering glances as they remounted their scruffy-looking nags. Claudette stifled a giggle.
‘I suppose I should be grateful that Tilly did not insist on disguising me as a milkmaid,’ joked Henri, straightening his cap.
Tilly laughed aloud at the ludicrous idea of Henri in a dress and mobcap.
Mimi sniffed at Amelie’s new dress and refused to sit in her lap, preferring to cuddle up with familiar-smelling Claudette.
‘Even Mimi does not know me,’ moaned Amelie, trying to smooth her coarse, brown skirt.
‘Do you think the Chevalier would be quite so keen to marry you now, Aimée?’ teased Henri.
‘That is the only advantage to this ridiculous situation,’ she huffed, digging her satin heels into Angelique’s side.
‘Oh, stop complaining, Amelie,’ called Tilly with a giggle. ‘I think brown suits you.’
Amelie snorted in a very unladylike way.
At last, in the early evening, they came to the Barriére d’Enfer, one of the gateways through the city wall into Paris, built not for protection but to collect royal taxes on the food brought into the starving city.
Groups of farmers and tradespeople were queuing to leave the city for their homes in the countryside, wheeling empty barrows and carrying tools. Many of them wore a cockade of blue, white and red ribbon attached to their hats or clothes to symbolise their loyalty to the Revolution.
A squad of guards carrying muskets questioned the people coming and going. The guards looked nervous as many of the tollhouses and city barriers had been attacked and destroyed during the preceding days by workers infuriated by the high taxes on food that made it even more difficult to feed their hungry families.
The incoming travellers had to wait as the outgoing groups were checked. Tilly saw an old woman with blackened teeth selling a basket of tricolour cockades. Tilly begged a coin from Amelie and bought four of the ribbons, which she gave to each of them to wear on their hats.
Amelie looked pale and frightened as they waited their turn to be questioned by the guards. Tilly’s heart began to thump furiously. Mimi was swaddled in a blanket to hide her monkey identity, and Amelie carried her on her lap like a baby. Tilly just hoped Mimi wouldn’t chitter or scream and give herself away.
Would they make it into the city? Would they be revealed as aristocrats?
The wait seemed interminable. At last they were ushered forward. The guard glanced over the four travel-stained passengers in their simple clothes, the swaddled ‘baby’, the large wolfhound and the three bedraggled horses.
‘What’s your business in the city?’ asked the guard, his eyes flittering suspiciously over the group, checking their rough clothes and tricolour cockades.
‘Monseigneur le Comte missed his favourite dog,’ replied Henri gruffly, shrugging his shoulders and jerking his eyebrows towards Juju. Henri’s voice was almost unrecognisable with its rougher accent. ‘Apparently the Parisian servants can’t wash either, so I had to bring three laundresses from his country estate.’
The guard guffawed. ‘The maids don’t look strong enough to be laundresses, especially the one with the baby.’
Amelie smiled weakly, clutching Mimi tightly.
‘You’re right,’ agreed Henri with a wink. ‘She’s been sick with a fever, but who’d argue with the idiotic fool of a Comte?’
The guard spat in the dust, showing his contempt for an extravagant aristocrat who wasn’t happy with the local laundry and who would send a manservant on a long ride to fetch a dog.
Henri copied the guard, spitting in the dust.
‘Cursed
aristos,’
swore Henri, pulling a contemptuous face.
‘I’ll have you know we’re the best laundresses in the south-west,’ boasted Claudette indignantly in a rough country patois. ‘It’s all in the soap. We ’ave an old recipe taught to me by my
grand-mère.
The Comte likes the lavender perfume in my soap, ’e does.’
Henri rolled his eyes at the guard, who waved them on impatiently.
‘Oui, oui,
I don’t have all day, you know,’ the guard insisted. ‘Move on, hurry up.’
Tilly heaved a sigh of relief. She realised she must have been holding her breath for many long, slow minutes. She flashed a smile of relief at the others as they clattered through the gate into the sultry, smelly city of Paris.
Tilly glanced around her in excitement. It was nothing like what she had expected. The streets were filthy. Channels of sewage flowed down the centre of the cobbled streets. Children picked through the garbage, searching for food scraps or items that could be sold.
Tradesmen roamed the streets with pinched, hungry faces and eyes filled with rage. A group of ragged women surged towards the three on horseback, begging and demanding insistently. Juju growled and lunged, snapping at the market women – but never biting.
‘Bread. Bread,’ the women begged, holding out their hands piteously.
A loud clattering sounded as carriage wheels rolled over the cobblestones, heading south with the jingling of harnesses. A fine carriage rounded the corner. A postillion rode on the front-left horse, dressed in smart crimson livery. The driver cracked his whip, urging the horses on. Chests and portmanteaus were strapped to the roof. Two grooms stood on the back, clinging onto the carriage for dear life.
The driver urged the carriage straight towards the four riders and the jostling women. Henri, Tilly, Claudette and Amelie had to scatter before they were mown down. The children in the gutter jumped to the side of the road, one very nearly run over by the high wheels of the carriage.
Tilly had a glimpse of a gold coat of arms on the door, blue velvet hangings inside and a lady with a huge feathered hat.
‘Watch out, you imbeciles!’ shouted Henri angrily. ‘You nearly killed us!’
The only answer from the carriage was a casual flick from the driver’s whip, cutting Henri’s shoulder and causing him to yelp with pain. The carriage continued careering on its way.
‘Bloodsucking
aristos,’
cursed the group of tradesmen, punching their fists after the coach. ‘Down with the
aristos.
Long live France.’
What happened next was a complete shock. A market stallholder knocked his pile of boxes and wares into the street in front of the racing carriage. The horses shied, rearing and prancing, nearly overturning the heavy vehicle. The boxes formed a barricade, completely blocking the narrow laneway.
A mob of Parisians sprung, as though from the very cobblestones, waving pikes and clubs. The begging women and gutter children swelled the crowd. They surrounded the carriage, dragging at the liveried staff and feather-crested horses.
Several scrambled onto the roof and began unknotting the boxes and chests, throwing them down to the clamouring mob below. The chests were torn open and the contents shared around: silk skirts, feathered hats, jewelled fans, lace fichus, ruffled petticoats, satin shoes. Men and women danced around the carriage like savages draped in the spoils of war.
The occupants of the carriage protested haughtily, demanding the return of their staff and belongings.
‘Unhand me at once, you scoundrels,’ insisted the arrogant voice of the gentleman. He drew his sword and cane, and attacked those closest to him, drawing howls and blood. The mob retaliated by hauling the gentleman and his companion out into the road. A sharp-edged knife, two sudden slices, a gurgling gasp, and it was all over. Two blood-soaked bodies slumped lifeless on the roadway.
The feathered hat tumbled into the mud and was picked up by a delighted child, who cavorted about, proudly wearing her new possession.
‘Down with the
aristos,’
roared the crowd. ‘Long live the Revolution.’
Henri started forward in horror. Amelie gasped. Claudette screamed.
‘It’s too late, Henri,’ urged Tilly, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘They’re dead. Let’s go before they realise you two are aristocrats as well.’
Claudette’s scream alerted some of the mob to the three horses and their riders. They surged forward in a mass, waving fists and knives and homemade clubs. Henri kicked Abelard into a canter.
‘Come on,’ he shouted. Tilly and Amelie used their crops and heels to leap into a life-saving gallop over the slippery cobbles. They cantered on through the darkness, down narrow, twisting streets, hemmed in above by the overhanging buildings.
The stench of the Parisian streets was overpowering– wafts of rotten vegetation, sewage, manure, putrid garbage, decaying flesh.
They turned into a larger square, flanked by tall buildings. The horses shied as they cantered into the deserted plaza. Juju whined and sniffed the air. There was a sudden movement from the shadows and two men scuttled away out of sight, carrying mysterious bundles.
A smashed pearl-grey carriage lay on its side, the leather traces cut. There was no sign of the horses that had pulled it. Detritus lay on the ground: broken glass, a smashed lantern, feathers from a torn cushion, a white wig, horse manure, splinters of pearly paintwork.
Beside the wreck, a man’s body lay crumpled in a pool of blood, his purple livery torn and stained. Both shoes were missing.
A noise creaked eerily in the evening breeze. Tilly looked up and screamed.
There, hanging from the lampposts, were three bodies. Tilly could tell from their pallid skin that they were aristocrats, their hair curled and coiffed and their faces – both male and female – painted with makeup. Their fine silks and satin shoes were gone, as were their stockings and stays. They were dressed simply in pale lawn chemises, like nightgowns, gleaming ghostly white in the lamplight.
Henri grabbed Mystique’s and Angelique’s reins and led the horses out of the square. Tilly eventually stopped screaming and sobbed instead, doubled over the pommel of her saddle. She had never imagined death would be so vivid, so shocking, so violent.
Tilly’s tears fell onto Mystique’s pale-grey neck. She clung there, gradually calmed by the horse’s warm skin, the comforting smell of her sweat and the gentle rhythm of her walk.
They headed north into the centre of the city. The streets grew wider, the buildings more elegant. The sinuous, brown River Seine wended its way before them, shimmering in the darkness. Henri led them to a stone bridge that arched across the river.
Gas lanterns glowed from the lampposts. They passed the golden facades of palaces and mansions, dark gardens and parks and open boulevards. Small knots of people pressed into the shadows, watching their passage suspiciously.
‘Over there is the Palace of the Tuilleries,’ whispered Henri. ‘To the left are the Petit Palais and the Grand Palais.’
Tilly merely nodded, her bones aching with weariness, her mind and heart shocked by the scenes of violence and brutality she had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours. Amelie was swaying in her saddle with exhaustion, Claudette supporting her. Even Mimi was limp.
‘Courage,
mes amies.
We are nearly home,’ Henri encouraged. ‘Hot baths, clean clothes, a delicious supper and bed.’
The horses sensed the surge of hope and quickened their step, lifting their feet and arching their necks proudly.
At last they trotted up a wide avenue lined with plane trees and tall, stone mansions. The street lanterns had not been lit. Most of the mansions had their shutters closed and gates bolted.
Henri halted at the arched double doors of one grand townhouse and knocked loudly. There was no response.
Henri huffed in annoyance and rapped again more vehemently. Again, nothing.
‘Open up, in the name of Le Comte de Montjoyeuse,’ ordered Henri curtly.
There was a slight creak above them and a shutter opened a crack, spilling out a ray of candlelight.
‘Mon Dieu,’
hissed Henri. ‘Will you have us out here all night?’
The shutter slammed shut. In a moment there was a clatter on the other side of the double doors, one door opening a fraction. A footman stood there, peeking through the opening. He had no wig and no livery, and his face was pale and frightened.
‘Pardon,
monseigneur,’ apologised the footman, holding the door tightly. ‘We didn’t expect you, and the streets of Paris aren’t safe.’
‘Well, let us in,’ ordered Henri. ‘Do not stand there like a blabbering fool.
Ma cousine
is exhausted. We need hot baths, supper and beds. And see to the horses – they have travelled far today.’
The footman glanced behind him, looking for reassurance. Juju pushed her nose into the gap, as though to force it open for her master.
‘Oui,
monseigneur,’ replied the footman, opening the door and hurrying down to take the horses’ reins.
Claudette eased down from behind Amelie and carefully helped her mistress dismount before unstrapping the luggage.
Tilly patted Mystique gently on the neck to thank her for her efforts and slid down to the ground. She leant on Mystique for a moment to gain her strength, breathing in the earthy smell and stroking her velvety nose. Mystique hurrumphed sweet hay-breath into her face.
‘Are you all right, Tilly?’ asked Henri. ‘Do you need help?’
Tilly straightened her back and smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine.’
Carrying her blanket bundle, she staggered up the steps after Amelie and Claudette. Henri limped behind, followed by the ever-faithful Juju.
Jacques, the Comte’s valet, stepped forward to usher them into the spacious hall, bowing gracefully. He, too, was not wearing his wig or livery. Without his customary attire, he looked completely different – his greying hair cropped very short and his own clothes practical and plain. Jacques looked grave as he opened the door into the drawing room.
‘Merci,
Jacques,’ Amelie greeted him with a smile. ‘It is so good to be here.’
‘Oui,
mademoiselle,’ replied Jacques, his face impassive as ever. ‘I’m glad you have found your way here safely. The streets are very
dangereuse.’
‘So good of you to welcome us,’ snapped Henri. ‘The streets of Paris are indeed
dangereuse,
but not as
dangereuse
as my own chateau. Did you and the servants not think to help us last night? We were very nearly killed.’
Jacques flinched. ‘My apologies, monseigneur. Perhaps we were cowardly, but the mob was so violent that we feared for our lives. I didn’t think the villagers would dare murder their beloved Comte, but a lowly valet would have little chance!’
Henri nodded stiffly and strode into the drawing room.
Amelie dropped her riding crop on the side table, took off her headscarf and sank onto a blue-and-cream-striped satin couch, stretching her sore muscles. Juju flopped onto the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, her head on her paws. Henri glanced around the drawing room, puzzled. Something was not quite right.
‘Tea or coffee, monseigneur?’ enquired Jacques politely.
‘Hot
chocolat
would be divine,’ responded Amelie quickly. ‘And some food! I am famished.’
‘Hot chocolate would be wonderful,’ agreed Tilly.
Henri nodded absent-mindedly. Jacques stepped away.
‘Jacques, where are the gilt clocks and the silver from the mantelpiece?’ asked Henri. ‘And the armchair that usually stands by the fireplace?’
Jacques glanced at the empty mantelpiece and frowned. ‘Mobs of peasants have been roaming the streets of Paris, monseigneur, breaking into houses, robbing and murdering,’ he replied. ‘The house next door was raided only yesterday. We thought it best if we moved some of the valuables upstairs.’
‘Merci beaucoup,’
Henri said. ‘But the servants are not wearing their livery?’
Jacques looked down at his everyday wear of trousers, shirt, cravat and jacket and shrugged. ‘The rabble call themselves
“sans-culottes”,
monseigneur. Those without breeches. Anyone who wears breeches is considered an aristocrat, and many have been massacred. Even servants are not safe, so we thought it prudent to put away our livery. Just as you yourself choose to travel in peasants’ clothes.’
‘Oui,
of course,’ replied Henri with a flush, glancing down at his filthy workman’s outfit. ‘So the riots have been violent in Paris?’
‘We only arrived here from the chateau ourselves a few hours ago, monseigneur,’ explained Jacques. ‘But we heard there’s no bread for the commoners. Since the peasants in the country have risen up, they’ve not sent food to Paris. July is always the worst month for famine, just before the next harvest, and this year is the worst in memory. Wagons and barges carrying grain into the city from the north have been attacked and bakeries ransacked. Yet still they starve.’
Tilly winced, remembering the hungry faces of the workers as they entered Paris, and the emaciated country family who claimed to eat grass and husks.
‘The poor believe the aristocrats are deliberately withholding flour, while they feast,’ Jacques continued, his voice rising slightly, his usually pallid cheeks flushed. ‘Did you know that the cost of bread has more than tripled this year? A working man must spend most of his income just to buy
bread.
Children are dropping dead in the gutters of Paris.’
Jacques stopped suddenly, collecting himself. He bowed stiffly. ‘Monseigneur, I’ll fetch hot
chocolat
at once,’ Jacques said, moving softly to the door.
Claudette picked up Amelie’s portmanteau and Tilly’s blanket bundle.
‘I’ll set up your rooms, mademoiselle,’ offered Claudette.
‘Merci,
Jacques,’ replied Amelie.
‘Merci,
Claudette.’
Claudette glanced back and smiled around at the three. She didn’t curtsey as she would have in the old days. Tilly thought she walked differently too – taller and more confidently. She was no longer invisible.
Henri limped over to another sofa.
‘How is your leg, Henri?’ asked Tilly anxiously. ‘It looks as though it has been bleeding again?’
‘It is fine,’ insisted Henri, grimacing despite himself.
‘Look at us,’ cried Amelie in disgust, pouting as she caught sight of the three of them in the huge, ornately carved gilt mirror over the mantelpiece. They all moved to look in the mirror, framed together like a portrait.
In the middle stood Henri – his dark hair hanging loose and wavy below his shoulders, his grubby trousers bloodstained and frayed, his pale face scabbed and scarred. On his left was Amelie in her shabby, brown dress, her black hair tangled. Mimi lay cuddled in her arms, in a gold rag. The picture was completed by Tilly to his right in pale-blue silk, knotted hair, red-rimmed eyes, a sword buckled at her waist and oversized boys’ shoes on her feet. On either side of Henri, glowing crimson as blood, were two ruby necklaces.
‘We certainly look a sight,’ said Amelie with a laugh somewhere between a sob and a hiccup. ‘I cannot wait for a hot tub and some food – I am starving. We’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday.’
A vision of the street urchins searching through the garbage for a scrap of anything to eat came to Tilly. Her stomach twisted with shame.
‘Look!’ said Henri suddenly, pointing to a brown leather chest on a cherrywood side table. ‘It is Maman’s jewellery chest. Thank goodness the servants saved it from the chateau.’
Amelie, Tilly, Mimi and Henri were drawn towards the chest like bugs flying to a candle flame. Tilly remembered the glittering piles of sapphires, diamonds, rubies, amethysts, emeralds and pearls from her dream. Reverently, Henri unclasped the latch and opened the lid.
Henri swore.
The chest was empty – every mulberry-velvet lined tray. Mimi climbed up on the table and thrust her tiny, wrinkled fist deep into the chest. It came up empty. She turned to Amelie, her face furrowed with confusion. The monkey chattered angrily at Tilly, blaming her for the loss of all those pretty, dazzling playthings.
‘Everything’s gone,’ exclaimed Henri, his voice hoarse. Juju came to him and rubbed against his leg, offering her tummy to be scratched.
‘The servants must have hidden them safely with the clocks and the silver,’ suggested Amelie, her voice uncertain.
Henri strode to the sideboard and rang the bell. No-one came. He rang again.
This time Jacques returned. ‘Monseigneur?’ he asked, bowing.
‘Where are the Comtesse’s jewels?’ demanded Henri, arms crossed.
Jacques glanced quickly at the open chest, compressing his lips.
‘Monseigneur, we brought them to Paris for safekeeping,’ explained Jacques quickly. ‘We thought it best if they were hidden, because of the mobs.’
‘Merci,
once again,’ replied Henri. ‘But perhaps you could bring them to me now for safekeeping. I would like to check that they are unharmed.’
Jacques blanched and took a deep breath. He fumbled in his pocket.
‘Non,
I don’t think so, monseigneur,’ replied Jacques. ‘It’s too late for that.’
Jacques removed a heavy pistol and levelled it directly at Henri. Henri instinctively felt for his sword hilt. Juju growled deep in her throat.
Jacques swung the pistol so it was pointing at Amelie, who cowered back against the sofa, clutching her ruby necklace, her black-brown eyes wide with fear.
‘Hold the dog and throw down your weapon,’ ordered Jacques.
Henri appraised the lethal pistol aimed at Amelie. He hesitated for just a moment, then grasped Juju’s silver collar, unbuckling his sword with the other hand and laying the scabbard and belt carefully on the floor. Tilly froze, her mind whirring.
Jacques reached into his pocket and drew out another object: a small box. He held it out in his palm. It was an apple-green and gold snuffbox, encrusted with jewels, with elaborate engravings of birds and flowers.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ asked Jacques. He flicked the lid open with one finger and the snuffbox, full of powdered tobacco, began to play a nightingale tune.
‘That’s my uncle’s, the Comte’s,’ accused Amelie. ‘He took it with him to the ball in Paris, the night the brigades...’
Jacques smiled, waving the pistol towards Amelie. Juju growled deep and low.
‘It
was
your uncle’s,’ corrected Jacques. ‘Now, my pretty, perhaps you would be so kind as to take off that beautiful ruby necklace of yours and pass it to me?’
‘Non,’
Amelie cried, covering the talisman with both hands. ‘It was my maman’s.’
Henri stepped forward, loosening his grip on Juju’s collar, his face white with anger and grief.
‘You!’
he exclaimed. ‘How could you? You have been with my family for years.’
‘It
was
your maman’s,’ echoed Jacques, ignoring Henri and holding out his hand to Amelie. ‘Now it’s mine.’