Delicately
she begged off. "Not now, milord. I think I shall follow your good advice
and retire to my chambers. Perhaps later, before dinner this evening."
She
could tell he wasn't happy with the postponement, but since it was his
suggestion that she get more rest, he couldn't very well refute it. "Then
until later," he said with a slight bow.
At
the top of the steps, Jenny waited, looking down. Behind Marianne, Thomas
stood, looking up.
At
that instant, bowing her head to the expanse of steps before her, she knew she
faced an incredibly difficult task, and that was to manipulate the steep stairs
without giving either of them the slightest indication that she was suffering
pain as intense as any she had ever experienced in her life. . . .
"I'm
afraid it was neither courageous nor noble," said William, sitting at
table, appearing more relaxed than before. "I saw the pistol aimed at
Paine and without thinking stepped in front of it."
Marianne
sat at the far end of the table, listening intently, praying that the
discomfort would hold off a bit longer. During the afternoon, lying flat on her
back, the spasms had subsided. Reassured by Jenny's infallible prediction of an
October child, she viewed them merely as false labor, or perhaps the weight of
the child himself.
She
scanned lovingly the table in the Banqueting Hall, enjoying the muddle of
aristocracy and democracy that she suspected annoyed Thomas. Jane was there,
red-eyed, clinging to William's every word, and next her brother Russell, and
nearest to her, Jenny, who'd protested vigorously when Marianne had invited
her, but who nonetheless appeared sharply at ten o'clock in her best black
dress with blue trim.
During
the heavy meal, William had kept them fascinated -with stories of the
Revolution, of the little Corsican named Bonaparte, upon whom at first the
Revolution had pinned such hopes. Only now, after the last course of
strawberries and cream and several bottles of wine, had he apparently relaxed
enough to speak of his own misfortune.
From
her end of the table, Marianne focused on Thomas' face, highlighted by
candlelight and a new kind of excitement. He had been enthralled all evening by
William's stories, the two men relaxing into a fellowship that she would not
have dared to predict earlier that morning.
Now
Thomas leaned forward in an obvious desire to hear more concerning the shooting
itself. "This Paine?" he asked. "You say he's an
Englishman?"
William
gave him an amazed look. "The greatest of Englishmen, milord. A true son
of liberty. He has given much to all causes of freedom, both here and in
America." Again he shook his head in disbelief. "I cannot believe you
do not know the name," he murmured.
Thomas
laughed. "On the morning, Mr. Pitch, I shall take you abroad and show you
the isolation of my little kingdom. News travels from London to Exeter and
there it stops. If we want it, we must go and fetch it."
Something
in William's face suggested to Marianne that such isolation appealed. "You
are truly fortunate, milord, to let in only that part of the world that pleases
you."
Quickly
Thomas motioned for the steward to refill William's glass as well as his own.
Then again, he moved his chair closer. "Now tell us about your remarkable
Mr. Thomas Paine, if you will. Obviously he owes you much, his life for a
start."
William
drank and shook his head. "He owes me nothing, milord. Quite the contrary,
I suspect we all bear a debt to him."
Thomas
moved still closer. "Then tell us of Robespierre and the Terror. The
newspapers were full of it the last time I was in London. Surely the accounts
were exaggerated."
Again
William shook his head, his left hand massaging the stump of his arm in a peculiar
gesture which Marianne had noticed before, a self-comforting motion, like a
child in a rocking chair. He glanced across the scattering of female company
and declined to speak further, "With your forgiveness, milord, the
atrocities are not suitable for mixed company."
Quickly
Marianne spoke up. "Then let the squeamish leave. Dinner is over. I long
to hear it all."
Thomas
smiled his approval and waited patiently to see if anyone chose to leave.
Apparently none did. "Now, speak, Mr. Pitch. Your audience has been
forewarned."
Again
William hesitated, drank deep of the wine. Clearly the pain of his experience
was still too close.
But
he spoke anyway, slowly at first, his words seeming to slip out independent of
his eyes, which were focused on his wineglass as his fingers rolled the stem
about, tipping the red claret close to one edge, then the other. "The
victims were transported in tumbrils," he began, "small cartlike
devices of varying sizes. At first there were only two or three beheadings a
week. Later the number grew to two or three hundred, the tumbrils rattling day
and night between Luxembourg and the Place de la Revolution."
Marianne
noticed the claret slipping closer and closer to the edge. Still the voice
spoke on, its quiet intensity holding enthralled all those about the table.
"Great
wagonloads of hay were brought in from the country," he said, "to
soak up the blood. But still it was not unusual to pass couples with
blood-moist shoes, as gay as though they were on holiday, having just come from
viewing the death machine and the rivers of blood."
His
voice became strangely low. "And when the death machine could not kill
them fast enough," he went on, the wineglass tilting back and forth like a
metronome, "the terrorists devised new sport, leading the victims to the
banks of the Seine, stripping them and binding them together, one man, one
woman, tying lead weights to their feet, and drowning them in the river."
Someone,
old Jenny, murmured, "Dear God." Jane turned away in her chair.
"Once,"
he went on, his voice strangely rising, "I saw a citizen grab a baby from
a mother as she was dragged to the guillotine. At first I thought it was an
honorable gesture, the man intending to save the child. But when a cry of
disapproval arose from the crowd, he tossed the child up into the air and a
soldier speared it with his sword." His voice fell to a whisper. "The
child, held aloft and squirming, screamed for minutes before it died."
Suddenly
the wine spilled. The red stain spread across white linen. In a voice peculiar
in its breathlessness, Thomas angrily demanded, "And this in the name of
liberty?"
Abruptly
William closed his eyes. He shook his head. "I don't know, milord,"
he admitted. "It's an abuse of liberty, but the very w^ord dictator abuses
liberty as well." He opened his eyes. "What does one do with a
profound horror of tyranny?"
Without
hesitation, Thomas replied, "One does not slaughter women and children,
for then any revolution is no more than the destruction of a lesser crime by a
greater."
Again
William debated with something less than wholehearted conviction. "
Not
in the beginning it wasn't."
"What
it was in the beginning is unimportant," Thomas argued.
"The
cause was good, the King a tyrant."
"And
what of the terrorists on the Committees?" demanded Thomas. Marianne had
never seen him so roused. Yet in spite of his excitement, she detected
something else as well, a kind of enjoyment, as though he'd been too long
removed from good male companionship and the events of the world.
He
went on, speaking of the hypocrisy of the Revolutionists, the elusive target of
perfectibility, and she was surprised to discover that apparently William did
not object, as though perhaps he'd waited a long time for someone to speak
aloud the doubts that had grown in the darkness of his heart.
As
the two persisted with their discourse, the others at table began to drift
away, first Russell, clearly seeking out more suitable companionship where
drink flowed unencumbered by dialogue. Then Jane and Sarah took their leave
with a nod to Marianne as though to remind her that in London, in the days of
their Grand Salon, when the men spoke politics, the women departed to private
chambers.
Marianne
returned their nod but held her seat. Then only four remained, Thomas and William,
their chairs drawn close together at the far end of the table, the claret
passing freely between them, and Jenny and Marianne at the other. Jenny clearly
was waiting for permission to leave. Marianne granted it with a whispered,
"Run along, Jenny, if you wish. You must be tired."
"Shall
I see you to bed?" Jenny whispered thoughtfully.
Marianne
shook her head. "I can manage. Go along now."
As
Jenny left the table, neither man so much as looked up, both totally unaware
that with the exception of Marianne they were now alone.
She
leaned back in her chair, enjoying the moment, listening to the once bitter
enemies rail at each other in heated though friendly discourse. She found
herself studying first one, then the other, their differences, which were not
nearly so great as their similarities, both well-constructed men, Thomas, the
larger, more rugged, peculiarly less polished in spite of his high birth, William,
his fine mind partially dulled by the crucible he had endured, looking
physically diminished by the absence of his arm, certainly not the same
confident, self-assured man she'd known in London, but still sensitive, and now
suffering from the failure of his philosophy that one man can make a difference
in any enterprise.
As
she listened to
the debate, this seemed to be the main thrust of their differences, William
pleading emptily for the importance of one man; Thomas rather cynically placing
full responsibility on something he called "movements of history"
against which one man was impotent.
Quietly
recording it all, Marianne's eyes moved from one face to the other, loving both
in different ways, wishing with bemused irony that nature had seen fit to
combine both men in the skin of one man. After one speech during which William
had waxed particularly eloquent concerning justice, Thomas smiled indulgently
and remarked, "Too much virtue, too often proclaimed, my friend, can
become a bore, a smokescreen as it were to conceal the true acts of so-called
virtuous men." Again he leaned forward and dragged his chair after him,
less than a foot separating the two men now. "For example," he went
on, as though about to make a point. "Tell me of Robespierre's suicide.
What became of his virtue when he lifted the pistol and—"
William
interjected strongly. "Oh, you're wrong, Eden. Robespierre did not commit
suicide. I can attest to it."
As
once again the discourse shot forward, Marianne closed her eyes, her hands
resting against her baby, who seemed to have grown quiet. The small of her back
ached from the awesome weight. She considered retiring, having convinced
herself the Revolution would be under discussion until the early hours of the
morning. But the thought of climbing the three flights of stairs, unaided,
discouraged her. Perhaps she should have had Jenny wait. As the pain in her
back persisted, she shifted in the chair in an attempt to straighten her spine.
She felt peculiarly breathless, unable to draw enough air into her lungs.
Still
the men talked on, apparently impervious to her. Perhaps she should try to
navigate the stairs. The discomfort was increasing, her lungs crying for air
that she could not give them. Perhaps she would encounter a steward or a
serving maid in the corridor who would be kind enough to assist her. It wasn't
that far and the pain not that severe. It had been worse this afternoon. All
that plagued her now was the ache in her back and this strange breathlessness.
Slowly
she moved forward to the edge of the chair so as not to disturb the two men at
the end of the table. Placing her palms flat on the table for maximum support,
she pushed forward. Suddenly she felt a single pain, as sharp as any she'd ever
felt before. Beneath her gown she felt a rush of warm water. Still clinging to
the table in a half-raised position, she managed one cry, "Thomas!" The
last thing she saw was his surprised face, looking up at her, his mouth opened
in speech, the expression in his eyes sending a chill through her as he shouted
in what sounded like anger, "No! Not yet. I beg you-"