‘How are you, Cat? I hear you’re to dance for us tonight. See, I told you you could do it.’
‘You haven’t seen me dance yet. But should you be here? Isn’t it dangerous for you?’
‘You think they’ll spot me as an English lord in this crowd? If they do, they deserve to catch me.’
It was true. Almost a week of living with the thieves had roughened Frank’s polished edges. He looked dirty, a little hungry, he even walked with a slouch – in fact, he now resembled the rest of us.
‘I suppose not. Do you think this’ll work?’
‘It’s got to.’ His expression was grim. I had the impression that Frank had grown up a lot over the past few days.
We arrived outside the gates of the Conciergerie. Our number had swelled in our passage through town as people flocked to find out what the fuss was all about. J-F hoisted himself on to the shoulders of an all too recognizable footman and shouted to the guard inside, ‘Release the English woman and her family! You’ve got the king back – let these people go!’
The guard tried to ignore him.
‘Listen to your brothers and sisters, citizen!’ cried J-F. ‘The people want no friends of the revolution behind bars!’
No one replied; a guard even turned his back – a very bad move for it was this contempt for the people that infuriated the crowd. The masses started to beat on the gates, whistling and booing.
‘We’ll make them listen,’ shouted a black-bearded man. ‘Oi, citizen, if you don’t bring them out here now, we’re coming in to get them.’
‘Remember what happened to the gaoler in the Bastille!’ shrieked a woman.
‘Bastille! Bastille! Bastille!’ chanted the crowd.
This had the desired effect: the guardsman darted inside to fetch the governor. The concierge himself appeared on the steps and held up his hands, appealing for calm.
‘Citizens, what can I do for you?’ he said with an entirely false smile. He was shaking with nerves – as well he might as his predecessor at the Bastille had ended up with his head on a pike.
‘Let the innocent go!’ called J-F.
‘Innocent? That is not yet decided.’
‘Where’s your proof they were involved? You have none. But we have proof that they are friends to our cause. Bring them out – let them pledge their support before us, the people, and let them go.’
At this point, the crowd helpfully surged against the gates, which groaned on their hinges.
The concierge wiped his brow. ‘I want no trouble today, my friends. The king is returning – the streets must be quiet to show him that we can govern ourselves in his absence.’
‘Then do as we say and we’ll return peacefully to our homes, and this will be remembered as a mere discussion between friends,’ J-F replied shrewdly. ‘You can take the credit for righting an injustice.’
The concierge was clearly weighing up the options: risk a battle on his patch or release a few prisoners who were at the most only marginally involved in the king’s flight.
‘All right, my friends, I will bring them to you. But how shall they make their pledge?’
J-F was ready with his answer. ‘Let the British songbird sing the Ça ira, the people’s anthem. That will be proof enough.’
The crowd cheered this suggestion. The concierge nodded to his guard who disappeared inside.
Frank squeezed my hand. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s working.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ I warned. ‘Do you think she’ll do it – sing the song, I mean?’
‘She must, or she’ll be lynched,’ said Renard cheerfully, chewing on a handful of sunflower seeds an enterprising salesman had just sold him.
A few minutes later, the Duke of Avon appeared, supporting Lizzie on his arm. His wife followed, listening to the explanations of the guard. She was frowning and shaking her head.
‘I’m not sure she knows it,’ said Frank.
‘Quick, Renard, tell me how it goes,’ I begged. ‘Whistle the tune.’
‘Oh, it is easy to learn.’ The Frenchman began to trill the notes. The melody bounced along, proclaiming that the people would come out on top of aristocrats, priests, and all who stood in their way. I only hoped that would prove the case today.
‘Get everyone to sing it,’ I urged.
‘What?’
‘She’s not heard it before. Sing it – please! The duchess is trained for the opera: she’ll pick it up if she hears it even once.’
Catching on, Renard took a deep breath and began to boom out the words. His neighbours joined in with gusto, rollicking through the tune like a victorious army returning home. The song echoed off the walls of the prison – a magnificent, impromptu concert hall. Up on the steps, the duchess was concentrating hard, her hand pressed to her brow. Then, as we returned to the chorus again, she dropped her arm and clasped her hands loosely before her. A sublime voice joined us, rising over the song of the crowd like a seabird gliding over a rough sea. Our voices fell away to listen.
‘Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!’
When the duchess finished, the crowd cheered and stamped. Even the concierge applauded. The duke and Lizzie were both smiling.
‘Encore! Another!’ chanted the crowd.
The duchess bowed and, moving to safer ground from a song about hanging aristocrats from lamp posts, sang an aria from Handel’s Messiah. Chairs were produced for Lizzie and the duke. A tumbler of water was handed to the duchess. It seemed that the Conciergerie guard had as much appetite for a free concert as the crowd. The duchess sang to us for a full half hour, before finally bowing a last time and looking across at the concierge. He leapt up, took her hand and kissed it.
‘You are free to go, madame. All doors will spring open before such a voice.’
‘God bless you, monsieur,’ she said.
The duke offered her his arm, and the Avons walked out of the Conciergerie, freed by the power of song.
SCENE 3 – LA FILLE MAL GARDÉE
By popular demand, the Avons were to be given a box on the side of the stage at the Opera that night. I was the only person in Paris not to be cheered by this prospect: if I was going to make a fool of myself, I’d prefer to do it in front of strangers.
‘I’m sorry not to see you dance,’ said Lizzie, wrapped up in shawls as she sat up in her bed in the rue de Clichy, ‘but Dr Montard thinks I should rest until I’m fit to travel.’ She succumbed to a fit of coughing which she covered with a lace-edged handkerchief. She looked so fragile sitting there, her pale skin almost translucent. I was seized with the fear that my friend might fall into a consumption and never live to see happiness with Johnny. It looked as if the merest puff of wind would blow her away.
‘Dr Montard is a clever fellow then,’ I said brightly, hiding my thoughts. ‘Don’t worry – you won’t be missing much, except perhaps my utter humiliation. But when will you be fit, did he say?’
Lizzie shook her head and lay back on the pillows. ‘Mama and Papa think we should leave Paris as soon as possible. With Mayor Bailly returning to town with the king’s family this afternoon, they are worried that he might reverse the will of the people and lock us up again. Your little friend doesn’t think that likely, but I don’t know – things seem to change on a whim here. After all, our cousin is still in detention. Her fate rests on that of her husband, which in turn depends on what the king has to say for himself on his return.’
I nodded. ‘I think we could all do with putting some miles between us and Paris, if the truth be known. You’ve heard about the spy, of course?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. How absurd to suspect Joseph and you!’
I fiddled with her silver-backed hairbrush. ‘Not so silly as you might think,’ I mumbled.
‘Oh, Cat . . .’
‘Why else do you think Mr Sheridan paid for me to come here? It was just supposed to be a little bit of discreet sniffing around for him, but I turned up in the middle of a political crisis and stupidly added more fuel to the flames with my letter.
’
‘You weren’t to know . . .’
‘Oh yes, I was. I should’ve at least sent it under a cover to Mr Kemble or Syd’s parents. I deserve everything I get for scrawling “Sheridan” on the envelope. I can’t seem to get anything right at the moment.’
Lizzie reached out and took my hand. ‘What will you do when you return to London?’
I shrugged. It was too difficult a question to answer.
‘There’ll be a spare bedroom – that is, one more than normal – in our house. I’m sure Mama and Papa would like you to stay. It’ll help them get used to it.’
‘You don’t mean . . .?’
‘Yes, I do. I’m not coming back to England. Johnny and I are to marry as soon as I’m well enough, then we’ll take a ship to America. We’d like you to be there at the ceremony too, if you can. I’d like you as my bridesmaid.’
‘Thank you, Lizzie, I’d be honoured – if I can be there, that is.’ My voice was strangely hoarse. ‘I always thought that a duke’s daughter should have peeresses falling over themselves to hold her posy.’
‘Who wants peeresses when they can have you, Cat?’
There was a soft tap on the door and Frank put his head round. He had bathed and was now dressed in neat but unremarkable civilian clothes, perfect for blending in on the Parisian streets. We didn’t know if anyone would try and execute the warrant on him now the Avons were free, but it was clearly sensible to assume that they might so we were keeping his presence in the house a secret.
‘Are you coming, Cat? There’s just time to see the procession pass before we head for the Opera.’
‘But we’ve got to hurry!’ called Pedro from the corridor.
‘Off you go, Cat,’ said Lizzie, releasing my hand. ‘Good luck for tonight.’
*
Pedro, Frank and I emerged on to the rue de Clichy by the back door and headed towards the Tuileries Palace once again.
‘Like old times, hey?’ said Pedro cheerfully, linking arms with me. ‘Remember when we went to the boxing that first time?’
‘How could I forget?’ I asked, tweaking my cockade displayed for all to see on my bodice. I was taking no chances this time.
Frank took my arm on the other side. ‘Did Lizzie ask you then?’
‘About being her bridesmaid? Yes, I’m really touched to have been chosen.’
‘It’s no more than you deserve.’
‘Thanks, Frank, but unfortunately, I have my doubts I’ll be able to be there. I haven’t told you yet, but the bishop suspects me of being the spy – not a bad guess on his part – and he’s itching to denounce me to the mayor. It looks as though I should leave Paris as soon as possible.’
Frank frowned and glanced over his shoulder. ‘What’s stopping him then?’
‘Le Vestris stepped in and half-convinced him I really was a dancer. I have to prove it to him tonight.’
Pedro whistled. ‘We’d better organize an escape for you then.’
‘Nice to see you’re so confident I’ll succeed, Pedro.’
‘Well, Cat, I’ve been at the rehearsals.’
We arrived at the main road. The crowd lined the pavements, chatting in subdued voices. This was no celebration – it was more like an audience in a courtroom: we all wanted to see for ourselves that the king was well and truly back.
Frank patted me on the shoulder. ‘I think Pedro’s right. We need to prepare ourselves for the worst. Even if – I mean, when – you triumph tonight, it doesn’t mean that Bailly might not be persuaded that you are as talented a spy as you are a dancer. I can imagine that the concierge’s decision to let my parents go will not have pleased the mayor: he’ll still be looking for someone to prosecute.’
I groaned. ‘I wish I’d never come to Paris.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Frank firmly. ‘You wouldn’t’ve had half so much fun staying behind in London. And, besides, who would’ve got my parents out of gaol? If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking today, it all could’ve ended very differently.’
The jingling of harness and clip-clopping of hooves could now be heard approaching. The buzz of talk died away. A large coach, much stained by travel, appeared at the end of the street, surrounded by national guardsmen. Frank reached up to remove his hat, but I nudged him in time. Not a single man in that crowd showed the respect due to a monarch by doffing his cap. Standing sullen with their heads stubbornly covered, the people of Paris demonstrated to the king exactly what they thought of his treachery. As the coach passed, I caught a glimpse of Mayor Bailly, sitting with his knees almost touching the monarch’s. The woman I had talked to briefly in that dark alley on Monday night sat beside King Louis, her face stern but resigned. The king himself looked confused. He glanced out of the window, seemingly unable to understand why no one was cheering him.
‘I suppose,’ I said as the procession clattered out of sight, ‘it was better than rioting and insults.’
‘Do you think?’ remarked Frank. ‘If I was him, I’d want at least some sign from my loyal subjects that I was welcome back.’
‘But they’re no longer subjects,’ said Pedro as the crowd filed away. ‘They’re citizens.’
‘And they won’t be loyal to him if he’s proved to have betrayed them,’ I added.
‘But that’s terrible!’ Frank, heir to a dukedom, shook his head.
Pedro and I exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps. I think it’s just very sad,’ I said. ‘If they treat him like that then France no longer has a king. Come on, let’s go.’
The curtain was due to rise in fifteen minutes and I was busy feeling sick in the dressing room. When I raised my eyes to the mirror, my face was horribly blotched. I caught sight of Mimi watching me from the other side of the room. I couldn’t bear it if she had a go at me now so I closed my eyes and sat with my head in my hands.
Who did I think I was fooling? No way should I be allowed out there tonight. I’d be a laughing stock.
‘Here!’ It was Mimi’s voice. I felt something drop on the table beside me. I looked up: it was a bunch of mint. ‘Chew some. It helps.’
‘Thank you.’ I was so amazed I didn’t move.
‘Go on. I’m not trying to trick you.’
‘I didn’t think you were.’ I took a leaf and crushed it so that the sweet smell of mint wafted in the air. She was right: it did quell the nausea. ‘But why are you helping me?’
Mimi shrugged and rejoined Colette and Belle tying on their ballet shoes. ‘I’ve been talking to Marie, J-F’s girl. She told me what’s been going on.’
‘We all know why you’ve got to dance tonight, Cat,’ said Belle, stretching her arms above her head. ‘She said it was J-F’s fault for getting you tangled up with his rival.’
‘So we thought you needed all the help you could get,’ added Colette, bending to touch her toes.
I smiled weakly. ‘I’m afraid that’s all too true.’
‘And, besides, you’re part of the company now, aren’t you? If you mess up, we all mess up,’ concluded Mimi.
On that thought, the threesome looked at each other. ‘Come on, we’d better get her ready,’ said Colette.
Before I knew it, they had swooped upon me and taken charge of my appearance. Face powder hid my reddened face. Competent hands fastened my hair back. My slippers were expertly tied.
‘There, now warm up. You can’t go on stage cold – you’ll never get past the first few steps,’ ordered Belle.
Obediently, I followed their routine. The worst of the nerves had passed. I no longer had a choice. It was too late to run for it as I had contemplated doing that afternoon. Only my promise to J-F to try my hardest had stopped me fleeing.
‘Why be nice to me now?’ I asked as we bent to loosen our calf muscles.
‘We thought you were here because Madame Beaufort had taken pity on you,’ explained Colette. ‘Thought you’d jumped the queue to join the troupe just because you’re Mr Sheridan’s favourite. You must admit you showed no promise as a dancer i
n London.’
‘But seeing you dance with J-F made us realize you’re not too bad after all. She was right to give you a trial,’ continued Belle.
They talked almost as if they were one person. Clearly the trio had discussed my case and decided on a joint approach.
‘Thank you.’ My insides as well as my muscles now felt a flush of warmth. Their praise had never been more welcome.
‘So you go out there and try to enjoy yourself. What have you to lose?’ said Mimi.
What indeed?
Standing in the wings with J-F, I watched the scene before ours unfold. Everyone danced so beautifully. They could do things with their arms and legs that I’d never even dreamt of. It was hard to believe that they were plain old Mimi, Belle and Colette in the dressing room: on stage, they seemed like goddesses.
‘Ready, Cat?’ grinned J-F.
Too anxious to speak, I just nodded. The strains of our entry tune were beginning. I could see Pedro bowing away next to the first violin, eyes fixed on the conductor. At least, thanks to the demands of the music, there was one friend who wouldn’t see the hash I was about to make of my debut. Frank, I knew, was somewhere in the galleries with Marie and Annette, keeping his distance from his parents who were sitting in ducal splendour in the box right opposite me.
‘I kept my promise, now you keep yours,’ whispered J-F.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Remember,’ he muttered as he seized my hand for us to run on, ‘for all you know, your mother was Terpsichore, your father principal dancer in the English ballet. This is our moment.’
With that, we were on. Hand in hand, we ran through the crowd of peasant dancers gathered for the festival scene and leapt centre stage. Immediately, the orchestra struck up the popular tune Renard had taught us. It was clearly a favourite with the audience for I heard a mutter of approval from all sides and a smattering of applause. On that signal – and I’m still not sure how it happened, Reader – something lit up inside me. I felt as if I had come home. Drury Lane might have been reduced to rubble, but its spirit lived on wherever there was an audience and performers. I realized that I loved this tune too. I wanted this dance because to me it meant friends in unexpected places, mops twirling in kitchens, freedom, the rush of the crowd through the streets demanding that justice be done. It meant Ça Ira – we, the people, will win. It meant Revolution. Le Vestris must have known this too and that was why he had chosen this ballet of the common people to play tonight of all nights: the night when the king returned to Paris with his tail between his legs. I didn’t care if I made a fool of myself, I just wanted to dance because I, Cat Royal, was one of the people too. I was going to prove that Drury Lane lived on in me.