Chapter 16 : 1780-1794
Pierre Labreche sighed with relief as the coach scraped along the cobbles of the Pont de Saône toward Presqu’île, the peninsula in the centre of Lyon formed by the confluence of the Saône and Rhône rivers. The ride from Paris had taken nine spine-jarring days; the earlier journey from London even longer.
He had spent the last thirty years in London as the portrait painter, Jean de la Place. Now he had moved on. A change of name, age and location. He was returning to Florence, but first he was visiting his son, Michel.
Michel had kept the surname, Laroche, that they had both adopted on their arrival in Paris in 1701, although in 1730, he had adjusted his age when he had met and married Marie Gravoix and they had moved to her home town of Lyon. Michel had told his wife about himself and his father, and later, when they had grown, Michel and Marie’s three children, François, Paulette and Pascal had also been let into the secret. For the Laroche household, a father who never aged was accepted as a closely guarded secret, as was the subterfuge involved when he adopted disguises to age himself.
Now, in 1780, Michel acted the part of an old man, a widower since Marie’s recent death. However, once behind the closed doors of Michel’s house, the two men could relax and swap stories without fear of suspicion. They looked like brothers; their pale grey eyes striking, although Michel also bore a strong resemblance to his long-dead mother Arlette.
“I am changing my name, Papa,” announced Michel, “and, of course, my age. Michel Laroche is old and it’s time he met his maker. I am to become his cousin’s grandson, Charles Landry, a young artist recently arrived from Paris.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Landry. Pierre Labreche at your service, also recently arrived from Paris and en route to Florence to establish a portrait studio!”
“I hope to visit you often, Monsieur Labreche; Florence is such a cultured city.”
“Can I not tempt you to join me, Michel? I should dearly love us to work together again.”
“In Italy, Papa, no. My poor language skills would be as much a hindrance as ever.”
His father smiled. “But will you at least accompany me to Marseille? I want to visit your mother’s grave. And when you visit me in Florence, we shall travel to Rome to Henri’s.”
Two months later, on a crisp October morning, the two men opened the gate of the churchyard on the hill above Marseille. It had been more than a hundred years since they had set foot there and they were relieved to find it well maintained. They made straight for the secluded corner near an ancient olive tree where they had laid Arlette and Georges to rest, finding to their delight that the crude wooden crosses they’d left behind on that sad evening had been replaced with engraved headstones.
“Jacques,” said Pierre, as much to himself as to Charles. “He wrote to me in Siena to tell me he had arranged these. After that, I lost touch with him. He was getting old by then; I regret I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Well, I know what happened to Mathilde,” said Charles, pointing to the next headstone along. “Look, Papa. ‘Mathilde Bognard, 1604 - 1686. Much beloved wife of Jacques Bognard’.”
Pierre looked at the stone and then at the others nearby, but there was no indication that Jacques was also buried there.
“These gravestones are very well maintained, Papa. It’s as if they are new, not a hundred years old. There’s a priest just leaving the church; I’ll see what he knows.”
When he returned, he was smiling softly.
“Papa, the priest told me that Jacques left a considerable sum in the hands of the Church with instructions that it be invested and the profit used to keep all three graves tidy with fresh flowers put on each weekly; these instructions to be carried out in perpetuity.”
Pierre smiled incredulously. “I’m delighted the Church decided that ‘perpetuity’ should last this long.”
Charles smiled. “I think I’ll fetch some flowers,” he said.
“An excellent idea, Charles. After so long, it will be good to lay our own flowers on their graves. I’ll stay and talk to your Maman for a while.”
Half an hour later, Pierre was in earnest conversation with Arlette’s headstone when the priest interrupted him.
“Forgive me, m’sieur, I couldn’t help overhearing. Your discussion with the deceased lady was quite agitated at times. Your ancestor must have been an important person in your family’s history.”
Dragged back into the present, Pierre looked round at him, embarrassed. Then he laughed at the priest’s words.
“Forgive me, Father, I didn’t mean to disturb the peace of this tranquil spot.”
He started to walk away, but stopped and half-turned. “But Father, she wasn’t my ancestor. For more than twenty years we lived together as man and wife.”
The confused priest spun round to look at the headstone to confirm what he remembered of the dates carved on it, his mouth dropping open as he did. Turning back, he was in time to see Pierre disappearing through the gate.
Arriving in Florence three weeks later, Pierre immediately set about exploring the city that he had first visited some three hundred and forty years before as a very young man with Piero della Francesca. He was astounded how much of the city was still as he remembered it: although there were many new buildings, the essence of the Renaissance remained. He suspected it always would.
A week later, he found the perfect studio – a ground floor premises with a terrace bordering the south bank of the Arno, two hundred yards from the Ponte Vecchio. His apartment was just two blocks away.
As he was moving into the studio, on a freezing morning in early January 1781, he was interrupted by the yapping of a small terrier that had run in from the street. A small urchin of a girl followed in hot pursuit.
“Arno!” her young voice piped. “Come ‘ere!” The dog ran at her and with a deft swoop, she gathered him into her arms. But she misjudged the dog’s speed and the impact knocked her backwards. She sat down with a bump, still clutching the struggling dog.
“You naughty dog, Arno! I’ve told you not to run into other people’s houses, ain’t I?”
She struggled to her feet and started towards the street door, but Pierre was blocking her way.
“Just a minute, young lady.”
He looked at the shivering girl. Her dress was little more than rags, her long black hair a matted mess of curls, her face and body filthy. Her eyes darted around the studio, looking for the opportunity to run. There was no fear in them; simply caution and cunning.
Pierre thought of Sofia and Gianna, his daughters born in the 1540s and smiled at her. “This is no weather to be out on the street, especially in those flimsy rags. Come and warm yourself and your dog by the stove; I’ll warm up some broth for you.”
The girl eyed him suspiciously, but it was too good an offer to miss.
“Can me bruvver have some too?”
“Of course. Where is he? Outside?”
“Yeah, in the street.”
“Why don’t you go and call him?”
The girl, Tella, was seven and her brother, Fausto, nine. They had been on the street for as long as they could remember, but Pierre knew that their chances of survival among the ruthless gangs that ran the urchins were slim. They were both painfully thin and if hunger didn’t take them, the cold weather surely would. He watched them thoughtfully while they wolfed down the broth, along with cheese and bread, and he knew he couldn’t turn them out. He struck a bargain with them that they simply couldn’t believe. They could stay. He would clothe and feed them and give them a roof over their heads. In return, they would help him around the studio and accompany him on the streets when the weather improved so that when he was sketching in the more dangerous areas of the city, he would remain unmolested by other beggars and street urchins.
Six years later, in the late summer of 1787 when Charles finally found time to visit Pierre, the underfed urchins had transformed into well-spoken and refi
ned young teenagers. Tella, now thirteen, had taken to literature with a passion, seeking out books and devouring them in every spare moment. She also had a natural flair for languages, speaking French and English at every opportunity with Pierre. Fausto, less academic, was very skillful with his hands and was now apprenticed to a local master carpenter.
Pierre had not told Tella and Fausto about himself. As far as they knew, he was a thirty-one-year-old Frenchman who had previously lived in Lyon and Paris; Charles was an old childhood friend. He had warned Charles in more than one letter that he must be very careful not to call him ‘Papa’ in the children’s presence, and preferably not at all.
When Charles arrived at the studio, he knocked lightly, whispering his name to Tella when she answered the door and touching his fingers to his lips. He stepped quietly into the studio where Pierre was engrossed in his work. He walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder.
“You’ve left that wart off the end of her nose; I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”
Pierre spun round, almost colliding with him. “Charles! My dear Charles! How wonderful! You are here!”
They hugged and greeted each other with a warmth that surprised Tella: even to her young eyes they seemed more than just friends. While Pierre and Charles launched into animated conversation in French, she looked closely at this man with the strange French accent – she was unfamiliar with the Marseille dialect – and she was struck by how like Pierre he was, especially the eyes. Their mannerisms too were similar. If they were related, brothers maybe, why hadn’t Pierre told her?
She realised Pierre was introducing her. “This, Charles, is my lovely Donatella, but she’s Tella to everyone, the sweetest child, and one who is growing into a beautiful young lady.”
Charles held out his hand to the blushing Tella. “I’m delighted to meet you, Donatella,” he said. “Pierre has told me so much about you in his letters.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you too, monsieur,” she replied in French as she curtseyed to him.
Laughing loudly, Charles replied, “Brava, my dear, you have a good accent, I could almost imagine you are French. Pierre, you have taught her well. But Tella, you must call me Charles. I am not one for formality; we must all be like one big family.”
Pierre picked up one of Charles’ bags. “You must be exhausted after your journey, Charles. We’ll close up the studio for the day and return to the apartment where you can soak your aching bones in a tub of hot water while Tella and I prepare you some luncheon.”
Tella had never seen Pierre so animated. As she hurried ahead of them to prepare the fire under the water for Charles’ bath, it occurred to her that the man she thought she knew so well had a hidden side and a history she knew nothing about.
“So tell me, Charles, what is the political situation now in France? One hears so many rumours of discontent spreading around the country.”
They had finished their lunch and they were sitting on the apartment’s small balcony.
Charles’ face darkened. “The situation is not good, Pierre. The king continues in his excesses while the lot of the poor and even the middle classes gets worse. Lyon is royalist at heart, but there are many of us who are worried that if the king continues to ignore the needs of his country, the undercurrent of discontent could swell into a raging river of revolution.”
“Have you ever considered leaving?”
“Well, I–” started Charles, but his eye caught Tella’s and he remembered that she knew nothing of their history. “I have thought about it, but France is my home and despite its problems, I have no wish to leave. And I really do not have an ear for other languages.”
Pierre laughed and turned to Tella. “What do you make of this man’s French, Tella? Is it difficult to follow?”
“It’s different from yours. Pierre. Which region is it from?”
The two men laughed and broke into a broad, street version of the Marseille dialect.
“I spent much of my youth in Marseille, Tella,” explained Charles. “The accent there is strong and although I have lived away from the city for many years now, I fear I cannot lose it altogether. I’ll teach you some of the words and expressions.”
“Thank you, but I fear it might confuse my rather limited French.”
“Nonsense, your French is excellent. Maybe when you’re a little older, you should persuade Pierre to let you come to Lyon. A couple of months there and you’ll be speaking French like one of the locals.”
Charles’ departure two months later left Pierre dispirited and Tella decided he needed a diversion. With fewer commissions as the season changed, she suggested one of her own.
“I’m afraid I cannot afford to pay you, signore,” she said to Pierre, fluttering her eyelashes, “but if I am satisfied that you have been able to apply a likeness of me to a canvas in a competent enough manner, I can offer recompense in the form of a number of expertly prepared dinners.”
“For which I buy the food,” chuckled Pierre. “It’s an excellent idea, Tella, I haven’t painted your portrait for a couple of years now, and I should like to capture the last vestige of your childhood before the woman that is blossoming daily before me has replaced the little Tella I love so much.”
She gave him a hug. “I’ll go and find my finest dress.”
“No, I shall have plenty of opportunity to paint Donatella the beautiful woman. It’s the still-present child I want to capture. Come, sit over here so this soft afternoon light can play onto your hair. I need to start sketching.”
Tella used the opportunity of sitting for Pierre to probe more deeply into his past with Charles. As he gave her what sounded like details, she realised he was being evasive. His account was insubstantial despite being wordy; there were episodes in their lives that didn’t really add up: neither of them was old enough to have spent so much time in the places Pierre described. As for the Laroche family to whom Charles seemed so attached, where did they fit in? Such a bond could not have resulted from a brief visit to Lyon; he must have lived there for years. Tella was frustrated: if she started to make what she thought was progress in her questioning, Pierre would shush her on the excuse that her face needed to be still.
Charles’ regular letters started arriving again a month after his departure. Pierre would read and reread them, smiling warmly, sometimes laughing out loud. He would recite small passages, but Tella never got sight of them. Whenever she tried to position herself to see them, Pierre would artfully move away, folding them and putting them back in his jacket pocket.
He kept the letters in a locked box under his bed, the key always somewhere about his person. Tella had carefully retrieved the box and studied the lock on a number of occasions. It wasn’t a simple one, but then again, it wasn’t overcomplicated. With the right skills…
Tella and Fausto still had a few contacts from their early childhood on the streets, although they kept them well away from Pierre’s eyes. One, Federico, now a gangly youth of twenty, was an expert lockpicker. She found him and for the price of two hearty meals he taught her what she needed to know. The opportunity to use her new skills arose when Pierre travelled to Siena to discuss a commission with a wealthy family who wanted a number of portraits. Once she’d seen him off, Tella went to Pierre’s room and gently removed the box from under the bed. Taking great care not to scratch the lock mechanism, she gingerly applied the picks, feeling the tension in the springs and balancing their resistance. It turned out to be remarkably easy. With a deft twist, she turned the larger main pick and the lock opened. She lifted the lid. Inside were the dozens of letters that Pierre had received from Charles over the last seven years, all neatly stacked in two piles of bundles of about ten letters each, each bundle tied with cord.
Tella felt her heart racing. She had never felt so guilty about anything in her life. But she had to continue. She waited for her heart to settle down while she stared at the contents of the box. After memorising the layout of the letter
s, she lifted out the top bundle and pulled out the first letter. It was dated one year earlier and she gasped as she began to read.
‘Cher Papa,’
Papa! Why would Charles call Pierre ‘Papa’? It made no sense. Then her eyes fell on the signature.
‘Your loving son, Michel.’
The letter was not from Charles!
She was now thoroughly confused. Pierre had a son? He was only thirty-one years old; how could he have a son who was old enough to write in such an adult hand? He would have to be at least fifteen.
She chose another letter. Dated six months earlier, it started and finished in the same way. She pulled out others: same greeting, same ending. Eventually she found one dated April 1781. It too was the same!
She started to read the letters to see if she could make any more sense of the puzzle.
Fifteen minutes later it had become clear that all the letters, while signed Michel, were from Charles. He spoke extensively and with great affection about the Laroche family; he talked about how much he still missed Marie, his wife; and about someone called François who appeared to be his son, but who himself had children. There was someone called Arlette whom he also called Maman and who seemed to have been murdered many years ago, and a brother, Henri, who had also been murdered.
She read and reread the letters but could make absolutely no sense of them. Finally, she replaced them all, locked the box and placed it carefully back under Pierre’s bed.
Tella spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying in vain to make some sense of the letters. Finally, she realised that nothing about them affected her personally. Pierre clearly loved her and Fausto as a father would love his children. He trusted them totally and she had betrayed that trust. That thought reduced her to tears.
By the time Pierre returned home that evening, full of amusing tales of the family commissioning him, Tella’s thumping heart had settled down and her outward appearance was one of her usual calm. Pierre noticed nothing odd in her behaviour, even though she scrutinised his face far more than was her normal practice.
In late July 1789, news started to reach Florence of the storming of the Bastille in Paris and of riots throughout the French countryside where the estates of the nobility were attacked. The revolution Charles had predicted had started and France would never be the same again.
Although the flow of letters from Charles was less regular, he had a merchant friend who made occasional trips to northern Italy who agreed to carry his letters across the border and dispatch them to Florence. Pierre was therefore able to keep track of events in Lyon and the rest of the country. With each successive letter, Pierre became increasingly concerned. Charles, his son, François – now a senior figure in the administration of the city – and Paulette’s husband, Bertrand, had all taken up with the royalist cause, a move Pierre considered to be potentially dangerous.
In early 1792, Charles’ increasingly infrequent letters stopped altogether. Pierre was beside himself with worry and it was only Tella’s persistent reasoning that dissuaded him from heading for Lyon. Then, suddenly, after six months of silence, a letter arrived. He and the family were safe. His merchant friend had been attacked and murdered on the road south out of Lyon and Charles had not been able to find an alternative courier. However, there were to be no more letters.
In mid-1793, the so-called Reign of Terror started and continued until the execution of one of its principal leaders, Maximilien Robespierre, in July 1794. During this dark period, following fighting in Paris among the rival factions – the Jacobins and the Girondists – the administrators of Lyon sided with the Girondists, effectively setting themselves apart from the main revolutionary rulers in the capital. Such action could not be tolerated and a force was dispatched to bring Lyon to heel. The siege of Lyon that ensued lasted over a month, after which the city’s civil authorities surrendered. Paris had had its way.
The end of the siege of Lyon on October 9, 1793, also marked the end for Charles, François and Bertrand, together with François’ eldest son, Jacques. Identified as being among the leading players in the Girondist movement in the city, they were arrested and summarily executed by firing squad, along with several dozen others from the city’s administration.
When Pierre heard of the siege of Lyon and its bloody aftermath, he became desperate for information and was only prevented from going by Tella who insisted that if he was fool enough to risk his life while the terror stalked the length and breadth of France, she was going with him.
It was not until early in a typically hot August in 1794 that Pierre finally learnt the awful truth about Charles. He was alone in the studio when the knock came on the door – Tella, now twenty and in charge of the business side of the studio, was out interviewing a prospective client. It was no more than three sharp blows, but it conveyed a sense of urgency and foreboding that caused Pierre to stop in his tracks. He opened the door without a word. Facing him was a young man in his early twenties, his travelling clothes far too thick for the August heat, his long hair lank with sweat and his face grimy. Pierre recognised him immediately, even though the boy had only been seven when they last met. The look in his eyes confirmed all that Pierre had feared.
“You are Étienne,” said Pierre in French. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, monsieur, and I believe you are Monsieur Pierre Labreche. But my mother insisted that you state the name by which she knew you. She is very conscious of the need for security.”
Pierre shrugged. “The name you seek is Jean de la Place.” He showed him in.
“You look exhausted,” said Pierre as he fetched him some water.
“My horse lost a shoe a few miles away, so I have had to walk the rest of the way.”
“My groom will deal with it,” replied Pierre.
He sat opposite the young man. “I am indebted to you, Étienne. You have come far on what I have no doubt was a difficult and dangerous journey to give me news that I fear I can read in your eyes and in your stance.”
“You owe me nothing, monsieur. I did not wish to come; it was only at my mother’s insistence.” His voice was angry, strained.
Although disturbed by the youth’s words and tone, Pierre said nothing, giving him time to gather his thoughts.
After a few moments, he lifted his eyes. Pierre was shocked at how cold and empty they appeared. “You will have heard about the siege, monsieur, I am sure. It started in–”
Pierre held up a hand and said very quietly, “Please, Étienne. Tell me about Charles. And about your father.”
Étienne held Pierre’s eyes. “They are dead, monsieur. All dead. Charles, Papa, Bertrand and Jacques.”
“How?” Pierre’s voice was scarcely audible.
“A firing squad. They were herded with many others from the city’s administration and lined up against a wall. They were taken from their homes by force, marched to the square, and shot. I only escaped because my father had pushed me into the cellar with my mother, insisting I take care of her. I should have died with them.”
“And the bodies?” asked Pierre in a whisper. “What happened to the bodies?”
“That was the final insult, monsieur. They were slung onto a cart and taken to a mass grave outside the city. It was not even consecrated ground.”
Pierre stood and walked out onto the terrace to stare at the Arno, its waters listless and sluggish in the summer heat. Why hadn’t he gone?
After some minutes, he returned to the studio.
“How is your mother, Étienne?”
“How do you expect, monsieur? She is heartbroken. And yet, monsieur, her thoughts have always been with you. She has kept saying that you must be told, as if everything depended on it. Why should that be, monsieur? I know you are my great-grandfather, although I do not understand how you can be, but why was it so important that you be told? You were not part of our lives. You were not part of the cause. You chose to remain here in the safety of this city in another country. You never vi
sited. You had no relevance to our family. So why was it so important?” He was angry now, accusing.
“I had every intention of visiting, Étienne, especially after Charles’ visit in ‘87. We wrote regularly; he kept me informed about your family. Please believe me, I meant to come, but then the Revolution started. Charles insisted that I wait. As did Tella and Fausto.”
He was startled by a snort from Étienne. “Ah, the famous Tella. Is she your wife yet? I hear she is very beautiful.”
“My wife! Whatever are you talking about? Tella is my … well; she’s like a daughter. And Fausto like a son. What do you think you are saying?” Pierre had to fight the anger welling up inside him.
There was another dismissive snort from Étienne. “From my grandfather’s behaviour, I assume that age has been of no consequence to either of you. I do not know how old he was, only that he was very old. You are aware, I assume, that in the last five years of his life he took up with a girl younger than I am. It was quite disgusting.”
Pierre was genuinely surprised. Charles had told him nothing of any relationship in his letters.
“I knew nothing of this. What did your parents have to say about it?”
“They didn’t seem to think it odd; if anything they encouraged it. But for me it was a betrayal of the memory of my grandmother. An old man like that. No matter how young he looked, it was sinful.”
For the first time, Pierre noticed the thick chain around Étienne’s neck. He suspected there was a substantial cross hanging from it tucked out of sight in his clothes.
“Étienne, you must remember that life was very different for your grandfather, as it is for me. We are not like ordinary people, as I am sure your father will have explained. Your grandmother, Marie, understood this and when she died, one of her main concerns was that her husband would be able to start a new life with someone else. He was very resistant to this idea, so devoted was he to her. If he eventually did find someone else, it is not for you to judge him. He was an honourable man with a strong sense of duty to his family, all of whom he loved dearly, including you.”
“I think you are all making excuses for him,” snapped Étienne. “I think–”
He was interrupted by a shout from Tella as she came rushing through the street door. “Pierre! Pierre! Guess what? I … oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you had a visitor.” She turned to Étienne. “My apologies, signore.”
Étienne didn’t respond – not speaking Italian, he hadn’t understood. He was also angry to have been interrupted.
When Tella registered his disdainful look, she frowned and looked more carefully at him. It only took a moment for the light to dawn. The eyes weren’t the same, but otherwise there was a strong family resemblance. She turned to Pierre and registered the pain in his eyes. Without a word, she put her arms around him.
“Oh, Pierre, I am so sorry.”
As Pierre finally reacted to the news, his legs buckled and he almost pulled Tella over. As they fell, she guided him onto a sofa where his head sagged onto her shoulder and he wept, huge gasps of grief shuddering through his body.
After some time, Pierre recovered enough to suggest they go to the apartment. As they left the studio, Tella tried again to speak to Étienne, but he replied in French that he didn’t understand her. Apologising, she switched immediately into French, which, although accented, was now fluent.
“Your French is good, mademoiselle,” he said humourlessly. “Where did you learn it?”
“Pierre has been teaching me since I was little. We speak it together often.”
“I imagine my great-grandfather has picked up a number of languages,” replied Étienne, his tone still cold and aloof.
“Your great-gra…? Er, yes, I think he has.” Tella tried hard to hide her shock as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in her mind. Charles had not been a friend of the Laroches; he was one of them, as was Pierre. She would tuck this piece of information away until she judged the time was right to confront Pierre with it.
Despite their attempts to break down Étienne’s reserve, he remained uncommunicative and distant, answering their questions briefly and factually, but never expanding on any theme. A serious doubt about him dawned in Pierre’s mind and he tried to draw out the young man’s views about the Revolution. For someone who had lost his father, grandfather, uncle and cousin to the bloodlust of the Jacobins, he remained remarkably unemotional and noncommittal. It was only when Pierre touched on religion that Étienne became more animated. He was clearly devout and although he tried to hide it, there was a zealousness to his words that worried Pierre.
The one message that Étienne did reiterate was the request from his mother, Yvette, for Pierre to visit as soon as it was safe to do so. But he made it clear that he had no interest in whether Pierre complied or not: he was merely the messenger.
After four days, Étienne declared he had no wish to stay longer. He left with a carefully sealed letter from Pierre to Yvette saying he would come as soon as possible.
After he left, Tella turned to Pierre.
“What a dreadful man. I didn’t trust him an inch. There was something about him. He has a secret, a guilt that made my skin crawl,” she said, shuddering.
Pierre nodded. “I agree, Tella. I need to get to Lyon as soon as possible.”
“Not on your own, Pierre. I insist that I come with you.”
“Tella, we’ve discussed this endlessly. It will be a hard and dangerous journey. I cannot allow it.”
“The choice, Pierre, is that I accompany you, or I follow behind on my own. Which would you rather I do – travel under your protection or pit my wits against the perils of the road alone?”
They arrived in Lyon three weeks later after a long but uneventful journey. While on their way, Pierre had cautiously broached the subject of Charles, finally admitting that Charles was his son and that they were both considerably older than they’d admitted.
“How old are you?” she asked quietly.
“I’d rather not say, Tella. Not at the moment, it’s too difficult. After Lyon I’ll tell you?”
She thought of the letters and once again felt guilty. Could he really be a great-grandfather? It seemed ridiculous; he looked so young. She’d heard of illnesses where children looked very old when they were still children. Perhaps there were also illnesses that made you look young when you were really very old. Was Pierre like that? If he was very old, was he about to die? The thought sent a shiver through her body. She couldn’t imagine a life without him.
Pierre was aghast as he entered Lyon. The once bustling city, so full of life, colour and gaiety, had transformed into a sombre, forbidding place. The streets were almost deserted except for a few people scurrying from one shadow to the next, like rats seeking refuge in dark corners, afraid of the dangers of being exposed. There were soldiers everywhere, constantly checking papers and eyeing everyone suspiciously.
However, they arrived at the Laroche house without incident and were shown into a drawing room.
“Jean!” exclaimed Yvette bustling into the room and throwing her arms round him. “Oh, Jean, I’ve waited so long for this moment. Look at you; you haven’t changed one jot. But then, why should you?”
Pierre was shocked at the change in Yvette in the fifteen years since he had seen her. She was old before her time, her face a maze of lines etched by the strain of the past few years.
But the old fussiness was still there as she held onto Pierre’s arms, touched his jacket and stroked his face. She pressed her hands together in front of her lips. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see you.” She studied his face as if not believing he was real.
Pierre was lost for words. Then he remembered Tella. “Yvette, let me introduce Tella.”
“Of course, of course, how rude of me. My dear child, welcome to our home. My, you are every bit as beautiful as dear Michel described you.” Registering the look of confusion on Tella’s face, she added, “I’m sorry, you will have known him a
s Charles. It’s all so bewildering at times.”
Over the following days, Pierre talked extensively with Yvette and Paulette about the events leading up to the awful day of the executions. Sometimes Tella was with them, others not. Pierre took the first opportunity to explain to Yvette that Tella had a limited understanding of his and Charles’ secret.
“Then it’s about time you told her the whole truth, Jean. She strikes me as a determined young woman. If she wants to, she won’t find it difficult to extract the truth from you. It’s only fair that she knows, anyway.”
With every snippet Tella gained about Pierre, the more incredulous she became and the more determined to get to the bottom of his story. She found the Laroche family all totally unlike Étienne, who was very noticeable by his absence – he had moved out of the family home and was living in a hostel run by Dominican monks outside the city.
In describing the events leading up to the arrest and execution of the Laroche men, Yvette explained how surprised they all were to have been discovered so quickly. The details were not as Étienne had described them. François had been among the party surrendering to the besieging forces and he and other senior members of the administration had been quickly dealt with. However, they had all arranged for their immediate families to be protected or hidden, knowing the reprisals would be merciless. Expecting some delay in the searching of their homes, the families of the administration were surprised to find that their homes were clearly targeted, as if on a list. When the soldiers were about to enter the house, Étienne had taken the women to the cellar, telling them that he would protect them, while the other men remained upstairs. The soldiers made no attempt to search the cellar.
When Pierre told Tella, she was first shocked and then as she realised the significance of the story, her face darkened. “The murdering bastard!” She spat the words rather than spoke them. “You realise, Pierre, that Étienne must have been a spy for the Jacobins, an informer. He knew that the cellar of his house would not be searched: the soldiers had a list of houses where this was not to be carried out. But instead of getting everyone down there, he let the men remain to be captured. No wonder he behaved as he did in Florence. He must be racked with guilt. He knew his father would be executed; there was no choice. But to deliberately allow, encourage, the deaths of his grandfather and the others … where is the bastard? I want to kill him with my bare hands!”
Pierre took her hands. “Tella,” he said, his voice trembling. “Yvette and the rest of the family have no knowledge of this. They think that Étienne is a hero, that he helped to save them. They must not know otherwise, it would destroy them.”
“Hero!” yelled Tella. “He deserves to burn in hell!”
“Tella, there has been enough killing, I–”
“Pierre! That traitor was responsible for the murder of your son. He allowed it, cold-bloodedly and deliberately. And then he had the barefaced nerve to come to us in Florence and tell us a pack of lies. He cannot go unpunished!”
Pierre looked into Tella’s eyes and saw the cold determination he had seen long before in Gisèle’s eyes when Arlette had been killed. Revenge.
“Tella, you cannot. We cannot take the law into our own hands.”
“Pierre!” she yelled. “Are you crazy? The law is on his side. The law condoned what he did and will permit him to do it again. How safe do you think Yvette and her other children and their children are? Paulette and hers? Étienne is as mad and as twisted as any zealot can be. He will betray the entire family.”
She stopped as another truth hit her.
“And he will betray you, Pierre. Don’t you see? Whatever he says about you will be believed. He has won their trust. Étienne is no fool, Pierre. You are Charles’ father. He will realise that once you have spoken to the family, you will guess the truth and want revenge. He will try to act more quickly than you. You are not safe here. We must leave without delay.”
“So we must flee like cowards while Étienne continues in his treachery?”
“No, he will not continue in his treachery. I’m going out, Pierre. I’m not sure when I shall return. It might be a few hours. When I do, you must be ready to leave. So make your excuses to the family. We are going.”
“Tella, you can’t … it’s too dangerous.”
“You forget that I grew up on the streets. I was only young, but there are things that I learned then, things that I know. You probably do not realise that I have kept in touch with some of my street friends over the years. It’s in my soul, Pierre, no matter how much of a lady you’ve made me.”
“But that is Florence, Tella. This is Lyon.”
“The streets are the streets, Pierre, as long as you speak the language, which I do, thanks to you.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned and left.
Two nights later they were in the foothills of the western Alps. They had ridden hard for two days and now felt they could relax. Not that Tella was seriously concerned about them being linked with Étienne’s death. She had been thorough, even paying witnesses to swear they saw two hooded men pounce on and slay the youth as he made his way from a meeting with the city’s occupying forces. At the meeting, he had woven a web of lies around Pierre and Tella’s names. They had escaped the city by a matter of hours.
After dinner at the inn where they were spending the night, they sat in Pierre’s room. Pierre was staring at the logs burning in the fireplace.
“Don’t look so worried, Pierre, we are safe here. You know that it had to be done. For Charles’ sake and the others.”
Pierre turned his head to her. He wondered how she could appear so calm. He took in her delicate features, her face radiant in the soft firelight, finding it impossible to imagine how the same person could have sought out and killed a man with such determination.
“You know, Pierre, in the talk of the streets, you owe me.”
He nodded. “You’re right, Tella, how can I ever repay you? I don’t know where I should be without you.”
“Your debt can easily be settled, signore,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling. She had him.
“Name your price, signorina.”
“It’s a very simple thing, really, Pierre. I want to know your story. All of it. From start to finish.”
Pierre looked into the fire. “It’s far from simple, Tella, far from simple. As for the finish, who knows? I can only tell you what there is to tell so far. And you are going to need a great deal of imagination.”