It was left to Sido to read the letter, and after that she knew that it was all too late for herself and her father. France, like a pan of milk left too long on a hot stove, was about to boil over.
She slipped downstairs to join the servants in the kitchen, where they crowded around the duchess’s messenger. He was a man with things to tell.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Why, the very air in the city was electric! At midnight the church bells rang out from steeple to steeple—that’s the tocsin that alerts you to danger—followed by a thousand drums and the boom of guns. I’ll wager not one person slept, for the terror those bells awoke in them.”
“Oh dear Lord, what will become of us?” said Agathe.
“Quiet,” said Jean. “Go on. What happened then?”
“Yesterday morning, at dawn, the citizens rose up and marched to the Tuileries Gardens. They were shouting, ‘Down with the veto, down with the tyrant.’ The troops from the south sang the Marseillaise. They were armed to the teeth—guns, knives, bayonets, swords, you name it. They hacked the Swiss Guard to death. They didn’t stand a chance—the king just abandoned them. Only interested in his own skin.”
“Oh, lordy Lord!” wept Agathe.
Jean sighed. “A bonfire of hate has been ignited. God alone knows what earthly force can put it out now.”
“Did you see anything else?” asked Luc, putting his arm around Lucille’s waist.
“Did I see anything else? What these eyes didn’t see! All the waters of France won’t wash these images away. They’re burned into me with a red-hot branding iron.”
“Tell us, then.”
“Well, when I arrived at the Tuileries by the Palais Royal entrance, the walls were pockmarked with gun- and cannon-fire. I could hear the sound of crashing plates and dishes coming from the royal kitchens—pots and pans thrown all over the place, everybody snatching what they could, either to break or more likely to keep as souvenirs. In the wine cellars I saw a sea of outstretched hands, all fumbling in the sand to pull out bottles of the king’s fine wine. They broke the bottles open in their haste to drink and the wine spilled on the floor, mingling with the blood of the corpses. What a shambles! In the chapel, oh Lord, what I saw! All that blood, all them bodies, all them flies, and the smell! The sound of the rabble as it trampled on thousands of fragments of priceless porcelain.”
Sido listened silently. Lucille began to weep.
“And the rest of Paris?” asked Bernard.
“There are fires burning all over the city. The citizens are breaking into the aristocrats’ houses, looting, killing their servants, smashing their furniture, and burning and destroying anything of value.”
“Will they do the same here?” asked Lucille. She was almost beside herself with fear.
“Who knows? When I left they were calling for the blood of the nobility to wash the streets of Paris clean, and they’d started to tear down buildings where aristocrats had taken refuge.”
“Enough,” interrupted Jean. “You’re frightening everyone.”
“Well, you asked. I’m only telling you how things stand.”
By the time the messenger had left, Sido could see what would happen next.
“I have a wife and children,” said Michel Floret, the gardener. “I’m afraid to be found here.”
This seemed to go for all the servants, who sorrowfully and apologetically made their excuses and filed out of the kitchen. Even Lucille, who, clasping Sido’s hands and with tears rolling down her face, said, “I’m so sorry to leave you, I really am sorry, but I can’t stay. I don’t want to die. I’m too young.”
“I know,” said Sido. “Don’t worry. You go home with Luc.”
Only two stayed sitting at the kitchen table, Jean and Bernard.
“Eh bien,” said Jean, getting out a bottle of wine. “There is nothing more for it. We’ll just have to sit it out and make plans for our escape if the château is attacked.”
“I agree,” said Bernard.
“No,” said Sido, “you must go too. I shall stay with my father.”
“But mademoiselle, it’s not safe for you here. You must get him to understand.”
Sido tried to look calm. “As you know, the marquis has put all his hope for our survival in the wall. He will not leave.”
Bernard raised his hands to the air and let out a whistle. “That wall is a farce,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Sido.
“His laborers hated him for putting the rents so high and taking them away from the land. Their revenge was to use more sand in the mix than they should have.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sido.
“It means the wall will collapse if it’s attacked,” said Bernard.
Sido felt weak and sat down. “Even more reason for you to go, then.”
“No,” said Jean firmly, “we’re not leaving you. Someone has to stay and help.” He poured her a glass of wine. “Though I think I speak for both of us when I say that we are staying out of respect for the late and great marquis, your uncle Armand de Villeduval, and your beloved mother.”
Bernard lifted his glass. “Tell you this much—if your uncle were still here, his servants would have fought to the bitter end to protect you all.”
“I thank you,” said Sido.
That evening the marquis, unaware that anything was wrong, sat down as usual to supper. Annoyed to find that it was late, he rang the bell angrily.
With a heavy heart, Sido opened the door to the dining chamber.
“It is quite intolerable to be kept waiting at my own table,” he snapped. “I have guests.”
“Papa, all but two of your servants left this morning.”
“Did I give you permission to speak?” asked the marquis.
“No, Papa, but I think it might be wise to make plans just—”
“You think,” he interrupted sarcastically. “You think? And of what significance are your miserable thoughts? You are just about bearable when silent. When you speak I find your presence quite insupportable.”
Sido could take it no longer. She felt overwhelmed by all that she had been told, and by the knowledge that the wall, like her father’s mind, appeared to be crumbling. Tears welled up, and the color rushed to her face.
“What have I done that you should hate me so much?” she cried.
The marquis looked up at an invisible point just above her head and rang the bell again with force.
“Please tell me,” said Sido.
He still refused to look at her. “Been born, and once born, been a mere girl.”
“Is that my only crime?”
“How dare you ask such impertinent questions in front of such distinguished company? Leave the room. I wish to see no more of you.”
“Why?” said Sido. “Why, when we should stand together, do you treat me so?”
“Be quiet. I will not be spoken to in this way. You moan and groan like some peasant.”
The marquis got up and walked toward the door. “Tell my valet that I shall be dining in my apartment.”
“He has left, like the rest of the servants,” said Sido.
“Out of my way,” said the marquis as he pushed past her, his head held high. “My guests are waiting.”
After he had gone Sido slid miserably down onto the floor. Who could save them now? Kalliovski?
She went back down to the kitchen to find Jean still sitting at the table.
“I take it he didn’t like what he was told?”
“He wouldn’t listen. He loathes me. He said it would have been better if I’d never been born. I should have died along with my mother, then he would have been rid of me.”
“Don’t say that, mademoiselle. It would have been a terrible waste.”
“If I had been a son, would he have loved me? And if I didn’t limp? Everything I do is wrong.”
Jean looked at Sido. “If it is of any comfort, mademoiselle, I don’t think the marquis cares for anyone or anything,
apart from his possessions. He is like an actor who needs the whole stage to himself. There is no room for anyone else, not even his daughter.”
“But what can I do?” said Sido.
“Nothing. No matter how much you try to please him, even if, God forbid, you lay down your life for him, he will never love you. It would be best just to accept this, and let acceptance make you stronger. I am sorry to speak out of turn, mademoiselle, but that’s how I see it. Is there no other family you can turn to?”
“There’s my mother’s sister in London. She is married to an Englishman, a Mr. Laxton.”
“Well, then,” said Jean, “what’s the sad face for? At least you know there’s someone who will be pleased to see you.”
“Yes, but how would I ever get to England?” said Sido.
“Goodness knows, but if things carry on as they are, you may be glad to have relatives there. If it is of any comfort, Bernard and I have worked out an escape route from the château in case the mob should come. Shall I show you?”
He took a lantern from the dresser and guided her out of the kitchen and down the steps that led to the wine cellar. “Follow me,” he said, pushing back a small wooden door and lifting the lantern high to show her a long tunnel.
“Where does that go?” asked Sido with surprise.
“To the stables. It was built so that your father would not have to see any tradesmen unloading wagons. You never know, his vanity may yet save us.”
Sido smiled.
“That’s better. Bernard is going to keep a carriage ready night and day. Does that make you feel a little less fearful?”
For the next two nights Sido hardly slept. Certain that they would be attacked at any moment, she watched from her window, looking for lights and figures amongst the dark shadows. Only as dawn broke did she allow herself to lie down.
A week later, what Sido had been dreading finally happened. At two o’clock in the morning there was a sudden terrible sound that broke the stillness of the night. She looked into the garden and saw a small army of people advancing on the château, carrying torches and singing loudly, emboldened by wine.
Quickly she dressed and ran to the marquis’s bedchamber, just as Jean burst through the door. The marquis was standing by the window in his robe, looking in disbelief at the crowd down below.
“Who let them in?”
“No one did, Papa. They stormed the wall.”
“Impossible.”
At that moment the window broke. A burning torch landed on the floor and rolled toward the four-poster bed, setting the drapery alight. Sido grabbed a jug and threw water on the flames, while Jean seized the hangings and tried to smother them. It was no use. No sooner had he done so than another torch was thrown in. Downstairs they could hear the sound of breaking glass and hammering on the front door.
“We must leave,” said Jean. “They’ll be in the house at any moment.”
“Not without my buckles,” said the marquis. “I won’t leave without them.”
He pushed open the door to the antechamber. The room was ablaze and he staggered back from the billowing smoke.
“Hurry!” shouted Jean as the marquis desperately tried to beat out the flames to get to his beloved buckles. “If you don’t come now, we’re leaving you.”
The front door gave way and a sound like a wave came crashing into the hall.
In desperation, the marquis grabbed a red-hot buckle and let out a piercing scream as the burning silver branded his hand. Like a wounded child he allowed Jean to lead him down the secret passages, while all around them they could hear the sounds of furniture being broken, ornaments destroyed, and the roar of the fire about to engulf the château.
They rushed down to the cellar, closing the door behind them and stacking baskets of bottles against it in the hope of delaying the mob. Jean went ahead as they groped their way along the dark musty corridor that led to the stables.
Bernard was waiting, trying to calm the two terrified horses that he had harnessed to a carriage. The other horses he had let run wild.
The marquis, on seeing that it was not his finest carriage, demanded that the horses be unharnessed immediately and his gilded coach used instead.
“Get in!” shouted Bernard, losing his patience.
“Surely you don’t expect me to travel in a carriage intended for the use of servants?”
“Please, Papa,” implored Sido, who was already inside. She looked back and saw the château lit red against the sky as the mob began to move toward the stables.
With great presence of mind, Bernard and Jean pushed the marquis into the carriage and set off at full speed. The mob ran after them, throwing stones that ricocheted off the coach, one breaking the back window and hitting the marquis on the head. They were all thrown across the carriage as it swayed dangerously from side to side, bumping over stones from the fallen wall.
There was no choice as to direction. An angry crowd of peasants was waiting, blocking the road leading to Versailles and Normandy.
The marquis, stunned, sat in the corner of the carriage. Blood trickled down his forehead as he looked back at his beloved château, now consumed by flames.
They reached Paris just as the gates were opening. The gatekeeper, who was more used to seeing people trying to leave than entering, opened the carriage door and sniffed at the all too familiar smell of burned clothes and hair.
He smiled at the marquis, who was sitting in his dressing robe, without his wig, and said with relish, “Now you’re one of us. No more the great man, eh, citizen?”
The marquis, who had appeared to be in a trance for most of the journey, looked at the gatekeeper, astonished.
“You are without doubt the ugliest man I have ever had the misfortune to encounter,” he said in a dismissive tone.
“What’s that?” said the gatekeeper, leaping inside the carriage and grabbing hold of him. “You say that again if you dare.”
“Please,” begged Sido, “my father is not himself. He has lost his mind. Surely you can see that?”
The gatekeeper looked at her and then threw the marquis back onto the seat of the carriage like a sack of flour.
“Are you here by appointment, my man?” asked the marquis.
“Am I what, citizen?”
“You see,” said Sido, “he is not well.”
The gatekeeper brushed himself down and looked at Jean. “And who are you, citizen?”
“This is a friend of the family,” said Sido quickly. “He is helping me take my father to the nuns at the Hôtel-Dieu. They will care for him there.”
Jean took the basket that he had had foresight to bring with him and handed it to the gatekeeper. “It must be hungry work, checking all these coaches for traitors to the Revolution. I admire your dedication, citizen.”
The gatekeeper’s mouth began to water as he pulled back the cloth and looked hungrily at the pâté, bread, and cheese. His face was so thin that his cheekbones made a bridge across the flat planes of his features. He took the basket. “Away with you, and don’t let me see him come this way again. Is that understood?”
Early as it was, the heat of the city wrapped itself around them as they made their way through the eerie, deserted streets.
Sido had asked Bernard to drive to the Duchesse de Lamantes’s town house on the Place Royale, which was the only address she knew. They arrived to find it full of packing cases and the duchess preparing to leave. The marquis sat down on a crate, staring before him like a statue, while the duchess, in dismay, addressed herself to Sido.
“My dear child, why on earth did you come to Paris? It’s not safe here. I am leaving, going abroad. Did your father not read my letter?”
“No,” said Sido.
“Oh dear.” Almost in a whisper, she asked, “And have you seen Kalliovski?”
“No.”
The duchess looked around, terrified, as if she expected him to be standing nearby listening, like a cat waiting for a mouse to move.
“
I have found someone who will help me to escape. I advise you to do the same. You won’t be able to leave without a passport, though, and they are like gold dust. Have you any money?”
“No,” said Sido, “we have nothing.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, did the marquis not make any arrangements? ”
“No.”
The marquis, his hand held out before him, muttered, “My collection of buckles was even more valuable than the king’s.”
“I do advise you,” said the duchess, ignoring him, “to leave here as soon as you can. They are arresting all aristocrats as traitors. The prisons are full. It will end in a bloodbath.” She went over to her desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “By all means stay, but I beg of you, if Kalliovski does come looking for you, not to tell him where I’ve gone. This is the person you should use to get you out of Paris. I will tell him you need help.” She glanced at the marquis. “I will pay him to get you both out.”
“Thank you,” said Sido, “oh, thank you for your kindness.”
“In these troubled times we must support each other,” said the duchess, kissing Sido. “Good-bye. I hope we will all meet again in London.”
The marquis looked very grave and replied, “I knew, of course, the minute whalebone corsets went out of fashion that things were coming to a pretty pass.”
Sido watched as the duchess left and then looked at the piece of paper she had been given. On it was written the name of a Mr. Tull.
chapter twenty-three
The gates to Paris were now barricaded, for there was a tangible fear that the enemies of France were poised to take the city. Everyone coming or going was a potential spy, or a counterrevolutionary trying to escape, every coach suspected of carrying an aristocrat or a member of the clergy. Papers were lingered over and bribes given.
Yann and his fellow passengers stood in a line. A lady from their party became quite alarmed to see her portmanteau opened and her garments sniggered over by the National Guard.