From where Yann was standing, he could see people pulling wildly at the doors, rocking them violently from side to side. The coach looked like a huge black beetle being swarmed over by ants. He could hear Kalliovski shouting that he was a friend of the people. Some men had now climbed on top of the roof and were about to put their axes through it, waiting to make firewood of the coach and its passengers.
He could see the automaton being flung out, ripped limb from waxen limb, as Balthazar snarled, savage and futile. Then he became aware that Sido had been dragged out, her arms pinned behind her and a knife at her throat. Didier was battling to get to her, but Yann knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it in time and for a moment he could hardly think straight. Then he realized he could see threads of light surrounding her. He felt his fingers tingle with excitement.
Yann pulled hard at the threads of light. The knife flew free of Sido’s throat and stabbed a man some way away. The victim screamed with pain and collapsed, while Sido’s captor looked on amazed. In that moment Yann lifted him off his feet and threw him so that he fell backward into a startled and unwelcoming mob.
Those who witnessed these events were convinced that there was an invisible force at play amongst them. They prayed it was on their side.
Sido felt as if she was in a nightmare. She hadn’t seen Yann, let alone heard him call out, “Run!”
It was too late. Another man came forward to grab hold of her. Sweat was beginning to roll down Yann’s forehead as he pulled once more at the threads of light. The man holding Sido, terrified by this invisible foe, let go of her and started to wield his axe around and around his head. There was a scream of anguish as it flew out of his grasp and landed in the red bonnet of one of his comrades. Before he could do anything, Yann lifted him as high as he could and dropped him onto the crowd below.
Didier now took his chance. He charged toward Sido like a bull and hauled her up on his shoulders.
“It’s all right,” he said urgently as she tried to resist him, “look,” and he pointed at Yann, standing on the parapet of the bridge. To her eyes he looked as an avenging angel might.
By now the crowd was in a fever of rage, like some grotesque creature that had started to feed upon its own flesh. Fighting had broken out, panic had set in. Yann leaped down, and following Didier they wove their way through the mob.
Yann caught a glimpse of Kalliovski, then he was engulfed by the crowd. His gravel-deep voice rose in one last cry.
“You will never get away from me! I will find you!” Then his words were drowned by the shouts of “Kill the traitors to the Revolution!”
When at last they were off the bridge Didier put Sido down. Yann took her hand and they pushed their way through the crowds.
“Where’re you taking her? She’s an aristo like him,” a voice screamed. The woman was an apparition of ghastliness, her teeth black, her hair wild, with the smell of the fish market. She screamed it out again.
“No,” shouted Yann, “no, you’re wrong. That bastard had snatched her from me. She’s my sweetheart.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t even turn around to see if they were being followed, and at last they broke free of the mob. Now they were running until all three were completely out of breath. Sido, gasping for air, pulled at Yann’s hand.
“I can’t go any farther.”
There were just forty-five minutes left to get to the meeting point.
They stopped and Didier, leaning his back against a wall, turned his head this way and that. In the distance they could just hear the faint sound of the crowds and of cannons being fired.
Yann, his heart pounding with excitement, could hardly believe what they had done. He laughed out loud and looked at Sido.
“Life is life!” he shouted.
Sido needed no one to tell her what that meant, she who only a few hours ago had narrowly missed death and had now escaped marriage to a man she detested. Instead, by some strange magic she could not understand, she was alive and free and with the person she had dreamed of in those dark hours in her prison cell. Oh yes, life was life, and may it never stop being so.
chapter thirty-four
It was now five minutes past four o’clock. Têtu was sitting in a deserted café near the gate of St. Denis, while the coachman across the road held fast to the horses, frightened more of losing them than of losing the carriage. Horses in a city at war, he knew well, were more valuable than gold.
Monsieur Aulard chewed nervously at his fingers, as he had not done since childhood, wondering what on earth could have happened to Didier and Yann. The street was eerily quiet. Occasionally shutters would be gingerly opened and he would see a frightened face peering out. No doubt the residents were wondering whom the carriage was waiting for and how long it would be before the enemy came marching in through the gates.
Never had the theater manager wished more that horses didn’t snort quite so loudly or that their bridles and harnesses didn’t sound like alarm bells going off. They were attracting unwanted attention, of that he was certain.
“Where are they?” he said desperately, taking out his pocket watch and opening and closing it for the umpteenth time.
Têtu, despite his earlier concerns, seemed unperturbed by the fact that they hadn’t arrived. He had his eyes shut and his feet up on a chair in front of him.
They had both come from Maître Tardieu. The old lawyer looked as if his heart wouldn’t hold out much longer.
“This will be the death of me,” he had said miserably as he had scurried away to dig out the jewels, terrified that his every movement was being watched by some invisible eye that could see straight into the heart of his molehill house. He had virtually thrown the bag of gems at Têtu, begging him to take them and be gone, relieved that at long last he could be free of this incriminating evidence.
"Think,” said Têtu cheerfully to Monsieur Aulard, "you could be sitting in your theater, bored rigid by the patriotic rubbish you have to put on. Instead you’re here, center stage in a real life drama for a change.”
“Mort bleu, mort bleu! Are you trying to be funny?” said poor Monsieur Aulard, pausing from chewing his nails to wipe the beads of sweat from his face.
“They’ll be here any minute,” said Têtu reassuringly. He stood up and went to pay at the café bar. “Patience, my friend, patience.”
Monsieur Aulard followed Têtu as far as the middle of the road, where he stopped, hoping upon hope that Yann and Didier might turn up. But the street remained empty.
Têtu walked past him toward the coachman, who was as jittery as a carpet full of fleas.
“Better get ready. They will be here shortly.”
“Where? But where?” said Monsieur Aulard, waving his arms wildly. “There is no sign of them.”
Without even turning around Têtu said, "Look again.”
Monsieur Aulard was a man who had spent his whole life working in the theater. A man who could boast of having been born in the dressing room between the acts of a Voltaire play, a man who after recent events most sincerely believed that nothing could ever surprise him again, but who was completely taken aback by the sight of Yann, Sido, and Didier suddenly appearing in the road before him like a mirage. So much so that he was stripped of the tools of his trade. Words simply failed him.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” said Yann. “We had a hell of a time getting here.”
"I can imagine,” said Têtu, bowing graciously. "My dear young lady, we meet again and it is with great pleasure.”
“It is so good to see you too, sir,” said Sido.
The driver, relieved at last to have his passengers, climbed down and opened the carriage door.
“Your documents are all in order,” said Têtu. “You should have no trouble traveling. You’re going as brother and sister, Sarah and Robert Laxton. You are meeting Charles Cordell in Dieppe, at the Hôtel de Paris. He has chartered a boat. I have already sent a messenger to say that you will be there in the early hou
rs of the—”
Monsieur Aulard interrupted him, anxious to speak to Sido.
“Since your papers state that you are both English, it might be best to let Yann do all the talking. Now, the reason for your stay is that you have been at school here learning French and due to the political unrest your brother has come to take you home. I’ve packed some clothes from the theater for you—you can’t travel in your prison clothes—and enough food for the journey. You will be stopping just outside Paris so that you can change.”
While Monsieur Aulard talked away, Têtu took Yann aside and spoke to him in Romany so that they would not be overheard.
“You’ve done well. I knew you would. What of Kalliovski?”
“The last I saw of him he had been overpowered by the crowd and they were in a murderous mood,” said Yann. "I don’t see how he can have survived.”
Têtu looked relieved. Now Yann would never need to know the truth of who his father was.
“Let’s hope you’re right. Yann, I’m proud of you. Now hurry, get Sido to Dieppe and come back as soon as you can. This is not over. You promise?”
“I promise.”
Earlier that morning, happy was not a word Sido imagined she would ever use again, but despite all that had happened, happy was what she felt, unbelievably so, as the carriage made its way through the St. Denis gate and Paris disappeared from sight as the windmills of Montmartre came into view.
Yann, sitting opposite her, smiled, and they both burst out laughing, at what, they didn’t know. At the fact that they had done the impossible? At how fate and luck had been with them? What did it matter? They were on the road to Dieppe. They talked of everything and nothing, with the ease of long-lost friends. All Sido’s shyness was gone.
The coach stopped at the inn at Pontoise, a low, timbered building that bustled with people and coaches, none heading in the direction of Paris, all relieved to be away from the city and all hoping to reach the coast. Inside, the rooms were packed with customers waiting to be served, elated that they were, so they believed, as good as free. Some spoke loudly and carelessly, their voices betraying their aristocratic roots.
Yann instinctively disliked the place. The innkeeper, a hard-looking man, appeared to be encouraging these unwise fools while others, more timid, stayed quiet, pressing themselves against the walls. All the comings and goings were overseen by the innkeeper’s wire-thin wife, whose tiny buttonlike eyes saw everything and missed nothing. The main room had tables and gnarled wooden beams that loomed oppressively over the diners as if they too were keen to hear what secrets were being told.
While Sido went to change her clothes, Yann found a table in the corner by the fireplace, where he could keep an eye on the door.
He looked around him, seeing frightened people who hoped that their passports would be good enough to take them through to London. Some, he was sure, were without even the money for food, having spent all they had just to get out of the city.
At the next table sat a group of men who had drunk more wine than was good for them, all talking loudly. Every time their glasses were empty the innkeeper kindly refilled them. Where was their driver? Yann wondered. He had a strong feeling that the man had taken their money and fled.
One of the men stood up, swaying slightly, and bowed when Sido came back into the room.
“Get up, you libertines,” he shouted to his friends. “Can’t you tell when a lady of breeding has entered the room?” With a clatter of chairs, all the men rose and bowed, so that those at the other tables looked curiously at her.
Yann whispered urgently to her as she sat down, “Don’t speak. We’re leaving. Just follow me.”
It was too late. At that moment the door to the inn was thrown open and three soldiers in National Guard uniform entered. Yann knew that escape was now impossible. He watched, certain that the innkeeper and his wife were well acquainted with these men. The customers all shifted in their seats like a shoal of fish that know sharks are near.
The man in charge, an officer of sorts, had a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from granite. His nose had a gobbet of snot hanging from it, which he wiped on his sleeve. He looked around the room, inspecting the customers.
“I see before me, if my eyes don’t deceive me, which they don’t, men who should be doing their duty for France and the Motherland instead of sneaking off to England like the aristocratic rats they are. Your papers, vermin!”
The other two soldiers started to go through the room, pushing and shoving the customers. One of the group at the next table, winking to his companions, held up a bag of coins and whispered something to one of the soldiers, who spat on the floor and slipped the purse into his pocket.
“Another charitable contribution to the war fund!” he shouted out, lifting the man’s arm up high above his head. “Thought he could bribe his way out of being a traitor.”
No doubt, thought Yann, this and everything else they gathered would be divided among the innkeeper, his wife, and the three soldiers.
The same soldier made a great show of examining the men’s passports.
“Look at this,” he guffawed. “Forgeries, every one of them.” He handed the passports to the officer.
The travelers started to protest. The officer ignored them. “Take them,” he ordered. “They’ll enjoy a night trip to Paris.”
More and more of the customers were dragged out. At last only the regulars and Yann and Sido were left.
Now all eyes turned to watch the last bit of sport until more coaches arrived from Paris and the whole show began over again.
“What have we got here?” said the officer, leering at Sido. “A pretty little aristo if ever I saw one.”
"Excuse me, sir,” said Yann in broken French. "Where are your manners? This is my sister you are speaking to. We are English.”
“English?” said the officer, snatching their passports. “You English? You’re too dark to be an Englishman.” He sniffed and wiped his nose.
Yann could feel Sido shaking beside him and he put his arm firmly around her.
“Pretty, pretty little bird, what have you to say about your brother?”
Sido said nothing.
“Here to learn French, eh? Bet you can speak it like a native.”
The officer studied their papers again, holding them up to the light. He handed them back. “Well, you can go.”
Yann felt Sido move but he held her fast, knowing that to do so would give the game away.
“Go then! Don’t you understand any French?” bellowed the officer. It wasn’t until he had gestured toward the door that Yann and Sido walked out. The sight of all those wretched men and women rounded up, standing roped together on tumbrels, made Sido feel weak-kneed. She knew exactly where they were being taken. Back to the prisons and certain death.
“Stop!” shouted the officer, coming to the door after them and spitting onto the ground. “What did you say your names were?”
Yann carried on walking toward the carriage.
“Hey, you lad,” shouted the officer. Yann turned and made a gesture with his hand as if to say: “Is it me you want?”
The officer waved them away and relit his pipe. Ten out of ten stupid fools fall for that one, he thought, saying their names out loud and clear in French, titles and all. Either that young man was honest or he was one of the best actors he’d come across for a long time.
chapter thirty-five
Sido sat back in the carriage, her heart racing.
“All those people, and like us they thought they had escaped,” she said. The enormity of what had just happened made her shiver. Then, looking at Yann, she asked, “Do you think my father’s been killed?”
Yann nodded.
“I just hope he kept his arms behind him. I could see that those who tried to protect themselves had the slowest of deaths. What am I saying? I’m talking about killing people! Why? What has happened to us?” A tear rolled down her face. “It’s madness. I left my father without
a second thought because I’d grown tired of his hatred of me. Does that make me as bad as them?”
“No, Sido, it doesn’t.”
“And Kalliovski?”
"I can’t see how he could have survived that mob,” said Yann. “And it isn’t wrong to hope that today, when so many innocent people have been slaughtered, they might have found one guilty person who deserved it.”
“Is anyone truly innocent, I wonder. I thought I was, but look how I abandoned my father. I just left him to his fate.”
“Sido,” said Yann, “there was nothing you could have done. Today wasn’t about choice, it was about luck. You were one of the lucky ones.” He brought out a blanket and wrapped it around her. “You need to sleep, and then you’ll feel better.”
She curled up on the seat beside him with her head in his lap.
Yann sat staring out of the window. The sky was black and starless as they made their way with all haste toward Dieppe.
In the rocking motion of the carriage Sido fell fast asleep. Yann leaned back in the seat, lost in thought. He knew now what he was going to do. All those travelers tonight had needed help to escape. There must be better ways of getting people out of Paris than leaving them to the mercy of two-timing crooks like Mr. Tull and the innkeeper and his wife. The great hope of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, he thought sadly, that should have meant a better world for all, appeared to have been massacred by man’s own worst enemies: Stupidity, Greed, and Terror.
Looking back over the day’s events he realized that every time he had worked the threads of light he had become stronger at it, the pain in his head a little more bearable. What was he going to be capable of with practice? There was still so much to learn, so much Têtu had to teach him and tell him. He looked down at Sido and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, remembering how she had looked when he had first seen her asleep on that huge four-poster bed.
If things were different, if there were no Revolution, no war, no threads of light, if he were rich, would he go back to London with her and ask for her hand in marriage? He smiled, for the answer was simple. Yes, yes, he would.