The English Heiress (35 page)

“The queen might,” Roger pointed out, “although I think she would be far more careful about what she tried to put in the boy’s mouth than what she tried to put into her husband’s. She is not a stupid woman. Perhaps she has learned.”

“I doubt she could cause trouble. The Girondists would be looking for the slightest excuse to imprison her again or exile her. Oh Roger, if it could only work, it would be best for us too.”

“Yes,” Roger agreed. “Once the monarchy was reestablished, the other nations would be willing to make peace—at least, I hope they would. That could occur only if no one decides to take advantage of the inevitable civil war—for there will be civil war, Leonie. The radicals will not give up without a bitter fight. If, as I say, Austria and Prussia and my own dear, generous government do not decide that the civil war will provide the right moment to dismember France—”

“They wouldn’t!” Leonie exclaimed.

“They might. However, they will get short shrift. If there is a unified government that has the trust of the provinces, France will throw them off. The English government, I am sure, will come to terms as soon as they have their hand slapped. They really have very little taste for war; the commoners are businessmen and small landholders who don’t like the taxes war brings or the interference with trade.”

“So there will be peace and we can go to England—home to England.”

Leonie’s eyes rested on Roger. For the moment he was relaxed, although when she said “home” a look of longing crossed his face. It was odd, she thought, that she should call England home and feel a true desire to be there—a place she had never seen—yet she knew that anywhere Roger was would be her home. She turned away and busied herself with some unnecessary task at the stove to hide eyes suddenly full of tears.

Since Roger had spoken to Fouché about obtaining passports, Leonie had given considerable thought to living in England. She found she did want to live there, but she was less and less sure she could be content to have Roger only as a lover. He had a profession, a home, a son, a large family. How often would he be able to visit her? How much time would he dare spend when he did visit—a few hours? Leonie thought of the long empty days and nights. She had no friends or relatives. She would have to live alone, with a companion, perhaps, to give her countenance.

She tried to push those thoughts away, telling herself that Roger would not abandon her. He said he loved her. He would find a way. Deep inside, a voice cried—if he loves you, why doesn’t he marry you? She tried not to listen to that ugly voice, but it was hard to ignore it. And the day before, the fishmonger’s wife had said something to her when she had come in to buy mussels that had wakened both a new hope and a new problem in her. The beginning had been innocent enough. The woman teased her about her cooking experiments that sent Roger to the cafetier for three days. Leonie had given a light answer to the effect that she was buying mussels to prevent that happening again.

“One cannot spoil mussels, after all,” she said.

“Ah, but you do right,” the woman replied. “Now is the time to tease him and be sharp and make him run errands and cook meals that cannot be eaten. Then, when you are heavy with child and ugly, you can bind him to you with sweetness of disposition and delicious food.”

Somehow Leonie had managed a reply that did not betray her, but she was aghast. Not that she thought Roger would stray from a woman he loved because she was swollen and petulant with pregnancy. He was too tenderhearted for that. What had shocked Leonie was the realization that she was not pregnant. She had been living with Roger for over nine months and she had never missed her flux. She had not conceived of Louis either, but he had told her he would take care that she should not. Was Roger taking care also? What that a sign he would not marry her under any circumstances?

Leonie did not doubt for a moment that Roger would marry her if she got with child. She was not a shop girl but a de Conyers, and there could not be any doubt, after all this time, that the child was his. For a moment, Leonie was suffused with delight at the thought. She would have Roger and his child also. Then reality intruded. It was reality that brought tears to her eyes. The fact was that she was not with child, and although she could not guess what he was doing to prevent it, Leonie was ignorant enough to believe that her inability to conceive was Roger’s doing. Ah well, she told herself as her tears dried in the heat of the stove, probably he is doing it for my sake. It would increase their danger manyfold to have an infant or even for her to be swollen and unwieldy. This is a dangerous game we are playing, she thought. Who knows whether we will get to England at all.

The game was indeed dangerous, but either they were blessed with unusual good luck or de Rocheville was as clever and skillful as he was gallant. Roger came to believe the latter as the weeks passed and more and more men and women were funneled out of Paris. His house was only one of many that were used, he guessed, yet it was used with frequency. By the end of June, the people who passed through Roger’s hands were obviously no longer deputies of the convention. Some may well have been English or Austrian spies—Roger did not ask because he didn’t want to know—but many were simply people who needed to escape because they were threatened by imprisonment and death.

Once Roger said exasperatedly to de Rocheville that he was scarcely more secure than those he was helping to escape.

“Their need is more immediate,” de Rocheville replied simply. “You will not be forgotten, I assure you. If you are in real peril, we will open the gates for you also.” Then he frowned and cleared his throat. “If you wish to send Mademoiselle de Conyers…”

“I wish it with all my heart,” Roger sighed—which was true and not true at the same time, of course. “But she will not go and swears that I drug her or bind her she will escape and come back.” That was absolutely true, for Roger had once in a fury threatened to do just that to Leonie.

“I thought it might be so,” de Rocheville remarked, his face expressionless and his voice perfectly neutral.

“She believes she is serving her country,” Roger grated.

Then de Rocheville smiled. “Ah yes,” he murmured, making Roger wish he had held his tongue. “Women have become quite passionate about politics, have they not?”

Chapter Eighteen

Roger did not often protest against the “guests” de Rocheville sent to his home. The haggard faces of the men who passed through his house, the women who trembled and wept in Leonie’s arms, were sufficient evidence that they must continue to do whatever they could to help as long as they could. It would not be much longer, Roger feared. The hopes he and Leonie had discussed during the early days of June had died swiftly. Instead of joining forces with the royalists and coming to terms with them so that a unified front could be presented against the radical foes, both royalist and Girondist allowed their differences to prevail. Revolution against the dictates of the government in Paris flared, but it was disorganized and sporadic.

The opposition, of course, inspired even greater violence and suppression. Anyone who had ever been heard to oppose or even grieve over the massacres of September or the execution of the king—indeed, almost anyone who had been on speaking terms with a person who had expressed anti-Jacobin views—was regarded as a criminal. Also, the war was going very badly. The English had taken Dunkirk, and the Austrians the city of Valenciennes; Mainz had been handed over to the Prussians by treason; the Spanish invaded France at both ends of the Pyrenees.

This was particularly dangerous to Roger. If his accent were recognized as foreign—as Toulon had recognized it as English—he might be seized as a spy, even though there was no reason to suspect him. Then a weird act of violence—the murder of the darling of the mobs, Marat—by a sweet, gentle-looking woman from Normandy complicated everything. The sans-culottes went wild, attacking and looting anyone or anything they decided was “provincial”. To Roger’s and Leonie’s sorrow, the Café Breton was destroyed and the Aunays murdered. Fortunately, before the mob got around to Roger’s area, they had been pacified by the state funeral for Marat designed and presented by Jacques Louis David. Marat’s coffin was followed by young girls dressed in white, by the whole of the convention—at least, those who had not fled or been arrested—and by representatives of the Sections. Incense was sprinkled, revolutionary hymns were sung. Marat was changed by death from a diseased, repulsive, murderous madman to a pure martyr.

It was the death knell of all moderation in general and of the Girondists in particular. By the end of July the rising they had inspired in Normandy and that headed by royalists in Brittany were both defeated. Free of the fear that their friends would storm Paris, the remains of the convention decreed that those Girondists who had not fled would be subjected to a mass trial. To be certain of the result, a law was passed that permitted the jury, after hearing evidence for three days, to declare that they were “sufficiently enlightened” and the judge could order the trial ended. There were still people sympathetic to the Girondist point of view, however. In addition, the demands of the war and the battle against the rebellious provinces would call for great sacrifices. Therefore, Robespierre, who was not one of the dominant figures in the convention, decided to distract the people from the fate of the Girondists and the new hardships that were about to be inflicted by a more appealing sideshow. In August it was announced that Marie Antoinette, the hated Austrian who had seduced the French king into oppressing his people, would be tried for her crimes. She had already been moved from the Temple and was lodged in the Conciergerie prison.

To Roger’s relief, Leonie did not react much to the announcement of the queen’s imminent trial. She was sorry for Marie Antoinette, who would certainly be convicted and executed for crimes of which she was not guilty; however the queen was not completely innocent either. There could be no doubt that she had attempted to make her husband resist reform of any kind, had been dissipated and frivolous. Her “crimes” were not such as should call for the punishment she would receive, but Leonie was too aware of the horrible deaths of truly innocent people like the Aunays to be much moved by the queen’s troubles. Every few days the fugitives who passed through their house reminded her that the same fate awaited those who had never had power or influence and who had been condemned without any real reason by the bloody Committee of Public Safety.

It was not only Roger and Leonie who were being pushed into an interest in refugees. When the royalist uprising in Brittany was defeated at the end of July, the convention sent commissioners to extirpate any further seeds of rebellion. Pierre Restoir had taken no part in the uprisings, for he had no greater affection for the king’s government than for that of the “people”. Neither had ever troubled him, for he had no love for show and lived quietly in a small Breton fishing village. The large profits he made from his illegal enterprises had been turned into gold pieces and hidden safely so that neither king nor people could rob him for the “good of the nation”.

Pierre was annoyed when war was declared on England in February. The immediate reaction, he knew, would be to make everyone—even the men with whom he had done business for years—think of him as a “Frenchman” and possibly as a spy. Thus, from February 1793 through end of July of that year, he confined his activities actually to fishing. What with the disruption in the country, food was scarce and he was getting an excellent price for his fish.

The bloody terror inflicted on Brittany after the defeat of the royalists was something outside Pierre’s normal experience. He was accustomed to injustices of government, to oppression, high taxation, even to a judicial murder now and again, but the wholesale imprisonment and slaughter taking place in Brittany added a new dimension to Pierre’s conviction that all government was bad. He did not change that view, only came to the opinion that some governments were even worse than others. He was not inclined by this conclusion to attempt to establish a better government—Pierre did not think in such terms—but he was impelled to do whatever he could do to disrupt and irritate the officers of the present detestable regime.

Just about the time that Roger was drawn into de Rocheville’s schemes, Pierre began to smuggle again—only now his cargo was human. Most of the time, to his pleasure, he did quite as well financially from this enterprise as he did from carrying wine and lace. For one thing, the émigrés were so eager to leave that they provided Pierre more profit per hundredweight than an equal load of brandy. For another, the exhausted and terrified human freight he carried was not unwelcome to the authorities of England. For the first time in his life Pierre did not need to dodge naval and revenue vessels. Sometimes the refugees would be taken aboard English ships; sometime he was escorted to the nearest port to discharge his passengers. This made his channel crossing short, swift and sure, and permitted him to make more frequent voyages.

However, other areas of France had developed an equal distaste for their present leaders. The idealism that had choked off Pierre’s tax-free supply of liquor had waned sharply. By November 1793 word came through the old network that, if Pierre wanted it, a substantial cargo could be assembled. Pierre considered the fact that, in all probability, his old customers were bone dry by now, and the wine and brandy would fetch a handsome price. In addition, he had been wondering for some months how Roger’s venture had turned out. It had been a long time, he thought, since he had seen his friend. Thus, in the first week of December, after his cargo was unloaded, he made his way quietly to the Soft Berth. His approach was cautious. He did not wish to be taken up as a French spy. However, his welcome by the landlord was hearty, if private, and he was given Sir Joseph’s original letter plus a second one that had been written in September.

In the quiet of the landlord’s own parlor, Pierre read both letters. The first made him frown and whistle worriedly through his teeth. The second made him curse, luridly and obscenely. In it Sir Joseph reported that he had received further news of Roger by word of mouth. One of the émigrés had been personally known to Leonie and Roger had taken the chance of sending a message to his father. Sir Joseph now knew the address of the shop in the rue de la Corderie, and he passed this along, together with the information that he was very much worried by the use to which the token he had given had been put. If anything, Pierre was even more worried than Sir Joseph because he did not discount, as Sir Joseph did, the horror stories told by the émigrés. Pierre had seen the commissioners of the Committee of Public Safety at work.

He did not communicate his fears to Roger’s father in the note he wrote to say he had received his letters, only assured him that he would do his best to obtain news and pass it back. However, he revolved the problem in his mind, came to the conclusion that Roger had gotten himself into real trouble, and decided he had better be dragged out of Paris as fast as possible. Pierre was unable to act on this resolution immediately. When he returned home, he found an urgent message awaiting him concerning a new boatload of refugees. As much as he wished to rescue Roger, it was impossible for Pierre to ignore the more acute and perilous situation of his prospective passengers, or the substantial sums they were offering for transportation.

Pierre made a quick trip although the weather was foul, and while he was battling the storm on his return voyage a brilliant idea occurred to him. Why shouldn’t he sail right into Paris? Not in the Bonne Lucie, of course, but in a small fishing vessel that could navigate the Seine. If he had been fishing and was blown off course by a storm, it would be perfectly reasonable for him to unload his fish in Paris rather than have them go bad while he beat his way back to his usual home port. It would be much easier, Pierre thought, and quicker too, to arrange Roger’s escape by boat. There was no trouble obtaining a suitable boat, but Pierre had to spend three weeks fishing and selling fish before the right kind of storm blew him in the right direction.

Long before Pierre made his decision, Roger and Leonie had been in considerably more danger than either Sir Joseph or Pierre realized. Despite their lack of interest in the fate of the queen, they found themselves involved in her affairs again. On the night of August twenty-seventh Fifi again warned Roger and Leonie that someone was coming down the alley. It was already late and they were preparing to go to sleep. Roger hurriedly bundled up the quilts they used as a bed and hid them while Leonie rushed upstairs to warn the guests already in the house. Roger waited tensely. Perhaps it was only a thief or someone who had a reason to visit secretly one of the other houses that backed on the alley. If not, it was trouble. De Rocheville had never before sent two groups of guests at the same time, and he always provided warning in advance when the guests would move on.

It was trouble, but not the kind Roger was braced for, not the kind Leonie waited for, pistol in hand, not the kind that trembling guests expected, crouched under the trapdoor, ready to climb out the moment they heard Roger’s voice raised in the protesting cue words—”There is no one above but my wife, and she is in bed, asleep.” It was, instead, de Rocheville, tense with excitement, talking softly as he pulled his boots back on.

“I will move the people tomorrow,” he said, “and there will be no one else until the night of September second. You will have only one guest that night, a lady—a great lady.”

On hearing the soft voices, Leonie had peeked down the stairs. Now she came all the way down and her eyes met Roger’s over de Rocheville’s head. “It is a long way from the Conciergerie to this house,” she said.

“That is no problem. She will be accompanied by Michonis, who is a well-known officer of the gendarmerie, and two gendarmes—myself and Baron Friedrich von Trenk. He—”

“Michonis is a commissioner of the commune,” Roger interrupted. “Is it wise—”

“This is not the first time he has tried to help the queen,” de Rocheville replied. “He was in that business with Toulon.”

“Yes, and that was betrayed,” Roger said sourly.

“It was not betrayed. In any case, not by Michonis. It was abandoned because Simon became suspicious. He is the man,” de Rocheville’s lips twisted in angry distaste, “an illiterate shoemaker—and a bad one at that—who is now president of the Temple, and believe it or not, he has sole charge of the queen.”

“Why did Simon become suspicious?” Roger persisted.

A faint unease passed across de Rocheville’s face. “I am not sure,” he conceded, “perhaps some careless expressions… But certainly there was no deliberate betrayal. The fact that Toulon and Lepitre are alive is proof of that.”

That might be true, but Toulon and Lepitre were men with powerful connections in the Jacobin group. An attack on them might have been considered an attack on their whole party. Also, conditions now were far worse than they had been then. Watch committees had been established to certify the loyalty and background of every person. Roger and Leonie had barely managed to pass the investigation. Fortunately, the shopkeepers near his previous residence, whom he had helped protect from the mob, had been willing to swear that the statements Roger made about himself and his wife were true. They had no way of knowing, and of course, the statements were a mass of fabrications, but they remembered what Roger had saved them from and were grateful. Roger and Leonie had cleared the next hurdle also. When general conscription was ordered in August, they were afraid he would be shipped off to the front to repair weapons. This time his services to the commissioners stood him in good stead. Roger had been allowed to remain in Paris, but his private business was severely curtailed. Now he serviced the guns of the gendarmerie.

The latter was another problem. These days the gendarmes were in and out of his shop constantly. They came singly and also in groups. “I have no way of knowing,” Roger pointed out to de Rocheville, “whether a group of men is coming to have guns worked on or to search my house. Is the queen capable of climbing onto the roof and lying in the hot sun or in the rain? Do you want to take this chance with so great a lady?”