Zipporah's Daughter

Farewell France

I HALF HOPED THAT Dickon would come back that night. I knew he would attempt to persuade me not to leave but when he saw that I was adamant, it might well be that he would come with me.

I longed for him to do that. I was terrified of what I would find when I returned to France and kept reproaching myself for leaving my father even though it was he himself who had insisted that I should do so.

Eversleigh was not far from Dover and the journey was quickly accomplished. The crossing was smooth, for the weather was good. It was when we reached the other side of the Channel that everything seemed different.

The July sun beat down on us; there seemed to be a stillness in the air, a breathlessness as though the country was waiting for some tremendous event. It was something in the atmosphere of the towns through which we passed. Sometimes we saw little knots of people standing together in the streets. They watched us furtively as we rode through; they seemed to be whispering together. Some of the towns were deserted and I imagined that people were peeping at us through their windows.

‘Everything seems to have changed in an odd sort of way,’ I said to one of the grooms.

He said that he noticed nothing.

We came to the town of Evreux and I remembered how, when I had first come to France with my father, we had stayed there. It seemed very different now. There was that same air of brooding menace which I had noticed in the towns and villages through which we had passed.

I was very relieved when the château came into sight. I spurred up my horse and rode into the courtyard. One of the grooms took the horse and I hurried into the castle. Lisette, who must have been watching from one of the windows came running into the hall.

‘Lisette!’ I cried.

‘So you have come, Lottie.’

‘I want to see my father at once.’

She looked at me and shook her head.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked quickly.

‘He was buried nearly a week ago. He died the day after I sent the message to you.’

‘Dead! My father! It is not possible.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was very ill. The doctors had told him.’

‘When?’ I cried. ‘When did the doctors tell him?’

‘Weeks ago. Before you went away.’

‘Then why … ?’

‘He must have wanted you to go.’

I sat down at the big oak table and stared at the long narrow windows without seeing them. I understood now. He had known how ill he had been and he had sent me to England because of that. He had never had any intention of coming with me, but he had said he would just to make me plan to leave and then when we were on the point of departure he had said he could not accompany us.

‘I should never have gone,’ I said.

Lisette lifted her shoulders and leaned against the table looking at me. If I had not been so stricken I might have noticed the change in her attitude. But I was too shocked, too immersed in my grief.

I went to his bedroom. She followed me there. The curtains were drawn back showing the empty bed. I knelt beside it and buried my face in my hands.

Lisette was still there. ‘It’s no use,’ she said. ‘He has gone.’

I went through his rooms. Empty. Then I went to the chapel and the mausoleum beyond. There was his tomb.

‘Gerard, Comte d’Aubigné’ and the date 1727 to 1789.

‘It was so quick,’ I murmured and I saw that Lisette was behind me.

‘You have been away a long time,’ she reminded me.

‘I should have been told.’

‘He wouldn’t have it. It was only when he was unable to give orders to prevent anyone’s sending for you that I acted as I thought was right.’

I went to my room. She was still with me. Then I saw that she was different and had been since my arrival. Everything had changed. I could not understand Lisette. She was not unhappy. There was something secretive in her manner. I did not know how to describe it. It was as though she was amused in some mysterious way.

I am imagining this, I told myself. I am suffering from acute shock.

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘I want to be alone for a while.’

She hesitated and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse to leave me.

Then she turned and was gone.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The night was hot … stifling. I was thinking of my father as I had never ceased to think of him since I had heard that he was ill and needing me.

Oh, why had I gone! Why hadn’t I guessed? He had seemed to grow older suddenly. I had thought that was due to the fact that he had lost my mother. Indeed, I had felt he never really wanted to go on living after he had lost her. And all the time he had known how ill he was and he had wanted me to go to England … to marry Dickon. He had been worried about what was happening in this country and had wanted me to find a secure haven outside it.

I thought of how happy I had been at Eversleigh—the rides, the walks, the verbal tussles with Dickon … how I had enjoyed them all. And all the time he was here … dying alone.

The door of my room opened suddenly and I started up in bed to see Lisette gliding into the room. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her.

‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ I said.

‘I didn’t,’ she answered. ‘It has happened. At last it is here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have just had the news. Did you hear the noise in the courtyard?’

‘No. Who … ’

‘News,’ she said. ‘News from Paris. The mobs are roaming the streets and the shopkeepers are barricading their shops.’

‘More riots!’ I cried.

Her eyes were shining. ‘Great men are speaking in the Palais Royal gardens. Desmoulins. Danton. Men like that.’

‘Who are these men?’ I asked.

She did not answer and went on: ‘They are wearing the colours of the Duc d’Orléans … red, white and blue … the tricolor. And listen, Lottie, this is the most important of all. The people have taken the Bastille. They have killed the governor, de Launay and have marched into the prison with his head on a pike. They have freed the prisoners … ’

‘Oh, Lisette. What does it mean? This rioting …’

Again that secret smile. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘it means the revolution has begun.’

It seemed a long time before the morning came. I sat at the window waiting …waiting for what I did not know. The countryside looked the same as ever—quiet and peaceful. At daybreak the household was astir. I could hear the servants excitedly talking. They shouted and laughed and I knew that they were discussing what had happened in Paris.

All through the day we waited for news. People were different. They seemed to watch me furtively and they seemed vaguely amused and secretive.

I saw nothing amusing in fearful riots when people went mad with fury and others lost their lives. Dickon had said it would come. Could it be that it already had?

An uneasy day was followed by an uneasy night. I felt lonely without the children but what a relief it was that they were not here!

Something was about to break. I wondered what I should do. Should I go back to England? There was nothing to keep me here now that my father was dead.

The rioting will die down, I told myself. The military will suppress it. But the Bastille … to storm a prison! That was a very big riot indeed … very different from the looting of shops which had been going on in the little towns all over the country on and off over the last few years.

I was trying to behave as normal, but there was nothing normal about the château. How could there be when my father was no longer there?

When I arose next morning I rang as usual for hot water. I waited … and waited. No one came. I rang again and still I waited.

I put on a robe and went down to the kitchens. They were deserted.

‘Where is everyone?’ I called.

It was Tante Berthe who finally came to me. She said: ‘Most of the servants have gone and those who haven’t are getting ready to leave.’

‘Leaving! Why? Where have they gone?’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘They are saying they will never wait on anyone again. Others think they might be blamed for serving the aristocrats and get what is being planned for them.’

‘What is going on?’

‘I wish I knew, Madame. It’s confusion … everywhere. There are rumours going round that they will march on all the châteaux and kill everyone in them.’

‘It’s nonsense.’

‘You know what servants are … without education … ready to believe any tale.’

‘You will not go will you, Tante Berthe?’

‘This has been my home for years. Monsieur le Comte was very good to me and mine. He would not have expected me to run away. I’ll stay and face whatever it is.’

‘Where is Lisette?’

Again that shrug of the shoulders.

‘I have scarcely seen her since the day I arrived.’

‘She knows what she is doing, I’ll swear. What did you come down for?’

‘Hot water,’ I said.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘Who is left in the château?’ I asked.

‘There’s the two in the turret.’

‘Jeanne is still here then?’

‘You don’t think she would ever leave Mademoiselle Sophie?’

‘No, I did not think that she would. Jeanne is loyal and Sophie is the most important thing in her life. Who else … ?’

‘If any of the servants are here they are on the point of going, as I said. Some talk of going to Paris to join in what they call “the fun”. I don’t think there’ll be any need for them to go to Paris. They’ll find it nearer at hand.’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’

‘It’s been coming for a long time. I thank God that He took Monsieur le Comte before he was able to see it.’

‘Oh, Tante Berthe,’ I cried, ‘what is going to happen to us all?’

‘We’ll wait and see,’ she replied calmly.

She went away to get hot water. I stood waiting while the silence of the château closed in on me.

It was evening of the next day. Tante Berthe had been right. All the servants had left except Jeanne and herself. There were just the few of us left in that vast château with that terrible sense of foreboding hanging over us. I would not have been surprised at anything that happened.

During the day I went to the watch-tower and looked down. Nothing but the peace of the fields. It was difficult to believe that terrible things were happening not far away. I must go to England, to the children, to Dickon. I would take Lisette with me … and Tante Berthe; Sophie and Jeanne too if they would come. I should not delay. I was well aware of that. I must talk to Lisette. We must make plans.

The silence was broken by sounds in the courtyard. We had visitors. It was with a sense of relief that I ran down, not knowing what to expect. It could be those who had come to harm us; but at least the monotony was broken. Something was about to happen at last.

Lisette was just behind me.

Two men were there. They were both dirty and unkempt. One of them was supported by the other, for clearly he found it difficult to stand. They were both in a sorry state.

‘Who … ?’ I began.

Then one of them spoke. ‘Lottie … ’ he said.

I went to him and stared.

‘Lottie,’ he said again. ‘I … I have come home.’

The voice was recognizable, but not the man.

‘Armand?’ I cried. But no, this filthy creature could not be Armand.

‘It was a long way … ’ he murmured.

‘He needs rest … nursing,’ said his companion. ‘We … both do.’

Lisette said: ‘Did you break out of prison?’

‘We were let out … by the people. The prison was stormed.’

‘The Bastille … !’ I cried. ‘So … that is where you went!’

I saw at once that this was no time for explanations. Armand and his companion needed immediate attention. Armand’s feet were bleeding and he was in great pain when he stood on them; and in any case he was in no condition to stand.

Lisette and I tended them and the practical Tante Berthe came to our aid. We washed them, removed their clothes and got them to bed.

‘We’ll burn these things at once,’ said Tante Berthe, even at such a time determining that such garments should not sully the château.

We fed the men with food in small quantities, for we could see that they were nearly starving. Armand wanted to talk and, weak as he was, would do so.

‘I went off that day to a meeting,’ he said. ‘By the river I was met by a party of royal guards. Their captain handed me the lettre de cachet. I guessed it was due to the Orléans faction. I was working for the good of the country. I was no traitor. But they took me to the Bastille. The Bastille!’ He shivered and could not stop shaking.

I insisted that he did not talk. He could tell us everything later when he was in a better condition to do so. We badly needed help. We had two very sick men on our hands, and there were only three of us to look after them. But there were two others in the house, and I decided that they could no longer live apart in their secluded turret. I went up the spiral staircase to Sophie’s apartment.

I knocked and went in. Sophie and Jeanne were sitting at a table playing cards.

I cried out: ‘We need your help.’

Sophie looked at me coldly. ‘Go away,’ she said.

I cried: ‘Listen. Armand is here. He has escaped from the Bastille.’

‘Armand is dead,’ said Sophie. ‘Armand was murdered.’

‘Come and see for yourself,’ I replied. ‘Armand is here. He was not murdered. Some traitors betrayed him and he was given a lettre de cachet. He has been imprisoned in the Bastille.’

Sophie had turned white and the cards fell from her hands on to the table.

‘It’s not true,’ she said. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘Come and see for yourself. You’ve got to help. You can’t sit up here playing cards. Don’t you know what’s happening in the world? We need all the help we can get. The servants have gone. We have two men here who will die if they don’t get proper nursing. They have walked all the way from Paris. They have escaped from the Bastille.’

Sophie said: ‘Come, Jeanne.’

She stood by the bed looking down at her brother. ‘Armand,’ she whispered. ‘It is not you?’

‘Yes, Sophie,’ he answered. ‘It is your brother Armand. You see what the Bastille does for a man.’

She fell on to her knees beside the bed.

‘But why? What did they accuse you of … you … ?’

‘There does not have to be an accusation with a lettre de cachet. Someone betrayed me … ’

I interrupted: ‘This is not the time for this talking. I need help in nursing them, Sophie; you and Jeanne must help. We have no servants now. They have all left.’

‘Left? Why?’

‘I think,’ I said wryly, ‘it is because they believe the revolution has come.’

Sophie worked indefatigably - and Jeanne with her; and with their help we managed to make the men reasonably comfortable. Armand was in worse shape. His skin was the colour of dirty paper and his eyes completely lustreless; he had lost most of his hair and his jaws were sunken. Those years he had spent in prison had killed the old Armand and left a feeble old man in his place.

His companion, without whom he would never have been able to make the journey from Paris, was responding to treatment and although very weak still was showing signs of recovery, which was more than we could say of Armand.

He told us that he had found Armand outside the prison when the mob trooped in and he had said that he wanted to get to Aubigné. He himself had nowhere to go so he helped Armand and together they crossed Paris. He described something of the scenes there. The people were in revolt. There were meetings everywhere and crowds formed into mobs who went about looting the shops and attacking anyone who looked worth robbing, shouting as they did so ‘A bas les aristocrats.’

I wouldn’t let him talk too much—and Armand not at all. It excited them and they were both desperately weak.

We couldn’t have managed without the help of Jeanne and Sophie. Tante Berthe was very good at knowing what could best be done, and cooking the little food we ate. Lisette was less energetic than the rest of us but she comforted us in a way because she refused to be gloomy and insisted that in time everything would come right.

I had abandoned all thought of leaving France since the arrival of Armand and his companion. I was needed here and I doubted in any case that with the country in the state it was I should be allowed to get very far.

Nothing happened for several days and I was beginning to feel that we should be left alone. There was rioting in Paris.’ There was a revolution in progress, Lisette said; but here, apart from the fact that we had no servants, everything was at least peaceful.

Lisette said to me: ‘Let’s go into the town. We might find out what is happening there and perhaps buy some food.’

I agreed that it was a good idea.

‘It is better for us to look like servants,’ she said. ‘Some of them left in such a hurry that they went without all their clothes. We could find something to wear.’

‘Do you think that is necessary?’

‘A precaution.’

She laughed at me in the dress which I had put on.

‘It reminds me of the time we went to see Madame Rougemont. Ah, no longer the grand lady. Not the Comte’s daughter but a simple serving-maid.’

‘Well, you look the same.’

‘I am, after all, only the niece of the housekeeper. Come on.’

We took two ponies from the stables and rode in on them. It was all there was. The grooms who had left had taken the horses with them. On the outskirts of the town we tied up the ponies and went in on foot.

Crowds were gathering.

‘It looks as though it is a special sort of day,’ said Lisette with a smile.

We passed through the crowd in our simple dresses and the only glances which came our way were those which some men give to women who could be called young and good-looking.

‘It seems as if something special is about to take place,’ I said.

‘Probably someone coming from Paris to speak to them. Look! There is a platform set up in the square.’

‘Shouldn’t we try to buy some food?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t you noticed most of the shops are boarded up?’

‘Surely they are not afraid of a riot here!’

‘Aubigné country is not sacred any more, Lottie.’

She gave a laugh as she said that and I looked at her quickly. Her eyes were shining with excitement.

There was a hush in the crowd as a man began to mount to his rostrum. I stared at him. I knew him at once. L é on Blanchard.

‘But what … ’ I began.

‘Hush,’ whispered Lisette. ‘He is going to speak.’

A cheer went up in the crowd. He raised his hand and there was a deep silence. Then he began to speak.

‘Citizens, the day has come. That which has long been due to us is almost within our grasp. The aristocrats who have ruled us … who have lived in luxury while we starved … the aristocrats who for generations have made us their slaves … are now being conquered. We are the masters now.’

There was a deafening cheer. He held up his hand again.

‘But we are not yet there, comrades. There is work to be done. We have to rout them out of their haunts of luxury and vice. We have to cleanse those haunts. We have to remember that God gave France to the people. What they have used for centuries now belongs to us … if we take it. You have lived your lives in the shadow of the great château. You have slaved for your masters. They have kept you in a state of servile starvation to make you work the harder for them. You have lived in fear. Citizens, I tell you, that is over. It is your turn now. The revolution is upon us. We shall take their châteaux, their gold, their silver, their food, their wine. We shall no longer live on mouldy bread for which we have to pay those hard-earned sous and of which we have often not had enough to buy even that. We will march as the good citizens of Paris have shown us how to. Citizens, it is happening all over the country. We will march on the Château d’Aubigné. We will take that which is ours by right.’

While he was talking understanding flashed upon me. He was the man the Comte and I had seen all those years ago. No wonder I had felt I had seen him before. I had not completely recognized him, for when I had first seen him he had been dressed like a peasant, as he was now. He wore a dark wig which slightly changed his appearance. He did not look quite like the gentleman who had come to tutor our boys. But it was the same man. Dickon had been right. He was an agitator in the service of the Duc d’Orléans whose plan was to bring about a revolution so that he might step into the King’s shoes. As Dickon had said, Blanchard was an Orléanist. The Duc de Soissonson was too and he had come to Aubigné to investigate Armand’s band which had resulted in Armand’s receiving his lettre de cachet …arranged no doubt by men in high places. Orléans … Soissonson …

‘It is monstrous,’ I said.

‘Hush!’ warned Lisette.

I turned to her. She was staring at Léon Blanchard as though entranced.

I whispered: ‘We must get back quickly. We must warn them … ’

‘Are you ready, Citizens?’ asked Blanchard; and there was a roar from the crowd.

‘In good order then we will assemble here at dusk. These duties are best carried out at night.’

I felt as though I was choking. I wanted to shout: This man is a traitor. My father was always good to his people. Our servants lived well. How dare you say we starved them! My father always cared for their welfare. They were never given mouldy bread. And Léon Blanchard, wicked traitor that he was, lived with us … as a member of the family when he deceived us and played the part of tutor.

How we had been deceived. Dickon had been right. If only we had listened to Dickon!

Lisette was gripping my arm. ‘Be careful,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t open your mouth. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’ She almost dragged me through the crowds. We found the ponies and rode back to the château.

‘So that wicked man was a traitor all the time,’ I said.

‘It depends what you mean by traitor,’ replied Lisette. ‘He was true to his cause.’

‘The cause of revolution! What are we going to do? Leave the château?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘Are we going to wait for them to come, then?’

‘The crowd didn’t harm you, did it?’ I looked down at my plain dress. ‘No,’ she went on, ‘you look like a good servant … a woman of the right class.’

‘If they take the château … ’ I began.

Again there was that familiar lifting of her shoulders.

‘Lisette,’ I went on, ‘what’s the matter with you? You don’t seem to care.’

We went into the château. It was very quiet. I thought of the mob listening to the traitor Blanchard and I wondered if I should ever see it like this again.

I said: ‘What are we going to do? We must warn Sophie and Jeanne.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘And Tante Berthe …’ I went on.

‘She will be safe. After all, she is only a servant.’

Lisette had followed me up to my bedroom.

I said: ‘Lisette, did you know that Léon Blanchard was going to be there today.’

She smiled at me mysteriously. ‘You were always so easily deceived, Lottie,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Léon sent word to me. He and I were great friends … intimate friends. We had such a lot in common, you see.’

‘You … and Léon Blanchard!’

She nodded, smiling. ‘I knew him during those miserable years when I was at the farm. He brought me here.’

I closed my eyes. So much was becoming clear. I remembered the groom who had brought her and that odd feeling I had had of something familiar about him.

‘What does this mean, Lisette?’ I demanded. ‘There is something you are trying to tell me. What has happened to you? You’re different.’

‘I’m not different,’ she said. ‘I was always the same.’

‘You look at me now as though you hate me.’

‘In a way,’ she said reflectively, ‘I do. And yet I am fond of you. I don’t understand my feelings for you. I always loved to be with you. We had such fun together … ’ She began to laugh. ‘The fortune-teller … yes, that was, in a way the beginning.’

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘do you realize that that wicked man with his mob will be marching on the château at dusk?’

‘What should I do about that, Lottie?’

‘Perhaps we should get away. Hide … ’

‘Who? You and Sophie with Jeanne. What about those sick men? I don’t suppose the mob will care very much about them. They look like scarecrows anyway. Jeanne and Tante Berthe will have nothing to fear. Servants don’t.’

‘I had decided we couldn’t go and leave the men.’

‘Then we stay.’

‘Lisette, you seem … pleased.’

‘I’ll tell you, shall I? I have wanted to so many times. It goes back a long way. We are sisters, Lottie … you … myself … and Sophie. The only difference is that I was never acknowledged as you were.’

‘Sisters! That’s not true, Lisette.’

‘Oh, is it not? I have always known it. I remember our father from my babyhood. Why should he have brought me here if it were not so?’

‘He told me who you were, Lisette.’

‘He told you!’

‘Yes, he did. You are not his daughter. He didn’t know you until you were three or four years old.’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘Why should he lie to me? And if you had been his daughter he would have acknowledged you as such.’

‘He did not because my mother was a poor woman … not like yours … living in a great mansion … as noble as he was almost … and he married her.’

‘I know what happened, Lisette, because he told me. Your mother was his mistress but after you were born. He first discovered you when he visited her and you were there. When your mother was dying she sent for her sister Berthe and asked her to take care of you. The Comte then brought Tante Berthe here as housekeeper and allowed you to stay here and be educated with us because of his affection for your mother.’

‘Lies!’ she cried. ‘That was his story. He did not want to acknowledge me because my mother was only a seamstress.’

I shook my head.

‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘he told you those lies because he wanted to excuse himself. I was never treated quite as one of you, was I? I was always the housekeeper’s niece. I wanted to be acknowledged. Who wouldn’t? And then … Charles came along.

‘You mean Charles, my husband?’

‘Charles. He was fun wasn’t he? But what a fool to go to America. He was going to marry Sophie until that disaster in the Place Louis XV. I thought when my father knew that I was going to have a child he would have arranged the marriage with Charles.’

‘The child … ’

‘Don’t be so innocent, Lottie. Charles saw us both at the fortune-tellers, didn’t he? He always used to say he liked us both and he didn’t know which one he preferred. He used to take me to those rooms which Madame Rougemont let to gentlemen and their friends. I was glad when I knew I was going to have a child. I was silly enough to think that it would make all the difference, that my father would acknowledge me and Charles would marry me. But what did they do to me? They made Tante Berthe take me away and they found a crude farmer husband for me. I shall never forget or forgive. After that I hated the Comte and all he stood for.’

I was so shocked I could only mutter. ‘Yet you wanted more than anything to be part of it!’

‘I hated it, I tell you. I met Léon when he was talking in the town near us. We became friends. My husband died when the mob led by Léon set fire to his granaries … ’

‘So that was done … by Léon!’

She lifted her shoulders and gave me that smile which I was beginning to dread and fear.

‘You are very innocent, Lottie. You would have done so much better to marry your Dickon when you had a chance. He made things uncomfortable for us. He was too clever, wasn’t he? But he is far away now.’

I said slowly: ‘Blanchard was the man you said was a groom lent by your neighbours.’ I was remembering the incident in the stable when I thought I had seen him before. I had been right in that.

‘Of course. Léon thought I could do good work at the château. Besides, it was a home for me and your husband’s son. I wonder you never saw the likeness. I could see it. Every day he reminded me of Charles. But it did not occur to you, did it, dear innocent sister.’

‘Remember, you are not my sister. Lisette, how could you lie to us … all those years? How could you pretend?’

She wrinkled her brows as though trying to think. Then she said: ‘I don’t know. I was so fond of you sometimes. Then I would think of all you had and that we were sisters and how unfair it was. Then I hated you. Then I forgot it and was fond of you again. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘And you knew that Armand was in the Bastille?’

‘Léon did not tell me everything … only what it was necessary for me to know. But I guessed and I wasn’t sorry. Armand deserved what he got. He always looked down on me—he was always the high and mighty Vicomte. It is amusing to think of him in prison.’

‘How can you talk like that!’

‘Easily,’ said Lisette. ‘If you had been humiliated as I have been you would be the same.’

‘And Léon Blanchard told you he was going to be in the town today?’

She nodded. ‘I wanted you to see and hear him. I wanted you to know how things were. I have been longing to tell you for so long. I wanted you to know that I was your sister.’

Tante Berthe had come into the room. She said: ‘There is nothing much left in the kitchens. I have made a little soup. What is the matter?’

I said: ‘We have been into town. Léon Blanchard was there preaching revolution. They will be coming to the château.’

Tante Berthe turned pale. ‘Mon Dieu,’ she murmured.

Lisette said: ‘Lottie has been telling me a tale. She says I am not the Comte’s daughter. As if I did not always know I was. She says the Comte did not know me until I was three or four years old. It isn’t true, is it? It isn’t true?’

Tante Berthe looked steadily at Lisette. She said: ‘The Comte took you in because he was a good and kind gentleman. You and I owe him much. But he was not your father. Your father was the son of a tradesman and he worked in his father’s shop. Your mother told me this before you were born when I came to Paris to try to persuade her to return home. She couldn’t, of course, as she was to have a child. I helped her through her confinement. She insisted on keeping you and this she tried to do through her needlework. She couldn’t make ends meet and started having gentlemen friends who helped her to pay the rent and feed her child.’

‘You mean she was a … prostitute!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tante Berthe fiercely. ‘She only had friends whom she liked … and they helped her because they wanted to. The Comte was one of them. When she knew herself to be dying she asked me to come to her. She wanted me to take care of you. The Comte called when I was there. He was concerned about your mother’s health and he talked to me about the future. He told me that when he had visited her he had discovered that she had a little girl hidden away. He was touched by this. He thought your mother a brave woman. When she died he offered me the post of housekeeper to the château and allowed me to bring you with me.’

‘Lies!’ cried Lisette. ‘All lies!’

‘It’s the truth,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘I swear it in the name of the Virgin.’

Lisette looked as though she were going to burst into tears. I knew that the dream of a lifetime was crumbling about her.

She went on shouting: ‘It is lies … All lies.’

The door opened and Sophie came in.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘I could hear the shouting in Armand’s room.’

‘Sophie,’ I said, ‘we are in acute danger. The mob will come to the château at dusk. Léon Blanchard is bringing them.’

‘Léon … !’

I said gently: ‘What Dickon suspected was true. Léon Blanchard was not a real tutor. He was here to spy for the Orléanists. The Duc de Soissonson was one of them, too. We have just heard him inciting the mob to march on the château. When he comes with them you will see for yourself.’

‘Léon?’ she repeated in a dazed way.

‘Oh Sophie,’ I said. ‘There has been such deceit. Terrible things are happening everywhere in France. How can we know who is with us and who against us?’

‘I don’t believe that Léon … ’ she began and Lisette began to laugh hysterically.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Léon brought me to Lottie. He was my lover before that and when we were here … and still is. You see, even though your father acknowledged you as his daughter, you did not have all your own way. Léon, whom you wanted, was my lover. Charles, who was Lottie’s husband, was my lover. He wasn’t so particular in the bedroom whether my father called me daughter or not. But I am the Comte’s daughter. They are going to try to prove that I was not, but I am, I tell you. I am. I am of noble birth … as noble as either of you. We all have the same father … no matter what anyone says.’

Sophie was looking at me helplessly. I went to her and put my arm about her.

‘It’s true isn’t it,’ she said, ‘that Léon cared about me? He did care a little.’

‘He was here on a mission,’ I said.

‘But he was in love with Lisette all the time. He was only pretending … ’

‘People do pretend sometimes, Sophie. We were all deceived.’

‘And I blamed you. I blamed you for making up tales about him … tales which were not true. I said your lover murdered Armand that you might have my father’s wealth. I said all this of you, Lottie, and I tried to believe it, but I think something inside me rejected it. I didn’t really believe it. Perhaps I always knew that Léon could not have cared for me. It was the same with Charles. When I found that flower in his apartment I started to hate you.’

‘I was never there, Sophie. I lost the flower he bought for me. It was not my flower you found.’

‘What is all this about a flower?’ asked Lisette.

I turned to her. ‘What does it matter now? It was all long ago. Charles bought a flower for me in the street and Sophie found one like it in his bedroom.’

‘A red peony,’ said Lisette. Then she started to laugh. There was an element of hysteria in that laugh. ‘It was I who left the flower behind, Sophie. I dropped it in Charles’s apartment. I borrowed it from Lottie’s room because it matched my dress, I remember. I forgot about it. It was only an artificial flower anyway. It is proof to you, Sophie, that he was my lover. I had his child, you know. Yes, Louis-Charles is his son.’

‘Stop it, Lisette,’ I cried. ‘Stop it.’

‘Why should I? This is the moment of truth. Let us stop deceiving ourselves. Let us all show what we really are.’

The tears were running down Sophie’s cheeks making her hood wet. I put my arms round her and she clung to me.

‘Forgive, Lottie,’ she said. ‘Forgive … ’

I said: ‘When people know they understand. There is nothing to forgive, Sophie.’ I kissed her scarred cheek. ‘Dear Sophie,’ I said, ‘I am glad we are sisters again.’

Lisette and Tante Berthe watched us. Tante Berthe’s practical mind was trying to work out what we should do. Lisette still seemed bemused.

‘You should really get out,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘Perhaps we all should. You certainly, Madame Lottie.’

‘And what of the men?’ I asked.

‘We can’t move them.’

‘I shall stay here,’ I said.

Tante Berthe shook her head and Lisette said: ‘You and I have nothing to fear, Tante Berthe. You are a servant and although I am aristocrat Léon Blanchard is my friend. He will see that I am safe.’

‘Be silent’, cried Tante Berthe. She shook her head and turned away muttering: ‘What is best? What can be done?’

‘There is nothing,’ I replied, ‘but to wait.’

We waited through the long afternoon. The heat was intense. It seemed to me that I was seeing everything with especial clarity. Perhaps that was how it was when one looked Death in the face. I had seen the mob at Léon Blanchard’s meeting and could picture those people marching on the château with the bloodlust in their eyes. I thought of my mother’s stepping out of the shop and finding herself in the midst of such a crowd. I pictured the carriage as I had so often before. I saw the frightened horses. What had she felt in those horrific moments? I had heard of the people’s violence when they had smashed up the town and I knew that human life meant little to them. And as the daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné I was one of the enemy. I had heard that they had hanged one of the merchants from a lamp-post because they said he had put up the price of bread.

I had never before come face to face with death; but I knew that I was facing it now. I was aware of a light-headedness. I felt strangely remote. Fear was there, yes, but not fear of death but of what must happen before it. I knew now how people felt in their condemned cells awaiting the summons.

I looked at the others. Did they feel the same? Armand was too ill to care. He had suffered so much already. His companion was in the same condition. Sophie? I did not think she cared very much. Life was not very precious to her, though she had changed since Armand’s return.

Lisette? I could not understand Lisette. All those years when I had believed her to be my friend she had harboured a hatred of me. I would never forget the triumphant look in her eyes when she considered how I should be made to suffer. I could not believe that she had really hated me all those years because I was recognized as the Comte’s daughter and she thought she should be.

What did I know of Lisette? What did I know of anyone, even myself? People were made up of contradictions and when one nurtures a great grievance through life that must have a lasting effect. Least of all I understood Lisette. Why did she care so much for birth? She was on the side of the revolutionaries. She hated the aristocrats and yet she insisted she was one of them.

The sound of a bee buzzing at the window caught my attention. I thought how wonderful it was to see living creatures, to look at the blue sky, to hear the gentle lap of the water of the moat against the green earth. All that I had taken for granted until I was confronted by the thought that I should never see or hear them again.

Tante Berthe said she thought we should all be together. She would bring the men to my bedroom if we would help her. They could both lie on my bed while we waited.

I nodded and with the help of Sophie and Jeanne we brought the men in.

They looked very ill.

I told Armand what was happening. He nodded and said: ‘You should get away. You shouldn’t stay here. Leave us.’

‘There is nowhere we can go, Armand,’ I told him. ‘And in any case we wouldn’t leave you.’

‘No,’ said Sophie firmly, ‘we should not leave you.’

Armand became animated then. ‘You must,’ he cried. ‘I have seen the mob. That day in Paris. You have no idea what they are like. They cease to be men and women. They are wild animals … ’

I said: ‘Armand, we are not going to leave you.’

‘You … ’ he insisted. ‘You should go. The servants could stay. They might be safe.’

‘Lie back,’ I commanded. ‘Rest while you can. The servants have already gone and we are staying.’

It was a long afternoon.

Sophie sat at my feet on a footstool. Jeanne was close to her. I knew that Jeanne would never leave her as long as they both lived.

I said: ‘Sophie, you have a wonderful friend in Jeanne. Have you ever thought how lucky you are to have her?’

She nodded.

‘She loves you,’ I went on.

‘Yes, she loves me. The others … ’

‘It is over. They would never have been faithful. Charles wasn’t to me, and Léon Blanchard is only faithful to a cause.’

‘They will take us, Lottie … you, Armand and me because of our father.’

Lisette was listening and she said: ‘And they will take me, but I shall be safe because Léon will not let them hurt me.’

Sophie flinched and Jeanne whispered: ‘I should never let you be hurt, Mademoiselle Sophie.’

There was a long silence. We were all listening intently. We must all have been thinking that they might not wait until evening.

‘I wish I could go back,’ said Sophie. ‘I’d be different. I would say, I lost so much—’ she touched her face beneath her hood ‘—but it showed me how truly fortunate I was in Jeanne.’

Jeanne said: ‘Don’t, my precious one. Don’t upset yourself. It’s bad for your face when you cry.’

We were silent again and I thought: If I could have foreseen … if I could go back … how differently I should act. I could see Sabrina’s face. ‘Don’t go,’ she had said. ‘Wait till Dickon comes back.’ I should have waited for Dickon. He had not really been out of my thoughts although I had tried to prevent his intruding on them. Of what use was it to think of him now? It only meant bitter recriminations against myself for my folly.

I should have married him. Heaven knew, I had wanted to. I should have taken what I could get. I should have forgotten my doubts … my determination to accept nothing but perfection.

If I could only turn to him now … if I could shut out my thoughts of the perfidy of Lisette, the unfaithfulness of Charles, of death, if I could forget the wasted years, I would be content. But it was now too late.

‘Too late,’ Sophie whispered it. I laid my hand on her shoulder and she leaned against my knee.

I said: ‘But we know now. I am glad we came to an understanding while there was still time.’

It would be dark soon. The danger hour was near.

Lisette left and did not return until the darkness deepened. I gasped when I saw her. She was wearing one of my gowns—one which I had had made some time ago for a ball. It was one of the most elaborate gowns I had ever possessed. The skirt was of plum-coloured velvet and chiffon of a lighter shade; the tightly fitted bodice was studded with pearls. About her neck was the diamond necklace which the Comte had given my mother on their wedding-day and which was now mine.

‘Lisette!’ I cried as she entered.

‘Are you mad?’ said Tante Berthe.

Lisette laughed at us. ‘I should have had these things,’ she said. ‘I have as much right to them as Lottie has—more, because I am older. My father treated me badly but now he is dead.’

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘when the mob see you like that what do you think they will do?’

‘I will tell them, “Yes, I am an aristocrat but I have always been for the people I have worked with Léon Blanchard. Ask him. He will tell you I speak the truth.” I shall come to no harm then.’

‘You foolish girl!’ cried Tante Berthe.

Lisette shook her head and laughed. She came and stood close to me, her hands on her hips, taunting, and I thought: Her obsession has driven her mad.

‘I always wanted this dress,’ she said, ‘and the necklace goes with it so well. It belongs to me now. Everything here belongs to me. It is my right and Léon will see that it is given to me.’

I turned away from her. I could not bear the look in her eyes. I thought: Truly she is mad.

They were coming. I could hear the shouts in the distance. I went to the window. There was a strange light out there. It came from the torches they were carrying.

I heard their chanting voices. ‘Au château! À bas les aristocrats! À la lanterne!’

I thought of the lifeless body of the merchant hanging from the lamp-post and I felt sick with fear.

They were coming nearer and nearer.

Tante Berthe said: ‘The drawbridge will stop them.’

‘Not for long,’ I answered.

We looked at each other fearfully and Lisette glided from the room.

‘Where has she gone?’ asked Sophie.

‘To take off that finery if she has any sense,’ retorted Tante Berthe.

I said: ‘I am going to find her. I am going to talk to her.’

I found her mounting the spiral staircase to the tower. I saw her standing on the battlements. The light from the torches had thrown a fierce glow over the scene for the mob was very close … right at the castle gates.

She stood there on the battlements. She looked magnificent with the diamonds sparkling at her throat.

The mob shouted when they saw her.

‘Lisette,’ I called. ‘Come down. Come down.’

She held up her hand and there was silence. She called out to the mob: ‘I am the daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné … an aristocrat by birth.’

The mob started to shout. ‘À bas les aristocrats. À la lanterne!’

She shouted above the noise and eventually they were quiet, listening.

‘But I have worked for your cause. My friend is Léon Blanchard and he will confirm this. I have worked for you, my friends, against the overlords, against those who caused the price of bread to be so high, against those whose extravagances have impoverished France. I will prove to you that I am your friend. I will let down the drawbridge so that you may enter the castle.’

There was a roar of applause.

She dashed past me. I thought of trying to stop her. She would let them in but did it matter? They would not allow the drawbridge to stop them for very long.

She would save herself at the cost of Sophie’s life and mine. It was the final act of hatred.

I went back to the room. They were all waiting expectantly. It would not be long now. The mob would soon be storming the castle.

Jeanne did a strange thing. She untied Sophie’s hood and took it off so that the hideous disfigurement was displayed. ‘Trust me,’ she whispered to Sophie, who had gasped with dismay. ‘I know these people. I think it best. Trust me.’

I could hear sounds of ribald laughter, the noise of falling furniture. The mob was in the château.

Lisette had joined us. Her eyes were shining with triumph. ‘They have come,’ she said.

The door burst open. It was a horrific moment—the one for which we had all been waiting. They were here.

In those terrifying moments I was surprised to recognize among the people who burst into the room three shopkeepers whom I knew slightly—respectable men—not the kind I should have expected to be involved in such an outrage; but mob madness could spring up everywhere.

Lisette faced them. ‘I am the daughter of the Comte,’ she repeated. ‘I am of aristocratic birth, but I have always worked for you and the revolution.’

A man was staring at the diamonds at her throat. I thought he was going to snatch them. Then one of the shopkeepers pushed him roughly aside.

‘Be careful,’ he growled. There was about him a hint of leadership and I felt a faint touch of relief. I sensed that this man was uneasy … wary, and it occurred to me that he could command a certain respect and perhaps hold the more bloodthirsty of the raiders in check.

His words certainly had an effect, for the men who had entered the room ignored us for a few seconds and went round the room examining everything. They looked at the men lying on the bed. Both Armand and his companion regarded them with indifference.

‘Who are they?’ asked one of the men.

‘They are half dead,’ said another.

Jeanne and Tante Berthe faced them squarely. ‘We are servants here. We are not aristocrats,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘You don’t want us.’

Jeanne had her arm about Sophie and I saw the men staring at her scarred face.

One of them took Lisette by the shoulders.

‘Take your hands from me,’ said Lisette haughtily.

‘Ah, be careful of Madame la Comtesse,’ said one of the men ironically.

‘I am the Comte’s daughter,’ said Lisette, ‘but I am with you. I worked with Monsieur Léon Blanchard.’

‘They are on our side now it is good to be so,’ said another of the men. ‘It used to be a different story.’

They started to hustle Lisette out of the room. She turned and pointed to me: ‘That is the acknowledged daughter of the Comte,’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ said one of the men. ‘I know her. I’ve seen her with the Comte. Don’t take any notice of her dress. That is put on to deceive us.’

I realized then that I was still wearing the servant’s dress which I had put on that morning and what a contrast I must make to Lisette in her finery.

The men were looking at the others in the room. They shrugged their shoulders. Then, dragging Lisette and me with them, they went out of the room.

What happened afterwards still bewilders me.

I can remember being dragged through the crowds; I remember the abuse, most of it directed towards Lisette. How foolish she had been to dress up as she had!

The flare of the torches, the sight of dark menacing eyes, the dirty clenched fists which were brandished close to my face, the painful grip on my arms, the moment when someone spat in my face … they are scenes from a nightmare which would spring up suddenly and carry me back all through my life to that fearful night.

We were forced into a wagonette which was drawn by a mangy-looking horse.

And thus we drove through the mob into the town.

There followed the strangest night I have ever spent. We were driven to the mairie and there hustled out of the cart and taken to a small room on the first floor which looked down on the street.

We were fortunate in as much as these people were unaware of their power at this time. The revolution which had been rumbling for so long had only just broken out and among those men who carried us to the mairie were some who, a short time before, had been known as respectable citizens of the town … shopkeepers and the like. They were unsure of what reprisals might be taken. They knew that there were risings all over Paris but they must have wondered what would happen to them if the risings were suppressed and the aristocrats were in power again.

The mob would have taken us to the lamp-post and hanged us right away, but there were several who advised a certain restraint. The Mayor himself was uncertain. For centuries the Aubigné family had been the power in the neighbourhood. It was early days and they could not be sure that that power was broken; they were not yet accustomed to the new order. And the more sober men of the town were very much afraid of retaliation.

The mob had surrounded the mairie and were demanding that we be brought out. They wanted to see our bodies swinging on the lanternes.

I wondered what was happening back at the château.

Were they safe there? Armand and his friend were not recognizable; poor Sophie’s face had probably saved her. This was a revolt against those who had what the mob wanted. Nobody wanted what those sickly men or poor scarred Sophie had. There was nothing to envy in them. It was different with Lisette and me. They did not believe Lisette. She had miscalculated badly, and if she had not been so anxious to prove herself an aristocrat she would have realized what a very dangerous position she was placing herself in.

There were no chairs in the room, so we lay on the floor.

‘I wish that scum would stop shouting,’ said Lisette.

‘You have been so stupid,’ I told her. ‘There was no need for it. You could be back at the château now.’

‘I am who I am and will bear the consequences for that.’

‘Poor Lisette, why do you care so much?’

‘Of course I cared. I was one of you. The fact that I wasn’t recognized doesn’t change that. Léon will save me, you see, and there will be those who will have to answer for the way they have treated me.’

I did not reply. There was nothing to say. Lisette cared more for her birth than she did for her life since she was ready to risk it to convince herself that she was of noble birth.

I saw clearly then how it had obsessed her, how she had believed it—perhaps forced herself to believe it—all those years. She had let the resentment build up to such an extent that it was beyond everything else. She could not face the fact now that she must know it was not to be true. She had to go on believing … even if it cost her her life.

The noise outside seemed to have abated a little. I stood up and looked out. I turned away quickly. They were still there, waiting for us to be brought out.

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘tell them the truth. They may believe you. It is madness to go on proclaiming that you are an aristocrat and are proud of it. You are saying you are their enemy. They hate us. Don’t you see? They hate us because we have what they have always wanted. Don’t you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I see it, but it doesn’t alter anything.’

‘I shall never forget the way they looked at Sophie and Armand. True aristocrats … legitimately born aristocrats … not like us, Lisette … the bastards. But they took both of us. Why? Because we are young and healthy, because they envy us. The foundation of this revolution is built on envy. Is its purpose, do you think, to make France a better, happier country? No. It is not that at all. I saw it clearly tonight. It is an attempt by people who have not, to take from those who have those luxuries which they want for themselves. When they have them they will be as selfish and careless of others as the rich have been in the past. It is not a better country that these people are destroying for. It is to turn it round so that those who did not have, now have, and those who had, now have not.’

Lisette was silent and I went on: ‘Is that not so with you, Lisette? You are a true daughter of the revolution. You were envious. Admit it. You have let envy colour your whole life. You have built up a picture that was based on falsehood from the beginning. I can see how it came about. It was a natural inference. Then you were Charles’s mistress and that was gratifying because he was going to marry Sophie. Did you deliberately leave the flower in his apartment so that she could suspect me? You always liked to create a drama, didn’t you? You must have been very pleased to have been his mistress while he was engaged to Sophie. But when there was a child … ’

Lisette burst out: ‘He should have married me. I thought he would. I thought he would make the Comte admit that I was his daughter. Why shouldn’t he have done so? You married Charles.’

‘I was the Comte’s daughter, Lisette.’

‘I was too. I was … I was … ’

I sighed. It was no use talking to her. She would not let go of her obsession, although she knew in her heart that what I and Tante Berthe had told her was true. She must go on believing; and I could see that belief had been her lifeline. She clung to it. She was not going to let it go. Even in the face of the bloodthirsty mob she stood up and said: ‘I am an aristocrat.’

Oh, what a foolish woman she was!

But was I any wiser? I had prevaricated. I had been afraid. I had yearned for Dickon—how far away dear Eversleigh seemed now!—and I had refused to go to him. I had allowed my fears and my suspicions to grow. I had always known that there was none of the saint about Dickon. Far from it. But it was the Dickon he was whom I had wanted; and something perverse within me had refused to let me go to him, to take him for what he was … which is what one must always do with others. One cannot mould them; one loves for what a person is … faults and all, and that was how I had loved Dickon.

I tried to think of him now. Would he have returned to Eversleigh? What would he have said when he found that I had gone?

I thanked God that my father had died before this happened. I thanked God, too, that the children were in England, saved from this holocaust.

The noise had stopped. I went to the window and looked out. I saw him clearly riding through the crowd. Léon Blanchard! I wondered if he was coming to the mairie. Perhaps he would say what was to be done and order them to release Lisette.

‘Lisette,’ I cried. ‘Look! It is Léon Blanchard.’

She was beside me. ‘He has come for me,’ she cried. ‘Léon! Léon!’ she shouted; but he could not hear, nor did he look towards the windows of the mairie.

‘I must get down to him,’ she said. ‘I must.’

She ran to the door. It was locked. She came back to the window. She battered at it with her hands. I saw the blood on the plum-coloured velvet. She had broken through and stood on the balcony. I heard her agonized cry: ‘Léon! Léon! I am here, Léon. Save me from this rabble.’

I couldn’t see Léon Blanchard now. The crowd was staring up at the balcony. I saw Lisette leap and she was gone.

There was a hushed silence in the crowd. The mob seemed to stampede forward. There was deafening noise and screaming. The torches threw a grisly light on the scene. I saw a bloody hand come up and in its grasp was a diamond necklace.

I waited at the window.

I was there when they carried away a broken body.

It was quieter down below. Sickened by what I had seen, I wanted to lie down on that hard floor and drift into oblivion. I wanted to shut out the horror of it all. I felt that if ever I should escape from this peril I should be haunted all my life by the memory of Lisette with the fanatical gleam in her eyes. Life had become a nightmare and I believed that the end of it was very near.

I was cramped lying on the floor. I felt desperately alone. A great urge came over me to weep for Lisette. All those years of resentment … and she had been Charles’s mistress … Had she continued to be when I was in England and she was there with him alone? Was it going on them? It didn’t matter now. Why wonder about it? Soon they would come for me.

I went to the window and looked out. My eyes went to the lamp-post with its faint light which showed me the dark liquid running over the cobbles. I saw that it came from the wine shop into which the mob had broken. Some men were squatting on the cobbles scooping up the puddles with their hands and holding their hands to their lips. I heard a woman start to sing in a high-pitched, quavering voice and a man brusquely and crudely telling her to shut up.

Many of them were drunk. Some were propped up against walls. But they were keeping their vigil at the mairie. They had had one spectacle tonight and they were waiting in anticipation for another. The signal would come and they would storm the mairie.

I could not bear to look at them. I sat down and leaned against the wall with my eyes closed. If only I could sleep away the time until they came for me …

I wondered how long it took for death to come.

‘Quickly, please God,’ I prayed.

The door opened quietly. A man came in. I started to my feet, a sick feeling of horror enveloping me. The moment had come.

It was the Mayor who faced me.

He said: ‘You are to leave here.’

‘Leave here … ’

He put his fingers to his lips. ‘Don’t speak. Obey orders. The mob is quieter now but still in an ugly mood. I don’t want to have to tell them that you are being taken to a prison outside the town. They would not allow you to go. They are determined to hang you. Here … follow me.’

‘But where … where am I going?’

‘I told you to be silent. If the mob get wind that you are leaving they will tear you to pieces. They are bent on seeing the end of Aubigné.’

I followed him down the stairs. We were in a courtyard at the back of the mairie where a coach was waiting. It was shabby and enclosed. A bearded driver, wearing a coat and muffled up about the neck in spite of the weather, was seated in the driving seat. He was holding a whip in his right hand and did not turn as I came out of the mairie.

‘Get in,’ said the Mayor.

‘I want to know where you are taking me.’

I was given a rough push. ‘Be silent,’ hissed the Mayor. ‘Do you want to bring the mob down on you?’

I was pushed inside the coach and the door shut on me. The Mayor lifted his hand and the coach jolted forward.

We had to come round to the front of the mairie and as the coach rattled into the square a cry went up.

‘A carriage? Who rides in a carriage?’

The driver whipped up the horses. I heard the shouts of rage and guessed that the mob was trying to stop the coach.

I lurched from side to side. The driver drove like a madman.

Someone called out: ‘Who is this rogue? Who is in the carriage?’

For a few terrifying moments I thought we were going to be brought to a halt. I could imagine the fury of the people if they discovered who was inside and that an attempt was being made to cheat them of their spectacle.

The driver was silent. He just drove on. We were through the square. The coach gathered speed. Some of the people were running after us and, glancing through the window, I caught a glimpse of angry faces very close.

The coach lurched and trundled on; and the shouts of the people grew fainter. We had left the town behind. Still the driver went on driving with a furious speed so that I was thrown from side to side of the padded vehicle.

Suddenly we stopped. We were close to a wood from which a man emerged leading two horses.

The driver leaped down from his seat and pulled open the door of the coach. He signed for me to get out, which I did. I could scarcely see his face, so heavily bearded was he and he wore a scarf high round his neck.

He looked back the way we had come. The country road seemed very quiet and the first streak of dawn was in the sky.

Then he took off his scarf and pulled at the hair about his face. It came off in his hand and he grinned at me.

‘Dickon!’ I said.

‘I thought you might be rather pleased to see me. Now, no time to lose. Get on that horse,’ he said to me; and to the man: ‘Thank you. We’ll get off now for the coast as fast as we can.’

A wild exhilaration had taken possession of me. I felt faint with emotion; the transformation from terrible despair to wild joy was too sudden. Dickon was here. I was safe and Dickon had saved me.

We rode all through the morning. He would say little except: ‘I want to be out of this accursed country by tomorrow. With luck we’ll catch the paquet. It means riding through the night but we can make it.’

So we rode. My body was in a state of exhaustion but my spirits were uplifted. There came the time when we had to rest the horses and ourselves. Dickon decided when and where. We were not going through any of the towns, he told me. He had a little food with him and we must make do with that. In the late afternoon of the first day we came to a lonely spot by a river. There was a wood nearby where he said we could sleep for an hour. We had to. We needed the rest, and there was a long way to go. First he took the horses to the river and they drank and then he tethered them in the wood. We lay down under a tree and he held me in his arms.

He told me a little then of what had happened. When he had returned to Eversleigh and discovered I had left for France he had followed me at once.

‘I knew that the revolution would begin soon,’ he said. ‘I was determined to bring you away. Abduct you if necessary. I went to the château. They had made a mess of it. But Armand was there with the others. Sophie was looking after him with her servant and that older one. They told me that you and Lisette had been taken. I had to act quickly. You see, Lottie, what it means to have friends in the right places. You have despised me for my interest in worldly goods and money chiefly, but see what useful purposes it can be put to. I have been coming over here now and then. I had business over here, as you know. There were many French who did not like the way things were going … friends of England, you might say. The Mayor, by great good fortune, was one of them. I took the precaution of bringing money with me … plenty of it. I knew I was going to need it. So I came. I was there in the mob. I saw what happened to that girl Lisette. I was waiting for them to get the carriage for me. I would have fought them with my bare fists if they had touched you. But this was the best method. You can’t fight against the mob. It would have been the end of us both. Never mind. I have got you so far. The rest is child’s play in comparison. Now rest … sleep … though that is difficult for me lying here holding you in my arms.’

‘Dickon,’ I said, ‘thank you. I shall never forget what I owe you.’

‘I have made up my mind that I shall never let you.’

I smiled. He had not changed. He never would and I was glad.

We were so tired that we slept and when we awoke evening had come. We mounted the horses and rode on all through the night, stopping only for brief respites.

We came into Calais on the afternoon of the second day. We left the horses at an inn. Only once were we challenged as escaping aristocrats.

Dickon answered that he was an Englishman who had been travelling in France with his wife and had no interest in French politics and quarrels.

His haughty and somewhat bellicose manner intimidated our accusors and it was clearly obvious that he was indeed an Englishman. So trouble was avoided.

We boarded the paquet. Soon we should be home.

We stayed on deck, so eager were we for a sight of land.

‘At last,’ said Dickon, ‘you are coming home to stay. Do you realize that had you come earlier, had you not dashed back to France, you could have saved us a good deal of trouble?’

‘I did not know that I should find my father dead.’

‘We have wasted a lot of time, Lottie.’

I nodded.

‘Now,’ he went on, ‘you’ll take me for what I am. Ambitious, ruthless, eager for possessions … and power, wasn’t it?’

‘There is something you have forgotten,’ I reminded him. ‘If you married me you would be marrying a woman who has absolutely nothing. I am penniless. The vast fortune which my father left in trust to me will all be lost. It will be taken by the revolutionaries. I don’t think you have thought of that.’

‘Do you imagine I should not have thought of such an important detail?’

‘So, Dickon … what are you thinking of?’

‘You, and how I shall make up for the lost years. And you, Lottie, what are you thinking? This man on whom I have foolishly turned my back for many years is ready to marry me—penniless as I am. And he was foolish enough to be ready to give up all he had acquired through a long life of ruthless scheming … and all for me.’

‘How was that?’

‘Lottie, when we drove through that square we were within an inch of being stopped, of being dragged from our coach and hanged on the lamp-post … both of us. If that had happened I should have lost all my possessions, for it is a sobering thought that when you die you cannot take them with you.’

‘Oh, Dickon,’ I said, ‘I know what you did for me. I shall never forget … ’

‘And you’ll take me in spite of what I am?’

‘Because of it,’ I said.

He kissed my cheek gently.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Land. The sight of those white cliffs always uplifts me … because they are home. But never in all my life did I feel such joy in them as I do at this moment.’

I took his hand and put it to my lips and I held it there as I watched the white cliffs come nearer.