The Moniteur also reported messages of loyalty pouring into the Tuileries from the heads of departments all over France. The King attended the sitting of the Chamber of Deputies and made a moving speech which was loudly applauded. He announced he would review the garrison troops of Paris, six thousand in number, the following day in the Champ-de-Mars.
With the main struggle now over, Ross left for Auxerre as arranged. He had had no communication with Brigadier Rougiet for more than a week, but reasoned that if he arrived in Auxerre and Rougiet, because of the crisis, had had to change his plans, it would not so much matter. Ross felt he could gain a better idea of the swaying sympathies of the army by visiting them at their base.
To his surprise he found it hard this time to hire a good horse. In a month prices had doubled and quality halved. Too many people had recently decided to leave Paris. He wondered if Fouché and Tallien had really left or, as Jodie supposed, simply gone to ground. He would have felt slightly happier leaving Demelza for three days if Tallien were under lock and key. Though, Heaven knew, if Tallien turned up again and tried to take any liberties he would find himself faced by a spitting cat. (And two menservants, and an outraged Cornish Wesleyan.)
It was strange, he thought to himself, that he had heard Tallien’s name, as the man who had betrayed General Hoche’s promise of safe conduct all those years ago – twenty years this coming autumn – he had heard it and execrated it and then almost forgotten it. It had never crossed his mind that one day he would meet this evil man. Somehow he had thought all those monsters, like Robespierre, had ended up on the guillotine to which they had condemned so many others. Not so.
The best horse Ross could find was an elderly grey gelding called Bayonne; it was brought round for him on the Thursday morning, and after a loving parting from his family he made his way out of Paris and headed south for Melun. Because his horse was so slow, and soon slightly lame, it was late in the evening when he reached Sens and found lodgings in an inn by the river. On the 17th he was off early but constant rain made the trip disagreeable.
II
The morning that Ross left Sens, news reached Paris that Marshal Ney, far from capturing the Emperor, had changed sides at Lons-le-Saunier three days ago and, except for a few loyalist officers, had taken the whole of his army with him. The King when he heard said: ‘Is there no more honour?’ Nevertheless, as planned, he reviewed his troops at the Champ-de-Mars and went through the ordinary duties of the day.
It also became clear that as he advanced Bonaparte had seized the semaphore stations and had had them send out the falsely reassuring news of yesterday. Nothing is more calculated to create panic than optimistic information that is found to be based on lies.
In the afternoon a grim and subdued Henri de la Blache called to see Demelza.
‘Jodie tells me that Ross has gone to Auxerre. He is sure to receive intelligence on the way about the manner of Ney’s treachery and Napoleon’s approach. So he’ll turn back. In any case he is an Englishman and a non-combatant so he is not likely to be at risk. All the same, and Jodie agrees with me, I think it is time you all obtained passports to leave France. I shall stay here, of course, for my place is with the King; but Jodie will leave also – for her own safety. Tomorrow morning early she will call for you and take you to M le Comte de Joucourt, who will provide them.’
‘D’you think Napoleon will reach Paris, then?’
‘I think so – after today’s news. Yes.’
‘When?’
‘When? Well, we are not sure where his forces are. Probably already north of Dijon. He still has to confront the army of Melun. There is a stronger stiffening in it of the older aristocracy, but after the tidal wave of sentiment which has engulfed the other armies . . . I think we should be certain only of about a week.’
‘I dearly wish Ross had not gone.’
‘So do I. But never forget if this comes to war, it is civil war, between Louis Bourbon and Napoleon Bonaparte. Whatever might happen in the future, France is not now at war with England or Austria or Russia or Prussia. Ross is a civilian foreigner. And I have a strong feeling that Bonaparte will go out of his way to placate foreign opinion.’
‘He did not do so last time.’
‘You mean twelve years ago? But then he was at the height of his powers, and he knew, having gained all the concessions from England that he could, that his next move was to resume the war. At the moment, if he comes to power again in France, he must have at least a year’s peace to consolidate himself.’
Demelza looked out at the rain beating on the windows. ‘Lady Fitzroy Somerset sent a note this morning advising us to leave. She says she is leaving tomorrow.’
‘Jodie will call for you in the morning.’
‘I would not go without Ross,’ said Demelza.
‘Of course not. When he hears the latest news, he’s sure to return tomorrow. But to have the passports will be a help.’
‘’Twill be nasty for him riding a long way in this weather.’
III
To follow the road from Sens to Auxerre you kept within sight of the River Yonne all the way. It was flat rich country but sparsely populated, and what people there were lived in hovels. About ten o’clock the rain cleared and the sun peered out with a watery, etiolated eye. To balance this benefit Bayonne’s lameness became worse. Ross dismounted to see if he could find what was wrong. The animal was perfectly docile, and held his head in a dejected way as if ashamed of his shortcomings. There seemed nothing wrong with his shoes. It was the right hind leg and after a careful and discreet prodding Ross came to the conclusion that the trouble was probably rheumatism made worse by the cold and damp.
They were already through Joigny, but he found a farrier in the next village. The ragged little Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘II est vieux.’ True enough. With the sun warming his damp shoulders Ross thought the description applied to him as well. He asked the farrier about the prospect of hiring or buying a mount of some sort, but there was apparently nothing to be had this side of Auxerre.
Ross went on, riding half a mile on the limping horse, then dismounting and limping the next half-mile on foot. The camp where the Sixth Corps was stationed was north of Auxerre so the distance now could not be great.
The previous time he had visited this camp he had remarked to himself on the casual attitude of the guard, the general untidiness of the soldiers. He had discussed with Rougiet the difficulty of maintaining proper discipline in any body of troops during a period of prolonged peace; and this more particularly the case with France whose army was still swollen beyond any necessary peacetime needs.
A difference this time: the sentries were smartly at attention and brusque to the point of discourtesy. He had to produce the letter he had had from Brigadier Rougiet before he was allowed beyond the guard-room. Then it was half an hour before an orderly came for him.
At least there was little difference in the warmth of Gaston Rougiet’s welcome, though perhaps it carried an overtone of anxiety.
‘Welcome, welcome, my friend. You are too good to have come again. Was the weather atrocious? Pray sit down and take a glass of champagne and tell me all the news of Paris.’
This was a permanent camp, the officers’ quarters brick built, and comfortable chairs, and fires burning.
They talked a few minutes; Ross told him that his horse had gone lame, and Rougiet sent an orderly to get an army farrier’s expert report. But it could not be long before the one subject uppermost in both their minds was spoken of. Rougiet said: ‘Believe it or not, do you know where his advance forces had reached by this morning? Avallon.’
‘Is that far from here?’
‘Fifty kilometres. And do you know where Marshal Ney’s troops are now? Tonnerre. That is thirty-five. They could be here tonight, if they wished to be!’
‘Then I must not stay.’
‘I have heard they have arranged to meet here in the morning. It will be a grand moment. No doubt, in
spite of past disagreements, they will embrace as brothers. You can lie easy here tonight.’
‘And this camp?’
Rougiet shrugged. ‘There are only two brigades here at present – mine and Baron Novry’s – and the 14th Regiment of Lancers – and two batteries of artillery and a few engineers. About seven thousand all told.’
‘And their sentiments?’
‘Bonapartist to a man.’
Rougiet was watching him intently.
‘And yourself?’ said Ross. ‘Or need I ask?’
‘You have known since we first met of my dislike of what the Bourbons have brought to France.’
‘You also admitted your dislike of what Bonaparte had brought France to.’
‘Indeed. But he is too great a man not to have learned by his mistakes. I believe the government he will set up in Paris will be a better one in all respects than the one he left behind twelve months ago. At least it cannot fail to be better than the one we have now!’
Ross tried to ease his aching ankle. He had walked farther today than he had done for years.
‘I can see your point of view. Though from what I have seen I cannot fault the King as much as his relatives. And has he not had an impossible task, trying to reconcile the old with the new – bringing back the kingship and the courtiers of twenty-odd years ago, trying to form some sort of an accommodation between an old and a new regime?’
You cannot turn the clock back,’ said Rougiet. The light showed up the vivid scar across his face – a relic of Jena, he had told Ross. ‘The Jacobins turned equality into a blood bath, but Bonaparte stopped that, and under him an element of equality, a degree of fairness and evenhandedness and justice within the law was established. But the evil stupidity of these émigrés who have returned, claiming their old rights, their old estates, without an idea or a principle in their heads which did not exist before 1793 . . .’
Ross accepted another glass of champagne. ‘And if the return of Bonaparte leads to a resumption of war?’
‘It should not, my friend. Bonaparte will not be seeking war with anyone this time. But if war is forced upon us we shall show that we can still fight!’
‘No one surely has ever doubted that.’
‘I trust we shall never again be on opposite sides.’ Rougiet’s brooding face suddenly lightened into a smile. ‘If we are, I trust we shall avoid each other. I think you would be a brave enemy, but I prefer you as my friend.’
‘Amen,’ said Ross.
IV
They dined and wined and grew more expansive towards each other.
‘This injury of yours, this ankle – you got it fighting us?’
‘No, the Americans. Almost before you were born.’
‘Rubbish. I am thirty-eight. But it lames you?’
‘Not seriously. The wet weather does not suit it. Nor does a lame horse.’
‘Understood. Well, Martin tells me the report on your horse is not good. He is very old – he should be put out to grass – or just put out. If you hired him you were cheated.’
‘There was no other.’
‘Ah. In this crisis horses have become the new gold of France. You will scarcely find a nag. As for the countryside, where it lies in the path of the Emperor – everyone knows that he will pay for any useful mount. And we who are already mounted know that it would be treasonable to lend or give a horse away at this time.’
Ross continued to eat his supper with a disregard for what he was being told. But when it was finished he said: ‘Does this mean you are expecting me to walk back to Paris tomorrow?’
Rougiet laughed heartily but with a heartiness that hid embarrassment. ‘No, my good friend, that will not happen, I assure you. But I trust you understand my plight – as I understand yours. You came in answer to my invitation; but in the course of a week the universe has changed! Could you bear to return by diligence?’
‘How?’
‘There is one leaving here at nine tomorrow. You would be a fifth passenger. There are two ladies and two gentlemen – all non-combatants – one a priest. They all – for sentimental rather than political reasons – wish to leave Auxerre before Bonaparte arrives – like you, in fact. It will be slow, the diligence, but it should be sure.’
‘How slow?’
‘First night in Sens. Then an early rise and you should be in Paris Sunday afternoon.’
Ross glanced out of the window. It was going dark but you could see the rain beating on the window panes. His ankle nagged.
‘Very well,’ he said.
V
There had been no difficulty about the passports. Jodie had gone with her and had got one for herself under the name of Mme Josephine Ettmayer.
‘If it becomes necessary to travel, then it will be safer to travel under my married name. We have perhaps another week; I do not think we can rely on more.’
‘And the King?’
‘Is staying. That means Henri and his regiment are to stay. I fear greatly for his life, for he and his kind will resist to the end. Do not forget that the Palace of the Tuileries is still marked with cannon shot from the massacre of the Swiss Guard only twenty-odd years ago.’
Demelza stared at the rainy street. It all looked so ordinary, so matter-of-fact. People were about their normal business as if nothing had happened and nothing were expected to happen. Could all this casual busy life be destroyed in a few days by civil war in the street, by corpses sprawled on the cobbles, by blood running in the gutters, by children caught in a cross-fire and running and falling . . .? She shivered.
Jodie said: ‘Shall the Embassy provide you with transport out of the city?’
‘We have no plans. When Ross left on Thursday the emergency seemed to be over! We expect friends coming from England for Easter! My son and his wife should come also from Brussels. I have no idea at all what Ross will do!’
Jodie said: ‘I think your friends and your son may be turned back – even if they should leave. It will be a miracle if by Good Friday Bonaparte is not back in his place . . . Demelza, I have been wondering.’
‘Yes?’
They walked on a few paces, Jodie a little ahead, holding her yellow silk scarf more closely to her throat. Then she stopped.
‘Carriages are at a premium. I do not think the Embassy will have enough transport to evacuate itself if the emergency should come to that. All my closest friends they are in a panic today, and I do not think I can rely on any one of them to lend anything on wheels! But I have a carriage. I shall be leaving tomorrow – not later than tomorrow evening. At a pinch it can convey six. I can leave my personal maid behind, and then there will be room for you all! Ross is a big man but Henry is a small one.’
Demelza’s troubled eyes considered her friend. ‘That is some kind. I think Ross will be only too happy to – to leave Paris. I shall because of my children. ’Twill depend on what he says, but thank you, Jodie, if you really think you can take five of us.’
‘It will be better and safer for us all,’ said Jodie.
They returned to the rue de la Ville l’Evêque, but Ross was not home, nor did he come back all that rainy day. The wind was gusting among the tall narrow houses and the torn clouds seemed to clutch at the chimney pots. Although companioned by her two younger children and the sturdy Mrs Kemp, and waited on by the two French servants, Demelza had never felt so much alone. In almost all the crises in which she had found herself in her life she had discovered some native commonsense to help her make choices, to arrive at decisions; and usually, it seemed, what she had done had worked out well enough in the end. Here in a strange city, whose language she was only groping to speak, a city in the grip of a revolutionary change, surrounded by people whom she trusted and distrusted in equal parts, bereft of her husband on whom during this visit she had relied for all guidance, she was lost. For once her children, kept in by the rain and at a loose end to entertain themselves, irritated and vexed her. She blamed herself, but knew that under the irritation with them was an irr
itation, laced with worry, with Ross.
She blamed him for leaving her here like this. The world was going topsy-turvy: the King – King Louis Stanislav Xavier the Eighteenth, the monarch of all France – was about to be deposed, it seemed, and the usurper, adventurer, supreme soldier and traditional nightmare enemy of England was driving up from the south to take his place. Almost all her adult life – or at least for the last twenty years of it – Napoleon Bonaparte had been the one menacing enemy. For years England had lived under threat of an invasion from him. Nelson had died defeating him. So had Geoffrey Charles’s idol, Sir John Moore. So had thousands and thousands of other ordinary decent Englishmen, fighting on the sea or in Holland or Spain or in India or Egypt or Italy or the West Indies, always, always fighting this great but wicked Frenchman.
And last year he had been finally, ultimately vanquished, and all the world had rejoiced. And the great shadow had lifted off their lives. And no longer could nursemaids frighten their children into obedience by threatening that Boney would get them. And it did not matter that Jeremy was still in the army, for once the peace was signed with America there was no one else to fight.
Now this. And he would be here within a week. And somewhere – more or less in his path – Ross was risking his life by merely being an observer. Why did he? What was he doing, standing in the way of an approaching army? What good would it do the Government or this mission they had sent him on if he should end up as another dead body trampled into the mud? Why did he not think more about his wife and children? Where was he? It was Saturday now and he had left on Thursday.
She left the flat, putting on a purple cloak with a heavy hood and walked through the rain to the Embassy.
Charles Bagot saw her first. ‘My dear Lady Poldark, come in. Come in and dry yourself. A large contingent of the King’s Bodyguard has just left the Palace for Melun under the Due de Luxembourg. Colonel de la Blache is with it. This should raise the army protecting Melun to over twenty thousand men. There will be a battle there. I think your husband is likely to be home at any time now. When he comes I urge you all to leave. We are here simply as a skeleton staff – Lord Fitzroy Somerset, myself, Mr McKenzie and two secretaries. Fortunately the Duchess got away in good time.’