At that moment the door to the makeshift courtroom burst open and another prisoner was dragged in before the judge. His guards pulled back his head.
“Another priest we found hiding in the chapel.”
Maillard sighed and methodically checked the prison register to find him. His menacing eyes flickered around the room.
“Did you take the oath?” he asked
“I am not afraid to die,” the man said bravely.
“Away with him!” came an angry roar from the men in the room. Death hovered there above the priest’s head as Maillard waved him away.
Sido shivered. His shrieks filled the room.
The president refilled his glass and looked again at the papers.
“Put some gunpowder in your wine, citizen,” said one of the guards. “That’s what we do. It’ll put fire in your belly and rage in your heart.”
The president shook his head. He looked again at the papers. This one was definitely prettier than any of the others he had gotten rid of this morning, and she had a lovely voice.
“So you say you had no way of stopping your father being a traitor to his country?”
“That is right, sir.”
“Enough. How do we find the prisoner?”
“To La Force,” came the shout from around the room.
In other words, thought Sido, guilty as charged. The president brought down his hammer and cried, “To La Force! Take her away.”
Sido was determined to keep her head up high, to look him straight in the eyes so that he would not forget her. Two guards seized her roughly by the arm as the judge brought down his wooden hammer and shouted, “Next!”
At that moment the door to the office was pushed open and a dreadful apparition charged into the room. The guard, if guard he was, was drenched in blood. He looked exhausted. Furious, he stood in front of Maillard and slammed his bloodied fist on the table.
“What do you think we are?” he shouted. “We’ve been hacking and killing all day without a stop. We ain’t machines, you know. A man needs his rest. A man needs something to eat.”
Maillard looked up at the clock and spoke to the two men who were about to take Sido out. “Leave her!”
Sido was shoved forcibly down on a bench.
“What shall we do with her?” said one of the two guards. “We need a break too, you know.”
Maillard looked at Sido. There was no getting away from it; she was a problem he didn’t want. A pretty problem, and she had nice eyes. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, looking for a way out of his predicament.
Bringing up his hammer, he bashed it upon the table again and proclaimed, “Innocent!”
For a moment Sido wasn’t sure if she had heard him right or whether this was a coded message for them to kill her later, but then a shout went up in the jailer’s office. “Vive la Nation!”
Her guards rushed forward to congratulate her, lifted her up, and carried her out of the street door toward the gate, shouting, “We have one who is innocent.”
From her position high up on their shoulders Sido could see every detail of the scene before her. A huge fire had been lit in the prison courtyard, which added an eerie light to the pile of bodies heaped together, many with their limbs hacked off, while around the railings to the prison the faces of the citizens pressed closer, eager to have a look at the new butchers of Paris. The dogs, freed at last, were licking the ground as the men sat by the heaped corpses, eating their lunch and laughing heartily, holding up wine bottles and dipping their bread in the blood.
Sido, still held up high, floated through this unreal world. She fixed her eyes on the gate, sure that if she were to look away for a moment all chance of freedom would vanish. She was set down outside to join the press of onlookers.
Life is mine, she said to herself, and with those words she felt the thrill of freedom.
Suddenly, an arm locked itself tightly around her waist and a hand, a black-gloved hand, covered her face. Her freedom had lasted for less than a minute. She was pushed into Kalliovski’s carriage and fell back heavily against the velvet cushions. The feel of the luxurious fabric went through her body like an electric shock. She let out a scream as the automaton slumped forward across her lap. She pushed it back, gasping at the ghostly apparition of Madame Perrien.
“I owe you an apology,” said Citizen Kalliovski. “I had hoped to get your release papers signed before this bloodbath began.”
She looked at him in horror. Then, remembering the agreement, she asked, “My father, did you get his release papers?”
Kalliovski took a letter from his pocket. He dangled it in front of her.
“I said to you that if you came willingly, your father would be released. Do you come willingly?”
She sat as far away from him as she could, pushing herself into the seat.
“Do you?”
Sido nodded.
“Kiss me then, show me that you mean it.”
Sido sat trembling, battling with herself. Finally, taking a deep breath, she bent forward to kiss him on the cheek. He grabbed her, and pressing his thumb and forefinger into her jaw forced her to look at him. His lips, like a blood-filled wound, came closer and without thinking she spat at him.
Kalliovski hit her hard across her cheek, making her eyes smart with pain, and threw her back into the seat. Bringing out a pure white handkerchief he opened it up carefully and wiped his face.
“Who would have thought you had such a wild spirit. It will be a pleasure to break it.” He laughed. “And break it I will. Shall I comfort you a little after your ordeal by saying that even if you had come willingly, I would not have had your father freed? I don’t like what is happening but there is something inevitable about it, a certain poetry. Your father and all his spoiled and silly kind have brought this upon themselves.”
He knocked on the ceiling of the carriage and it started to move slowly away through the crowd.
“Would you like to know what today is?”
Sido turned away and looked out of the darkened windows.
“The day the box of demons was opened,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.
“No, ma chérie,” he said, smiling. “Today is our wedding day.”
chapter thirty-three
Over on rue Barbette, Didier had been woken at noon by the Over on rue Barbette, Didier had been woken at noon by the frenzied clang of church bells accompanied by shouts and the sound of boots on cobbles. Wasting no time, he had hurried down to find out what was happening. The clamor of the mob reverberated around the rabbit-warren of shops and apartment buildings as it surged along the street.
Didier rushed to the baker’s shop on rue des Rosiers and knocked so hard on the door that the glass panes rattled. The terrified face of the baker, dough-white with fear, peeked out from behind the blind. Seeing it was an old friend, he quickly let him in and double-locked the door behind him. Talking nonstop, he took Didier through to the back room, where his family was sitting around the table eating. They looked as startled as rabbits caught by the sound of a gun.
“What’s going on?” asked Didier.
“Haven’t you heard? They say Verdun has fallen and that the Prussians are marching this way. They’re just a few miles outside the city gates. Notices have been put up on all the street corners, saying that if we don’t kill the enemies in our prisons they’ll break out and slaughter us all.”
“Rubbish,” said Didier. “Priests, nuns, children, prostitutes, an assortment of aristocrats and forgers—can you really believe people would kill them?”
“I don’t know. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard. There are calls for all the traitors to be torn limb from limb.” He stopped, steadying himself against his oven as if for the first time the true meaning of his words had dawned on him. “It’s a terrible day,” he said sadly. “Makes you wonder if we’re any better than the beasts of the forest.”
He handed Didier a loaf of bread. The smell was comforti
ng in a world that suddenly appeared to be made up of jagged edges.
“Thank you,” said Didier, thrusting it inside his coat.
“If you don’t want to be caught up in a bloodbath,” said the baker, “I’d advise you to stay inside.” He put an arm around his wife and patted his children’s heads. “Call me a coward if you like, but that’s what I’m going to do.”
He saw Didier to the door. “They say it’s going to be a good day for the grave digger. Take care, my friend,” he whispered after him.
Didier pushed his way along the street to Monsieur Aulard’s apartment to find Têtu up and making coffee and Monsieur Aulard, barely awake, sitting slumped in a chair with his stockings down around his ankles.
“Where’s Yann?” asked Didier. “There’s not a moment to be lost. I think the massacres are about to start.”
"I know,” said Têtu. He did not finish what he was saying, for Yann appeared in the doorway.
“What’s happening?” asked Yann. “Why have all the bells gone crazy?”
“Something’s going on at the prisons,” said Didier, taking the warm loaf from his coat and putting it on the table. “It seems that we’re about to be invaded.”
“Then why did you let me sleep?”
"Because you’ve been wounded,” replied Têtu, bringing a pot of coffee to the table. “I’ve managed to get a carriage to meet us at the St. Denis gate at seven o’clock, which should give you time to get your strength up for the journey. I’ve had word from Cordell that he will be in Dieppe, staying at the Hôtel de Paris, so that is where you are to take Kalliovski’s Book of Tears.”
“I’m going to get Sido out before I go anywhere.”
“It may well be too late to save her.”
“No, don’t say that—it can’t be!”
“Yann, I am sorry, the world has gone mad. You would never make it to the prison in time, even without the wound.”
“No, no!” shouted Yann angrily. “I haven’t come this far to give up now, just like that.” He turned away in disgust. “What do I do? Tell the Laxtons that I was slightly wounded and didn’t feel strong enough even to try to get Sido out? Still, never mind, they should be pleased I got the Book of Tears! Têtu, I would rather die trying to get her out than do nothing.”
He went back into the bedchamber and came out a few moments later already dressed and pulling on his sky-blue coat, wincing as a sharp stab of pain went through his shoulder.
“I was told by a fortune-teller that there was a bullet waiting for me in Paris,” he said. “The fear of it nearly stopped me from coming back. Last night the thing I dreaded the most found me, and I survived it. Têtu, I am still alive, more alive than I have ever been. I know I can save Sido, I know it.”
“Then if you don’t want an infection, your wound will need to be rebandaged.”
Reluctantly Yann gave in and sat down, fidgeting impatiently while Didier attended to the wound.
“You’re not fit to go anywhere, not even Dieppe, rattling about in a bone-shaker of a carriage.” Didier bandaged him up again. “Also, you have a slight fever.”
“Stop fussing.”
"Before you go,” said Têtu, "I should tell you that I found out last night that Kalliovski went to get Sido’s release papers signed. I don’t know if he managed it or not. Your only hope of finding her is to find Kalliovski. If I were you I wouldn’t bother with the prison.”
“Thank you,” said Yann. He leaned down toward Têtu and spoke to him in Romany. “One last thing. Did you know Kalliovski can use the threads of light?”
“Yes, like a feeble child with a puppet. He is an amateur, for the time being at least. Unless . . . ”
“Unless what?” asked Yann.
“Unless the devil goes walking.”
Yann kissed Têtu on both cheeks. “Don’t worry,” he said in French. “Today I feel invincible. Today I am ten feet tall and as strong as Hercules.”
"Today you have a fever,” said Têtu.
“I will be there in time for the coach. You bring the Book of Tears, Sido’s papers, and the letters.” At the door he turned back. “Wait—the jewels! You must get them from the old lawyer.”
"I know,” said Têtu. "Now go.”
"Oh, mort bleu! ” said Monsieur Aulard, leaping to his feet in desperation. “No, no, Yann. Can’t you see that once Kalliovski finds out what has been stolen, all hell will break loose?”
“Just get the jewels,” said Yann, and he left, taking the stairs two at a time.
Têtu looked at Didier, who was clutching a thick slice of bread, knowing full well what was about to be asked of him.
“Get after him and try to stop him being killed.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Didier, picking up his cap and taking a quick swig of coffee.
After he had gone, Têtu grabbed his coat and hat. “What are you doing just sitting there?” he said to Monsieur Aulard. “Come on, get dressed. We have a lot to do. We’ve a lawyer to see, jewels to collect, and a carriage to meet.”
“Mort bleu!” said Monsieur Aulard. “Will this never end?”
Just as if he knew exactly what Monsieur Aulard was thinking, Têtu said soothingly, “You are doing well, my old friend. You are braver than I ever thought you could be. Now, my size is against me. I need you to help me get through the crowds.”
Monsieur Aulard, holding tightly to his black cap, squared his shoulders and sighed. "Then we’d best get going. I will protect you"
It took Didier some time to catch up withYann, who had managed to weave and duck his way through the back alleys and down less crowded streets. At nearly every turn his way was barred by the sheer volume of people armed with spades, pitchforks, kitchen knives, and rusty swords. It was as if they were welded together like one determined, monstrous body made up of flesh, sinew, teeth and hair. With one purpose, with one mind, with murder beating in their hearts, they moved inexorably forward. They had no past, no future; they were caught in the great unthinking moment, their hearts and minds driven wild by the frenzied ringing of the tocsin, the firing of the cannons. It was as if Paris itself had a voice and howled its terror for all to hear.
It had taken Yann hours to get anywhere. He had made it as far as Kalliovski’s apartment, to be told he had not returned. He went back to the Pont Neuf, but here, just as earlier, the press of people made progress almost impossible. Yann felt time slipping through his fingers like sand. Every now and then news would reach his ears of what was happening in the prisons, each report more horrific than the last.
They say the butchers of Paris had to show the sans-culottes how to kill a man.
They say the blood is running down to the Seine.
It’s harder to kill a man than you think. Some of them were running around squawking like chickens, with bits missing.
These snippets of conversation made Yann more and more desperate. He climbed up onto the parapet of the bridge to get a better view of how far the masses stretched. On the opposite bank he could see the crowd divided. One half was setting off toward the Champ de Mars, the other making its way toward St. Germain and L’Abbaye.
Yann stood looking over the crowd, his mind whirling, the pain in his shoulder sharp and jagged. He cursed the fact that he had failed to persuade Sido to leave while there was still a chance.
Didier was now able to see Yann standing there in his sky-blue coat like a sailor looking out over an awesome sea of people. What was he searching for? Why was he drawing attention to himself? Didier wanted him to get down before he was pushed into the river.
“We’d best get off this bridge and make for the bridge of Notre Dame,” he shouted above the noise.
“Wait,” said Yann.
It wasn’t the first carriage he had seen that day, but the others had been abandoned, turned over, splintered, many set alight, making the movement of the masses even harder.
As it got closer Yann recognized it as Kalliovski’s shiny black coach with six fine white horses, t
he one in which he and Têtu and Topolain had traveled when they were taken to the Marquis de Villeduval’s château. He smiled to himself, for this meant only one thing: Kalliovski had had no time to return home after the meeting. Otherwise he would have chosen to travel in a humbler coach, for this one stood out like a beacon of wealth and privilege as it fought its way against the oncoming tide of people. He must already have been to the prison.
In that moment Yann was certain that Kalliovski had Sido in the coach with him.
“Didier,” he shouted, “look!”
Didier too had seen the coach, but unlike Yann the sight of it gave him no cause for joy. It was proof that they needed to get out fast.
“Get down, Yann. If he sees us, he’ll kill us. Let’s aim for the Palais Royal.”
"No,” said Yann. "Come on, follow me.”
Didier knew he had no choice. Yann was now walking along the parapet, making his way ever closer to the coach. Didier followed, plowing through the crowds until at last he had his hand firmly on the door and his huge face pressed up hard against the darkened glass of the window. He could see Kalliovski, with Balthazar snarling at his feet. An automaton was sitting in the middle, and Sido was hunched in the corner, her hands to her face.
Didier called to Yann, “They’re in there all right.”
“Get those horses,” came a cry from the crowd. “They should be pulling cannons, not carriages.”
A man leaped up and the coach driver did his best to push him off, shouting, “I have a member of the Revolutionary Council in here.”
For a fleeting moment sanity prevailed. The mob parted as the coach started to lurch forward again.
“Stop them!” shouted Yann as the terrified horses snorted, rearing up and showing the whites of their eyes. The coachman tried to calm them down and made one last frantic attempt to get free of the crowd.
“It’s an aristocrat trying to escape, a traitor to the cause!” yelled Didier at the top of his lungs.
The crowd needed to hear no more. That one seed of doubt worked its magic, and they swarmed upon the carriage and cut free the horses. Again the crowds parted, this time to make way for the horses to be taken like trophies won on the field of battle. The coachman slumped over on his seat, clutching a dagger that stuck out of his belly.