Den of Thieves

The crowd cheered themselves.

  ‘Well, then,’ I continued, ‘why expect all aristocrats to be the same? Surely you know better than that here in the Palais Royal? As the judge in this court of yours, Monsieur J-F, I’d’ve thought you’d know the importance of not being prejudiced against people without evidence.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the little judge conceded with a bow.

  ‘And where would a good thief be without the rich to steal from? A dairymaid needs a cow to milk; a thief a fat purse. If you do away with them all, you do away with your livelihood.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ muttered a few in the audience.

  ‘So you see, you shouldn’t let a pair of fine breeches bother you: you should see the wearer as an opportunity for enrichment.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not bothered by him,’ said J-F lazily, nodding at the duke’s son. ‘It’s you I can’t work out. State your name before the court.’

  ‘Catherine Royal.’

  ‘Ah, that Royal again. Very suspicious. Father?’

  ‘No idea.’

  There was a cheer from behind me.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said J-F with a pleased smile. ‘Mother?’

  ‘Not the foggiest.’

  Applause greeted this statement.

  ‘So what is a base-born girl like you doing walking round with a noble like him?’

  ‘Well, I’d have told you from the start if you’d given me a chance.’ I rolled my eyes with obvious exasperation. ‘I was abandoned as a baby on the steps of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane –’

  ‘A very honourable start to life,’ commented J-F to Marie.

  ‘I was raised by the theatre folk and that was where I met Frank. We’re friends – just friends,’ I added severely as Annette giggled. ‘A couple of weeks ago, the theatre closed so I’ve come to learn to be a ballet dancer with a troop belonging to a Madame Beaufort.’

  ‘A dancer? The most respected profession,’ J-F remarked, rising to pirouette on the spot, ribbon rippling behind him.

  ‘As Frank was coming here to visit his family, we decided to travel together.’

  ‘So who is he, this Frank?’ J-F circled my friend, flicking the ribbon at him, a gesture at once playful and menacing. Frank flinched back.

  ‘A theatre-goer.’ I kept very quiet about the dukedom.

  J-F let the ribbon flutter into Marie’s lap, and scratched his head. He seemed on the point of letting us go but something was bothering him. Suddenly, he leapt back to his throne and announced with a sweep of his arm:

  ‘It’s no good. Kill them!’

  ‘What!’ I’d thought I’d won him over. I had begun to congratulate myself on my cleverness.

  ‘I don’t like them. Get rid of them!’

  ‘You don’t like us!’ I shouted as two boys sprang forward to restrain me from slapping his face. ‘Well, at least I’m not a lice-ridden dwarf with an inflated sense of his own importance.’ J-F stopped scratching and sat down with a delighted smile, infuriating me even more. My French was not quite up to the task of insulting someone properly, but I was giving it my best shot. ‘I can’t understand how your mates stand it: you stink like the poisonous gas from a cow’s backside. You’re nothing more than a grub on a rat’s posterior.’

  The thieves were now laughing and cheering me on. J-F was gazing at me as if I was the most marvellous thing he’d ever seen. ‘Go on, firecracker, keep up the crackling. If you give me just two more up to that standard, I’ll let you all go.’

  So he’d done this on purpose to make me explode! ‘You’re a pile of rotting offal from a diseased pig.’ His mouth twitched. I was on to his game. I had better make the last one my best. ‘You’re a lying, thieving . . .’

  ‘Now, now, don’t spoil it with compliments,’ J-F said modestly.

  ‘. . . low-down steaming pile of dog dirt fired from the behind of a rabid mongrel.’

  This got the biggest cheer yet. I heard several ‘hear, hears!’ from the crowd. Marie was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

  J-F jumped to his feet, bringing an imaginary gavel down on the barrel beside him. ‘Free them. The prisoners are acquitted on the grounds that she is as foul-mouthed as the best of us – and they because . . . well, because they’re her friends and, as she had said, I should not be prejudiced.’ He skipped over Marie to land beside me, grabbed my shoulders and saluted me on the cheeks three times. ‘Welcome to France, sister.’

  ‘A drink for our guests!’ announced Marie, following J-F in kissing me.

  Annette reappeared with five mugs balanced on a tray. The little thief-king took two, handed me one and clinked his own against it. ‘To the nobility of the gutter everywhere!’

  I raised my drink in return, noticing as I did that my friends were still bound like chickens ready for the oven. ‘Isn’t it about time you freed them?’ I suggested. ‘And . . . er . . . got them some clothes?’

  J-F frowned. From the flash of scarlet among the crowd of boys, I guessed that Joseph’s livery was now adorning some fortunate favourite. Another was dancing about with the footman’s wig askew on his head. ‘I understand that you may still require the original garments as . . . um . . . evidence . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, evidence . . .’ echoed J-F archly, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘. . . But, as they’ve been acquitted, perhaps the court could spare them the indignity of walking the streets of Paris in their birthday suits?’

  J-F grinned and clicked his fingers. Four boys descended on Frank and Joseph, whipped off their gags and ropes and produced a motley selection of clothes to cover the bare essentials. Joseph looked outraged, Frank amused, to find themselves transformed into working men of France, complete with floppy red caps and cockades. Joseph, being a man of great stature, was now wearing trousers that ended halfway up his legs and appeared none too pleased at the exchange for his smart Avon livery. He shot me an angry look. But what did he imagine I could do about it? He was lucky to be decently clad.

  Frank held out his arms and turned round for my benefit. ‘What do you think, Cat?’ he called over the heads of J-F’s boys.

  ‘Very good, citizen. I’m sure it’s what every self-respecting monsieur on the left bank is wearing this season.’

  J-F did not like us switching into English. ‘What did the English boy say?’ he asked me, taking my arm possessively. I suppose he was right to be wary: his prolonged existence depended on sharp wits and keeping one step ahead of the law.

  ‘He only asked if I admired his new suit of clothes,’ I replied, trying to soothe his ruffled feathers. ‘I told him I thought them very chic.’

  J-F flung himself back on his throne. ‘But what did he call you, this . . . this “Cat”?’

  So that was what was bothering him. ‘Oh, that: that’s my nickname. Cat – that’s English for le chat. My friends say I have nine lives and I always fall on my feet.’

  J-F’s grin returned. He turned to Frank who had pushed his way through the crowd to join me. ‘And has she?’ he asked him.

  ‘Has she what?’ asked Frank, taking a gulp from the mug Marie handed him.

  ‘Has she got nine lives?’

  ‘I’d say she’s used up two or three of them if you count today.’ Frank watched with equanimity as his breeches went by on the legs of a tall black lad with tattoos on his face.

  J-F took out Frank’s purse, poured the contents into his palm and handed the wallet back. ‘You have this. I’ll keep the rest as payment for your clothes.’

  ‘Of course, that’s very reasonable,’ said Frank, exchanging a look with me.

  ‘Reasonable, my lord!’ spluttered Joseph. He didn’t need to understand French to realize that his master was being asked to pay for the privilege of being deprived of his belongings. ‘This is daylight robbery!’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Frank replied, thrusting a mug in his footman’s hand. ‘Or we could look on it as the price for saving us from the mob. It’s going to happen anyway, so we might as well make the best of it as
Cat has.’

  ‘Look and learn, Frank, look and learn,’ I replied with relish.

  ‘What did the giant say, milord?’ J-F asked Frank.

  ‘He was just expressing his thanks for your hospitality,’ said Frank with a bow to his host.

  J-F laughed and clapped Frank on the back. ‘I like you, le chat – Cat – and Milord. You both understand how the world works.’

  ‘Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,’ I admitted. ‘I think I got it slightly wrong this morning.’

  Frank snorted into his drink. ‘Slightly! Not wearing the cockade and almost getting us all killed, she means.’

  J-F shrugged. ‘Ah well, we all make mistakes and, in fairness to her, it’s not every day that the king goes missing.’

  My own personal danger having driven the events of the day from my head, I now remembered I was supposed to be finding out for Mr Sheridan what the common people of Paris made of these developments.

  ‘And what do you think about losing your royal family, J-F?’

  He gave me a long look before deciding to answer. ‘Don’t care as long as it doesn’t mean too many of the National Guard on the streets. If they are kept busy running about after Piggy Louis and off my back then I’ll be happy.’

  ‘So you’re not bothered that the king has gone – possibly to return at the head of a foreign army?’ asked Frank, intrigued by this casual attitude to whether or not the head of state was on the throne. His upbringing among English nobility had not allowed for the possibility that the common man might not care two hoots for the doings of his sort.

  J-F rubbed his nose thoughtfully, pondering all facets of the situation. ‘I’m not sure what it’ll do for business. A bit of confusion is good, but blood running in the streets – soldiers – panic – no, I don’t like the sound of that. If he’s gone, I hope he’s gone forever. But it might not be a good time to be a foreigner in Paris.’ His eyes met mine, his expression serious: was he giving me a warning or merely referring to the events at the lamp post?

  Frank put down his drink. ‘In that case, I think we had better be going before anything else happens to us. And I still have to call on my parents.’

  I rose to take my leave. ‘Thank you, J-F. It has been most . . . illuminating meeting you and your people.’

  The little king conducted me to the door. ‘Come back any time, Cat – Milord. You have my word of honour that you will have safe conduct through my kingdom.’

  ‘For a price, no doubt,’ I added.

  ‘For a price,’ he agreed, kissing my hand.

  *

  Transformed by our experiences among the thieves into the garb of lower class Parisians, we attracted no attention as we made our way back to our lodgings. The pavements were busy; everywhere I looked I saw people gathered in huddles to debate the day’s news, but no sign of panic.

  ‘Well, that was a most educational experience. The lengths you go to to get rid of a dress you hate astound me, Cat,’ commented Frank as we stood on a street corner to allow a messenger to gallop past. Frank glanced at his map. ‘He’s heading away from the National Assembly. I wonder who’s in charge now?’

  Now that the head of the country had chucked in his crown and scarpered, he meant. Would old London be as calm under similar circumstances? I wondered. Mind you, we chopped the head off a king last century – that was before having the cheek to invite his son to come back a decade or so later to pick up where his dad had left off. We seemed to have survived the episode so I supposed that the French would too. Now I came to think about it, as I studied the kingless streets of Paris, what were royalty for really? Perhaps they weren’t needed after all?*

  ‘Frank, have you ever wondered what purpose a king serves?’ I asked, speaking my thoughts aloud as we passed a group of men gathered around a notice pasted up on a brick wall.

  My friend eyed me shrewdly. ‘What’s this? Treason, Cat?’

  It felt wonderfully liberating to think the unthinkable – and then to say it out loud with no fear of reprisals. ‘Answer the question, Frank. If a king has real power, isn’t it stupid to trust to chance that his parents won’t produce a dunce?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘It’s tradition. Besides, it’s all in the hands of God.’

  ‘And if the king’s only a figurehead,’ I ploughed on, ‘then what’s the point of that? Isn’t it an expensive luxury – all those princes and princesses, palaces and servants to pay for?’

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that, Cat, you sound just like a republican.’ Frank shook his head as if diagnosing me with some incurable disease.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Everything. England is not – and never will be – a republic. Oh, it’s all right to think like that for new countries with tiny populations like America, but for big countries like ours and France, it would be a disaster.’

  ‘Why? From what I can see around me the world hasn’t come to an end for these people. Look, she’s still carrying her basket to market and he – well, he’s found time to pick his nose.’

  ‘A most uplifting spectacle. I’m sure we’d all just love to be ruled by the likes of him. Without a king to unite the country, this place will fall apart. You need a strong man in charge.’

  He sounded very pompous – not like the normal Frank.

  ‘Stop talking to me as if you’ve got a poker stuck up the proverbial. Strong man, indeed!’ I scoffed.

  ‘Well, look what happened when we had a woman in charge of our walking party this morning!’ he said wickedly. ‘Almost hanged by your oh-so-enlightened masses and then fleeced of all our worldly goods by a dwarfish thief and his bunch of merry men.’

  ‘And what happened when we had a man in charge of map-reading yesterday? Scared a flock of nuns, deafened a beggar and frightened some poor soul out of her wits by leaping out upon her in the dark . . .’ I stopped suddenly. ‘You don’t think . . . No, it can’t have . . .’

  ‘What are you rambling on about?’

  ‘That woman – in the alleyway behind the palace last night – remember how well-spoken she was? You don’t think that . . .?’

  Frank realized where I was going with my speculation. Our argument forgotten, he said nothing for a few moments. ‘Well, if she did have anything to do with the royal family’s disappearance then we’d better keep quiet about it. We almost got killed this morning on a whim; we wouldn’t want to get tangled up with all this. Who knows what revenge they’ll take on anyone connected with the king’s flight?’

  Argue though we might about kings, I certainly agreed with Frank on this. We would mention what we’d seen to no one and just hope the drunken coachman would do the same.

  We arrived back at Madame Beaufort’s lodgings as a nearby clock sounded midday.

  ‘Oh blast! I’m so late: she’ll kill me!’ I exclaimed as it dawned on me that I had missed two hours of ballet while I had been making my acquaintance with death Parisian style.

  ‘Poor Cat,’ grimaced Frank. ‘I completely forgot you have balletic duties. You’d better go straight up.’

  Leaving Frank and Joseph to make themselves decent for a call on the Avons, I ran upstairs, two at a time, and burst into the practice room where all the dancers were gathered. They were standing in a long line, looking at themselves critically in a wall of mirrors, bending and swaying like willow trees in a breeze. In contrast to the hustle of the streets I had just left, the quiet in the room was a shock.

  My entrance broke the concentration in the room as surely as a hot pin lancing a boil lets the pent-up unpleasantness spurt out.

  ‘If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is lateness,’ rapped Madame Beaufort, bearing down on me like an angry poodle, her mass of hair wobbling in time with the shake of her head.

  ‘I am sorry, madame, but I have a very good excuse. When you hear what happened –’

  ‘I do not want to hear excuses – there is no special treatment for anyone in my ensemble.’ Her gaze alighted on my new clothe
s. ‘And what is that you are wearing?’

  I opened my mouth to explain.

  ‘Never mind, no time to change now. To the barre and copy Belle.’

  ‘But don’t you want to hear about the king . . .?’

  ‘Quiet! Dance! By Saint Anne, you have more than enough to learn without being the only one to miss our lessons!’

  Clearly nothing short of an earthquake would prevent Madame Beaufort from putting her girls through their paces. I took my place at the end of the row of dancers and turned to face the mirror. I looked so out of place, it was laughable. Belle, my neighbour, was tall and graceful, dressed in a loose white practice gown; I was short, angular and decidedly rumpled in my patched striped skirt and apron. As for learning to dance, who did Madame Beaufort think she was fooling? I had no more chance of succeeding than a monkey of writing Hamlet.

  Swish! The rod tapped my wrist.

  ‘Bend it so, Cat. Imagine your hands are exclamation marks to your movements, not full stops.’ Madame Beaufort curled her own palm over the back of my wrist, easing it into the required shape. I was taken aback to hear anything so poetic from her. ‘See, you can do it when you try.’

  Gazing at myself in the mirror, I understood what she meant. If I thought of myself as awkward, my body behaved accordingly; if I forgot myself and let the music flow through me, I became far more elegant.

  Oh no, I’m beginning to think like a ballerina! Help! It must be the after-effect of the events of the morning. I frowned at my reflection. Thank goodness nothing else could possibly happen today.

  Just as this comforting thought had floated through my mind, the door banged open and Frank erupted into the room. Seizing me roughly by the arm, he dragged me after him, knocking dancers over like ninepins.

  ‘Apologies, madame, but I have to speak to Cat urgently,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘My lord!’ she exclaimed in protest, but he slammed the door behind us.

  My heart was in my mouth. Frank looked absolutely terrified. Taking me by the shoulders, he announced:

  ‘They’ve arrested my family – all of them: Mama, Father and Lizzie – on suspicion of helping the king to flee.’