Desiree

  ‘What office? and who are you?’ I stammered.

  ‘It’s Deputy Albitte’s office. And my name, as this seems to interest the citoyenne, Citoyen Joseph Bonoparté, secretary to the Committee of Public Safety in Paris, seconded to Deputy Albitte as his secretary during his journey to Marseilles. And our office hours were over a long time ago: I must lock up, and it’s against the law for anyone to spend the night in the Maison Commune. I must therefore ask the citoyenne very kindly to wake up and leave.’

  Maison Commune, Albitte. Now I knew where I was, and why. But where was Suzanne? I was at a loss.

  ‘Where is Suzanne?’ I asked the friendly young man.

  At that his smile broadened into a laugh. ‘I have not the honour to know Suzanne,’ he said. ‘I can only tell you that the last people who came to see Citoyen Albitte left here two hours ago. I am the only person left in the office. And I am going home now.’

  ‘But I must wait for Suzanne!’ I insisted. ‘You must excuse me, Citizen Bo – ma—’

  ‘Bonoparté,’ said the young man, politely helping me out.

  ‘Well, Citoyen Bonoparté, you must excuse me, but here I am, and here I must stay till Suzanne comes back. Otherwise there’ll be a terrible to-do when I get home alone, and when I confess that I lost her in the Maison Commune. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘You are monstrous persistent,’ he said, as he put the lantern on the floor and sat down next to me on the bench. ‘What is this Suzanne’s surname, and what did she want from Albitte?’

  ‘Her name is Suzanne Clary, and she is my brother Etienne’s wife,’ I told him. ‘Etienne was arrested, and Suzanne and I came to ask for his release.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said. He got up, took the lantern, and disappeared through the door at which the archangel had stood guard. I followed him. He was bending over a large writing-desk and looking through some documents.

  ‘If Albitte received your sister-in-law,’ he explained, ‘your brother’s dossier must be here. The Deputy always asks for the papers in the case before talking to the relatives of arrested men.’

  I did not know what to say, so I murmured: ‘The Deputy is a very just and kind man.’

  He glanced up at me mockingly. ‘Above all a kind man, Citoyenne. Perhaps too kind. And that’s why Citoyen Robespierre of the Committee of Public Safety commissioned me to assist him.’

  ‘Oh, so you know Robespierre?’ I said without thinking. Heavens, here was someone who knew Deputy Robespierre, who will arrest his best friends to serve the Republic!

  ‘Ah, here we are, Etienne Clary,’ the young man exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘Etienne Clary, silk merchant of Marseilles, is that right?’

  I nodded eagerly. ‘But in any case,’ I said, ‘his arrest was a misunderstanding.’

  Citizen Bonoparté turned to me: ‘What was a misunderstanding?’

  ‘Whatever it was that led to his arrest.’

  The young man put on a grave air. ‘I see. And why was he arrested?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘But at any rate I can assure you that it was a misunderstanding.’ Then I thought of something. ‘Listen,’ I said eagerly. ‘You said you know Citoyen Robespierre, the Commissary for Public Safety. Perhaps you can tell him that Etienne’s arrest was a mistake and—’

  My heart stood still. For the young man shook his head slowly and seriously. ‘I can do nothing about this case. There is nothing more to be done. Here—’ he solemnly picked up a document – ‘here is the decision, entered by Deputy Albitte himself.’

  He held the sheet out to me. ‘Read it for yourself!’

  I bent over the document. But though he was holding the lantern quite close I could make nothing out. I saw a few hastily written words, but the letters danced before my eyes.

  ‘I am so troubled, please read it to me,’ I said, and I was close to tears. He read out:

  ‘The matter has been fully explained and he has been set free.’

  ‘Does that mean—’ I was trembling all over—’ does that mean that Etienne—?’

  ‘Of course! Your brother is a free man. He probably went home to his Suzanne long ago, and is now sitting with the rest of the family enjoying his supper. And the whole family are making a fuss over him and have entirely forgotten you. But – but – what’s the matter, Citoyenne?’

  I had started helplessly weeping. I couldn’t stop, the tears ran down my cheeks, and I wept and wept; and I simply could not understand why, for I wasn’t sad, I was inexpressibly happy, and I didn’t know you can weep for joy.

  ‘I am so glad, Monsieur,’ I sobbed; ‘so glad!’

  It was obvious that this scene made the young man uncomfortable. He put down the dossier and busied himself with things on the desk. I dug down into my ‘Pompadour’ handbag, and looked for a handkerchief, but I found I had forgotten to put one in. Then I remembered the handkerchiefs in the front of my dress, and I reached down into the open neck. At that moment the young man looked up, and he could hardly believe his eyes: two, three, four little handkerchiefs came out of my frock, like a conjuring trick.

  ‘I put them there so that people should think I was grown up,’ I murmured, because I felt that I owed him an explanation. I was terribly ashamed. ‘You see, at home they treat me as a child.’

  ‘You are no longer a child, you are a young lady,’ Citizen Boonopat assured me at once. ‘And now I’ll take you home. It’s not pleasant for a young lady to walk through the city alone at this time of night.’

  ‘It is too kind of you, Monsieur, but I cannot accept—’ I stammered in embarrassment. ‘You said yourself that you wanted to go home.’

  He laughed: ‘A friend of Robespierre permits no contradiction. We’ll have a sweetmeat each, and then go.’

  He opened a drawer in the desk and held out a paper bag to me. In it were cherries dipped in chocolate. ‘Albitte always keeps bonbons in his desk,’ he told me. ‘Take another chocolate cherry. Good, isn’t it? Nowadays only Deputies can afford bonbons like these.’ The last sentence sounded a little bitter.

  ‘I live on the other side of the city, it would be very much out of your way,’ I said guiltily, as we were leaving the Maison Commune. But I did not want to refuse his company, for it’s quite true that young ladies cannot be out alone in the evening without being molested. Besides, I did so like him.

  ‘I am so ashamed of having shed tears,’ I said a little later. He pressed my arm and reassured me: ‘I understand how you felt. I have brothers and sisters too, and I love them. And, indeed, sisters of about your age.’

  After that I no longer felt in the least shy. ‘But Marseilles is not your home?’ I asked him.

  ‘It is. All my family, except one brother, live here now.’

  ‘I thought – well,’ I said, ‘your accent is different from ours.’

  ‘I am a Corsican,’ he said. ‘A Corsican refugee. We all came to France a little over a year ago – my mother, my brothers and sisters, and I. We had to leave everything we possessed in Corsica, and escaped with our bare lives.’

  It sounded wildly romantic. ‘Why?’ I asked, breathless with excitement.

  ‘Because we are patriots,’ he said.

  ‘Does Corsica belong to Italy?’ I inquired, for my ignorance is beyond belief.

  ‘How can you ask such a thing?’ he replied hotly. ‘For twenty-five years Corsica has belonged to France. And we were brought up as French citizens, patriotic French citizens! That’s why we could make no terms with the party that wanted to hand over Corsica to the English. A year ago English warships suddenly appeared off your coast; you must surely have heard of it?’

  I nodded. Probably I heard of it at the time, but I had forgotten all about it.

  ‘And we had to flee. Mama and all of us.’ His voice was grim. He was like a real hero in a novel: a homeless refugee.

  ‘And have you friends in Marseilles?’

  ‘My brother helps us. He was able to get Mam
a a small Government pension, because she had to flee from the English. My brother was educated in France. At Brienne, at the military school. He is a General.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said, speechless with admiration; I felt one should say something when told that a man’s brother is a General! But as I could find nothing more to say, he changed the subject.

  ‘You are a daughter of the late silk merchant Clary, aren’t you?’

  I was very surprised. ‘How did you know that?’

  He laughed: ‘You needn’t be surprised. I might tell you that the eyes of the law see everything and that I, as an official of the Republic, am one of those many eyes. But I’ll be honest, Mademoiselle, and admit that you yourself told me: you said you were Etienne Clary’s sister. And I learned from the documents that Etienne Clary is the son of the late François Clary.’

  He spoke quickly, and when he does that he is liable to roll his r’s like a real foreigner. But, after all, he is a Corsican.

  ‘By the way, Mademoiselle,’ he suddenly said, ‘you were right. Your brother’s arrest was indeed due to a misunderstanding. The warrant for the arrest was actually made out in your father’s name – François Clary.’

  ‘But Papa is no longer alive!’

  ‘Quite so, and that explains the misunderstanding. It is all down in your brother’s dossier. Recently an examination of certain pre-Revolution documents revealed that the silk merchant François Clary had petitioned to be granted a patent of nobility.’

  I was astonished. ‘Really? We knew nothing about that. And I don’t understand it; Papa never had any liking for the aristocracy. Why should he have done that?’

  ‘For business reasons,’ Citizen Bonaparté explained, ‘only for business reasons. I suppose he wanted to be appointed a Purveyor to the Court?’

  ‘Yes, and once he sent some blue silk velvet to the Queen, I mean to the Widow Capet in Versailles,’ I said proudly. ‘Papa’s silks were famous for their excellence.’

  ‘His petition was regarded as – well, let us say as entirely unsuited to the times. That’s why a warrant for his arrest was issued. And when our people went to his address they found only the silk merchant Etienne Clary, and so they arrested him.’

  ‘I’m sure that Etienne knew nothing about that petition,’ I declared.

  ‘I assume that your sister-in-law Suzanne convinced Deputy Albitte of her husband’s innocence. That is why your brother was released; and your sister-in-law must have hurried to the prison at once to fetch him. But all that belongs to the past. What interests me,’ he continued, and his voice was soft, almost tender. ‘What interests me is not your family, Mademoiselle, but you yourself, little Citoyenne. What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Bernadine Eugenie Désirée. They call me Eugenie; I should much prefer Désirée.’

  ‘All your names are beautiful. And what shall I call you, Mademoiselle Bernadine Eugenie Désirée?’

  I felt myself blushing. But thank goodness it was dark, and he could not see my face. I had a feeling that the conversation was taking a turn of which Mama would not have approved.

  ‘Call me Eugenie as everyone else does. But you must come to see us, and in front of Mama I’ll suggest that you should call me by my Christian name. Then there won’t be any trouble, because I believe that if Mama knew—’

  I stopped short.

  ‘Are you never allowed to take a walk with a young man?’ he inquired.

  ‘I don’t know. So far I’ve never known any young men,’ I said without thinking. I had completely forgotten Persson.

  He pressed my arm again and laughed: ‘But now you know one – Eugenie!’

  ‘When will you call on us?’ I asked.

  ‘Shall I come soon?’ he rejoined, teasing.

  But I did not answer at once. I was full of an idea that had occurred to me a little earlier: Julie! Julie, who so loves reading novels, would be enthusiastic about this young man with the foreign accent.

  ‘Well, what is your answer, Mademoiselle Eugenie?’

  ‘Come to-morrow,’ I said, ‘to-morrow after office hours. If it is warm enough we can sit in the garden. We have a little summer-house, it’s Julie’s favourite place in the garden.’ I considered that I had been extremely diplomatic.

  ‘Julie? So far I have only heard about Suzanne and Etienne, not Julie. Who is Julie?’

  I had to talk quickly, for we had already reached our road. ‘Julie is my sister,’ I said.

  ‘Older or younger?’ He sounded keenly interested.

  ‘Older. She is eighteen.’

  ‘And – pretty?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ I assured him eagerly; but then I wondered whether Julie would really be considered pretty. It is so difficult to judge one’s own sister.

  ‘You swear it?’

  ‘She has lovely brown eyes,’ I declared, and so she has.

  ‘And are you sure your mother would welcome me?’ he asked with diffidence. He did not seem sure that Mama would be glad to see him, and, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure either.

  ‘I am sure she would welcome you,’ I insisted, for I was determined to give Julie her chance. Besides, there was something I wanted myself. ‘Do you think you could bring your brother, the General?’ I asked.

  Now Monsieur Boonopat was quite eager. ‘Of course. He would be delighted, we have so few acquaintances in Marseilles.’

  ‘You see, I’ve never seen a real General close up,’ I confessed.

  ‘Well, you can see one to-morrow. True, at the moment he has no command, he is working out some scheme or other. Still, he is a real General.’

  I tried in vain to imagine what a real General would be like. I was sure that I had never met a General, and, as a matter of fact, I had not seen one even at a distance. And the pictures of the Generals in the days of the Roi Soleil are all of old gentlemen with huge wigs. After the Revolution, Mama took down the portraits of them in the parlour and stacked them in the attic.

  ‘There must be a great difference in age between you and your brother,’ I said, for Monsieur Boonapat seemed very young.

  ‘No, not very much difference. About a year.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘your brother is only a year older than you, and a General?’

  ‘No, a year younger. My brother is only twenty-four. But he is very clever, and full of amazing ideas. Well, you’ll see him tomorrow yourself.’

  Our house was now in sight. The road was lit up from the ground-floor windows. No doubt the family had been at supper for some time.

  ‘That is where I live, where the lights are.’

  Suddenly Monsieur Boonapat’s manner changed. When he saw the fine white house he was less sure of himself, and quickly said good-bye. ‘I mustn’t keep you, Mademoiselle. I am afraid your family will be anxious about you. Oh, no, don’t thank me. It was a great pleasure to escort you, and if your invitation was seriously meant, I shall take the liberty of calling to-morrow in the late afternoon, with my young brother, that is to say if your mother does not object, and if we should not be disturbing you.’

  At that moment the front door was opened, and Julie’s voice pierced the darkness: ‘There she is, by the gate!’ Then she called impatiently: ‘Eugenie, is that you, Eugenie?’

  ‘I’m coming in a moment, Julie,’ I called back.

  ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle,’ Monsieur Boonapat said as I ran up to the house. Five minutes later I was being told that I was a disgrace to the family.

  Mama, Suzanne, and Etienne were at supper; the meal was over and they were having coffee when Julie brought me in in triumph. ‘Here she is!’

  ‘Thank God,’ Mama said. ‘Where have you been, my child?’

  I glanced at Suzanne reproachfully. ‘You must have forgotten all about me,’ I complained. ‘I went to sleep and—’

  Suzanne was holding Etienne’s hand. She put down her cup indignantly. ‘Well, I never! First she goes fast asleep in the Maison Commune and leaves me to see Albitte alone, and now she wants to blame
me!’

  ‘When you left Albitte I think you must have forgotten me!’ I said.

  ‘But where have you been all the time?’ Mama asked. ‘We sent Marie to the Maison Commune, but it was closed and the porter said there was no one there, only Albitte’s secretary. Great heavens, Eugenie, to think that you walked through the town alone, at this time of night! The things that might have happened to you!’

  Mama picked up her little silver bell and rang it. ‘Bring the child her soup, Marie!’ she said.

  ‘But I wasn’t alone,’ I said, ‘Albitte’s secretary was with me.’

  Marie gave me my soup, but before I could begin Suzanne burst out:

  ‘The secretary? That rude fellow at the door?’

  ‘No, he was only a messenger. Albitte’s secretary is a charming young man who knows Robespierre personally. At least, he says he does. By the way, I have—’

  But they would not let me finish. Etienne cut me short: ‘What is his name?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a difficult name, and I didn’t catch it properly – Boonapat or something like that. He’s a Corsican. By the way; I have—’

  ‘And you came alone, at night, with this stranger?’ Etienne shouted, playing the stern father. First they had fussed because I had come home alone, and now because I hadn’t.

  ‘He is not a stranger, he introduced himself to me,’ I said. ‘His family are in Marseilles. They are refugees from Corsica. By the way, I have—’

  ‘Go on with your soup, or it will be cold,’ said Mama.

  ‘Refugees from Corsica?’ said Etienne contemptuously. ‘Probably adventurers. Adventurers, that’s what they’ll be!’

  I put down my spoon to defend my new friend. ‘He has a very respectable family,’ I said. ‘And his brother is a General. By the way, I have—’

  ‘What is his brother’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s Boonapat too. By the way, I—’

  ‘Never heard the name,’ Etienne growled. ‘But the officers are being appointed indiscriminately, and the Generals are nobodies!’

  ‘By the way,’ I got in at last, ‘I wanted to say—’

  ‘Go on with your soup!’ Mama insisted.