She glanced towards the stage door. ‘I think I will rest, if you don’t mind.’
Pantalon watched her leave and, turning to Yann, shrugged. ‘She’s not herself, have you noticed that?’
At the opening performance of The Harlequinade, the Viscount appeared as an extra on the stage, for as Tetu had predicted the police decided to pay the newly opened theatre a visit. The Viscount was dressed as a young woman and looked every inch the part. Two of the gendarmerie stood watching from the wings, quite enchanted, blowing kisses and acting the fool until they were called away, neither knowing that they had been watching the very man they were searching for.
Afterwards, Yann sat in his dressing room removing his make-up, pleased to have got through the show.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices. It appeared to be an argument between Colombine and her new husband. Quite what was being said Yann wasn’t sure, although Colombine’s voice grew shriller until it became a cry as something fell on the floor with a deafening thud.
Yann got up and went along the corridor to Colombine’s dressing room. Without knocking he went in, to see her crumpled in the corner, and Anselm standing over her.
‘Get out,’ said Anselm. ‘This is between me and her. Get out. It doesn’t concern you.’
Yann pinned him against the wall.
‘Calm down. That is no way to treat your wife.’
‘I can do what I bloody well please. She needs to learn some manners.’
‘If you hit her again while you are in this theatre, you will answer to me. Do you understand?’
Yann let go of Anselm, wondering why it was he couldn’t read this rat of a man’s thoughts. It was as if somehow they’d been interfered with. As he turned to help Colombine to her feet, Anselm lifted a chair. Colombine tried to find her voice to warn Yann as it came hurtling down towards him, but the chair stopped short an inch from its target. Yann, without even turning round, clicked his fingers and sent it back the way it had come with such force that it smashed to pieces on Anselm’s blond, cherub-like curls.
‘I will kill you,’ shouted Anselm, pulling a knife. Making a dash towards Yann he found that his feet were no longer on the ground. Instead he was hanging upside down, spinning like a child’s top. He dropped the knife, which hung, caught in midair.
Citizeness Manou came to see what the commotion was about. As she helped Colombine from the room, Yann clicked his fingers again and Anselm fell unconscious to the floor.
Later that night, numbing his rage with cheap wine, his sides hurting, his head reeling, Anselm was aware of an unstoppable force entering the bar. Milkeye gripped him by the collar and dragged him to the Place de la Revolution. Only there did he let him go and, looking up, Anselm found himself face to face with Count Kalliovski. Balthazar was at his side.
‘You have let me down,’ said Kalliovski, his voice razor sharp. Balthazar growled.
‘I can get the information, I can. I mean, I know that Yann Margoza works at the theatre and that the dwarf Tetu is there—’
‘You’re not very clever, are you? Do you think I don’t know all that and more? What I needed was for you to become a part of the company, for the actress Colombine to feel that you would never betray her. Instead you beat your new wife.’
‘I can do it.’
‘You are nothing more than a common thug, a pretty bully boy. You bore me. All your kind bore me.’ Kalliovski pushed his index finger into Anselm’s cheek. For a moment he felt that his face was on fire.
‘I can get her back. I can, honest I can. I know how and—’
Kalliovski’s laughter resounded around the Place de la Revolution. ‘What you know about women is nothing. You are ignorant. You are a slug, a miserable, slimy slug.
What, I wonder, did I see in you?’ Kalliovski began to walk away.
‘I will do anything, master, please!’ shouted Anselm. ‘Anything! Give me another chance!’
Kalliovski turned. ‘You have a week. If you fail … I need another chandelier, and your bones will fit my design beautifully. Or perhaps another talking head would be amusing. I haven’t yet decided. Fail me, and you are dead. I have no mercy.’
Anselm shivered as he watched them all disappear into the night. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the winding cloth of the guillotine, relieved still to be alive. Something brushed against his legs and he stood suddenly upright, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He looked down to see rats, black as the plague, scuttling from under the scaffold, running between his legs, over his shoes, and a soundless scream, bone hard, caught in his throat. Terrified, he scurried away. The lugubrious shadow of the guillotine followed him.
At the theatre, Yann was still in his dressing room when Didier knocked on the door. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you. There’s a real argy-bargy going on in the office. Cordell is here.’
‘Wait, Didier,’ said Yann, ‘is there any news about Remon Quint?’
‘None. I went down to the catacombs while you were away, but I couldn’t find that passage again. What do you think happened to him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Yann sighed. ‘But he had the smell of death upon him.’
‘Is that another gypsy superstition?’
‘I felt it the moment I first saw him. It never got any better.’
Didier shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business, that’s for sure.’
‘Where the devil have you been?’ said Cordell, when Yann walked into the office. ‘Downstairs.’
‘No, I mean for the past week. What have you been doing?’
‘Walking.’
‘What were you thinking of? It was no time to take a grand tour, with Remon Quint missing. You were needed here, to help sort out this mess. And if you had been here we might have been able to save the Duchesse de Bourcy from the guillotine. But you weren’t, you were rambling about the countryside. It’s too late now. She and her friend the Marquise de Valory were both executed yesterday, along with Madame Picard’s daughter Celeste, who was only fifteen years old.’
‘Sixteen,’ said Yann, ‘and I am glad to hear it.’
Cordell hit the desk. ‘That’s preposterous, sir. What is wrong with you? Glad to hear it? Have you lost your mind?’
‘No,’ said Yann, ‘but now they are all dead they might be able to live in relative peace.’
Cordell looked at Tetu and Citizen Aulard. His temper had suddenly evaporated. Yann was ill; that could be the only explanation.
‘Maybe you’ve had too much sun. God knows what I’ll write to the Duke. I gave him my word I would protect her.’
‘Then tell him that his wife is in excellent health,’ said Yann, ‘that she suffered her ordeal with great courage. The only damage done is to her hair, which was cut off. And that the girl Celeste who shared the Duchess’s cell is a delight, and thrilled to have exchanged a prison cell for the de Bourcy chateau. And no, I haven’t lost my mind.’
Cordell’s face was grave. ‘Yann, I have the official reports. Do you wish to see them? They were all executed.’
‘No, I’ve seen them already. After all, I wrote them.’
Citizen Aulard burst out laughing. Cordell looked completely stunned. A smile crossed Tetu’s face.
‘I came home past the Hotel de Ville and they were very grateful to know that three more traitors had been sacrificed at the bloody altar. I made sure their names were posted. The governor of the prison at Chantilly will confirm that two of his prisoners were sent to the guillotine.’
‘I think,’ said Cordell quietly, ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ said Yann. ‘Write to the Duke and tell him there is life after death.’
Chapter Twenty
Auguste, Viscomte de Reignac, first met Sido de Villeduval at a summer ball. His arrival in London caused no end of a stir among the emigre society, for Auguste de Reignac belonged to that rare breed of aristocrats who not only held a bona fide title but, more remarkable still, had ma
naged to escape France with their fortune intact.
Juliette had been delighted to see the effect her niece had on this handsome shy young man. Her beauty had already attracted many admirers, who treated her as if she were made of porcelain, a precious object to be treasured, worshipped. Sido had the feeling that she was nothing more than a pencil sketch, to be filled in and coloured to suit the needs of others, to be adored by the foppish young dandies who treated her like a lame Madonna. At balls, she was left to sit with whining, horse-faced ladies, whose dance cards were empty, and listen while their vicious tongues sliced and cut their prettier sisters.
Auguste de Reignac was different. He sat beside her and engaged her in intelligent conversation. He told her of his flight from Paris and how with the help of a young man named Yann Margoza he’d escaped and, as he talked, he noticed Sido’s eyes brighten to a radiant blue.
She said, ‘Yann rescued me too from Paris, at the beginning of the September Massacre.’
‘Of course, forgive me, I didn’t make the connection. Your father was the Marquis de Villeduval?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What a terrible ordeal you must have suffered. I heard that the Marquis was killed. Perhaps it was a mercy his mind had gone. I hope he was unaware of what was happening.’
‘I pray so,’ said Sido. ‘And I heard about your family too. I am sorry.’
‘I have decided to live,’ said Auguste seriously. ‘I think I must, as I have no idea why it should be me that is here, not my sister or …’ He stopped, the subject too painful for this garish ballroom. ‘Would you kindly do me the honour of dancing with me?’
And Sido, who had too long waited for someone to ask her, didn’t hesitate to say, ‘Yes.’
That evening there were many frustrated young beaux who realised they’d missed a golden opportunity with the beautiful Marquise de Villeduval, who danced delightfully with an elegance of movement and an energy that lit up the room.
Going home in the carriage, Juliette had been quietly thrilled with Sido, and felt that at last Yann Margoza would be replaced in her affections by this altogether more suitable young man.
Next day Juliette invited Auguste to dine. The drawing room at Queen Square that evening was full, as it often was, with emigres newly arrived in London, and others who had been in exile far longer and were now beginning to wonder if they would ever be able to return home.
As soon as Juliette was engrossed in conversation with the Duc de Bourcy, Sido asked Auguste to tell her more about his escape.
‘We went out of Paris through the catacombs. Yann took me all the way to Le Havre, and didn’t leave until he was certain I was safe,’ Auguste said. ‘Have you ever seen him perform on stage?’
‘Once, when I was younger. He was a magician’s assistant then. Have you?’
‘I was on stage at the Circus of Follies. I took the role of a market seller and Harlequin came on, upset the stall to a great deal of laughter, and then without touching anything - and I mean anything - he put each and every piece back on the stall. I was told to stay silent, whatever I did, but that if he asked a question I was to move my mouth. I did, and - this is the oddest part - out of it came words as if I were speaking, though I said nothing.’
Auguste de Reignac had gone home that evening full of fine food and wine, and in love with the most enchanting pair of blue eyes.
The day after the supper party Sido received a letter from Yann, and nothing could have prepared her for what he had to say. She opened it, disappointed to find only one sheet, and with so few words. Not suspecting anything to be wrong, she read:Dear Sido,
Please forgive me for taking so long to write to you. What I have to tell you I say with a heavy heart.
Sido, we can never be together. It is and always has been an impossible situation, a dream. It would take more than a revolution before a Marquis’s daughter and a gypsy would be allowed to marry. For that is my origin, as I am certain by now you will have been told.
Please burn my letters. If you remember me at all I hope it will be with affection. We will never meet again, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. You deserve a better man than me.
Once again I ask you to forgive me for any injury I may have caused you.
Do not dwell on the past. Live for the future.
Yann
Sido couldn’t breathe. She read the letter again, the room spinning, the world disintegrating under her feet. Could love just vanish? One day it was everything, the next gone, like a passing fever? Was that how love took men?
Her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor. His words were stones in her heart.
Oh Lord, don’t let our love turn to ashes, don’t let it be an illusion. Yann is my rock, my strength, he gives meaning to my life. To him I’m not just a puppet made to dance for the delight of others. His love makes me whole, his love makes me free … his love … I thought he loved me.
How often have I dreamed of us living far away where no one would know our history, no one would judge us? Of Yann sitting with our children in front of the fire, telling them a fairy tale of how his magic saved their mama from the wicked Count Kalliovski, how he smuggled her out of a gated city. We would have grown old together …
Like the broken banks of a river in flood, she felt her soul swept away by grief. She sat hunched on the floor, her arms wrapped round her body, rocking with pain. She could hear voices downstairs, the clocks in the hall ticking, outside a street seller shouting his wares, and another sound, the echo of unbearable loneliness that stretched before her for all eternity.
Her trembling hands took the talisman from around her neck, leaving her naked, bereft. Now there was nothing to protect her. She wrote:It is returned safely to you but you still have my heart and my soul.
That afternoon, Sido went to see Mr Trippen, taking her letter with her. From the drawing-room window Juliette watched her get into a sedan chair and vaguely noticed a man in a three-cornered hat setting off after it.
Juliette had for weeks tried to persuade Henry that Sido’s English lessons with Mr Trippen should stop and that he couldn’t be trusted, not after his irresponsible behaviour regarding the letters.
‘Fiddlesticks,’ Henry had said. ‘A load of tosh, and, my dear, you know it. It does the girl good to have a change of scenery, and her English is much improved. The lessons will continue.’
‘And the letters?’ Juliette had added.
‘Leave that to me.’
Henry had said nothing to Mr Trippen on the matter, and the letters had gone back and forth between the two lovers without any more interruption.
Now Mr Trippen stood by the empty fireplace in his battered housecoat and red hat with a tassel, and read the letter Sido had shown him.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
‘My dear, enchanting lady,’ said Mr Trippen, ‘tell me you have done nothing reckless. The seas of emotion can so capsize young love.’
‘I want to send back the talisman, you know, the shell Yann gave me. I have wrapped it up and—’
‘I think that is most unwise,’ said Mr Trippen.
Sido knew it was, but if Yann loved her no more then in all truth she couldn’t wear it. Tears threatened to overcome her. She said, as lightly as her voice would allow, ‘That’s because you are an old sentimentalist.’
‘No, it is because it is a very important talisman. As to this letter, Hamlet’s lines do not ring true. He has not stopped loving you, and the fact he is a gypsy would never have deterred either of you from being together. Or would it?’ he said, looking at Sido’s pale face.
‘No.’
‘Trippen smells something rotten in the state of Denmark and you, my dear, are to be no Ophelia. That way madness lies. In my humble but well-considered opinion something dark is troubling our Hamlet. The question, and the question is always king, my dear, is what is it that he is not saying?’
Sido’s thoughts that rainy day were in turmoil as the
sedan chair took her back to Queen Square. How, she wondered, shall I cope with a broken heart? How shall I manage when my soul is dying? All Sido wanted to do was lie in a corner, curled up like a cat, and let time roll over her, instead of which she had to find the strength to hide her feelings.
What could she do now? All she possessed was a title. She had no money, and she couldn’t go on living with her aunt and uncle indefinitely. Perhaps she could be a governess? Oh, dear God, there were already enough French women of noble birth in her position, who were now obliged to earn their livings. The newspapers were filled with advertisements.