Chapter 12
La Conciergerie, on the Île de la Cité, Paris, early May, 1794
Despair settled in the dungeons of the Conciergerie like a thick fog, permeating even the cold stone walls. At one time, the palace above had been the home of kings and perfumed air. Not so the prison below where Freddie was confined. Here, the stench of rats, disease and urine made it nearly impossible to draw breath.
Moans of misery surrounded him yet even here there was hope, not so much for life as for what human kindness the prisoners could show each other in the face of death. Oddly, the equality the revolutionaries preached on the streets of Paris but never achieved was demonstrated in the Conciergerie every day. Here, nobles, clergy, merchants and peasants, even sans-culottes out of favor, had become one family and looked out for each other.
Beside Freddie languished the orphan boy he had managed to rescue from a drunken turnkey’s humorless joke the day he’d arrived.
“Hungry, are ye?” The turnkey’s slurred words and sardonic smile aimed at the starving lad had warned Freddie to rise. The rags the boy wore for clothing revealed his frail skeleton, tearing at Freddie’s heart.
The lad’s soot-covered face looked up at the too well-fed guard with eager anticipation. “Oui, sir. J’ai faim. Is there food?”
The turnkey withdrew a fish he’d been hiding behind his back, and tossed it at the boy. From where Freddie stood a few feet away he could see maggots devouring the long-dead fish where it lay at the boy’s feet. Amidst the other foul smells, the reek of the decaying fish rose to Freddie’s nostrils causing him to wince.
Summoning courage that must have been long buried, the boy picked up the fish by the tail and grimaced. Hurling it at the guard’s face, he spat back, “’Tis not fit for us; you eat it!”
The turnkey bellowed his rage and grabbed the boy by his shirt, ripping away what little cloth remained. Rearing back, he was about to ram his heavy fist into the small lad’s face when Freddie stepped in, shielding the boy with his body. Keeping up the ruse of a naïve Englishman engaged in comedy theater, he said, “Mon bon ami, surely this is not necessary. He is only a boy and cannot be faulted for failing to observe your kindness in providing him food.” Taking a coin from his pocket, Freddie offered it to the fat guard. “Have an ale on me. ’Twill soothe your understandable anger.”
Muttering an oath, the turnkey cursed to Hell rude boys and idiot Englishmen. “He’ll meet the guillotine for this, see if he don’t.” But, as Freddie had hoped, the turnkey took the coin and stumbled away.
The fish lay on the stone floor, untouched by the watching prisoners. The jailor’s dogs sniffed at the carcass and turned away.
The boy looked up at Freddie. “Merci.”
“I am happy to help a fellow prisoner.” He offered his hand and a smile. “I’m Freddie. What’s your name?”
The boy placed his small hand in Freddie’s. “Pascal, but most call me Pax.”
He was near the same age as Jack but thinner and his eyes were old and haunted. As Freddie was to learn, the boy had been living on the streets when he was sent to the Conciergerie for insulting a republican soldier. Now, he would be sentenced to death. But then, wouldn’t they all?
With the money he had kept in his boots, Freddie could afford the bribes paid to the abusive jailors for food and a comfortable bed, but he preferred to share the large cell with the others and use what money he had to buy food for those who could ill afford to pay.
He and his fellow prisoners endured all the horrors, physical and mental, of Robespierre’s heartless régime. Cast aside and left to shiver in dark and naked cells, they were sick, hungry and cold, many suffering untreated wounds. They arrived with cuts and gashes from the republicans’ bayonets that only festered in the wretched conditions of the Conciergerie. Even if they arrived unscathed, they would soon have wounds inflicted by the ever-present rats that gnawed on their exposed flesh while they slept.
Worse than the physical wounds were the wounds to their souls. They had no hope of a fair hearing by an upright judge for the guillotine’s blade hung suspended over all and the prosecutor, the sinister Fouquier-Tinville, did not even pretend to be impartial. Instead, he taunted the condemned, then happily sent them off to be executed.
But the prisoners had each other for company and stories to inspire them while they waited for the end. They still talked of the silent courage of Charlotte Corday as she went to the guillotine.
For Freddie, the golden moment he clung to was the kiss he had given the woman he loved, a sweet memory of Zoé he would take to his grave. He did not allow his mind to linger on her tear-filled eyes or her protests when he had sent her away. He could not have done otherwise. In time, she would find another to love. There would be many men eager to take Freddie’s place in her heart. A frown creased his brow when he realized that Boisguy, if he survived the war, would be one of them.
To occupy their time, some of the more learned prisoners had brought books with them, which they read aloud to an enraptured audience. And, in what Freddie thought a macabre effort to prepare them for what was to come, a mock court dubbed “Tinville’s Tribunal” was arranged. Eloquent arguments were made on both sides, a decision rendered and a guillotine of chairs and laths set up with a wooden blade.
The game went on most of the day.
Freddie nervously watched the entrance to the dungeons expecting to be summoned. He had yet to come before Robespierre or his inquisitors. Perhaps the man was too busy to deal with a mere Englishman, even a spy. According to one prisoner, who had learned it from a guard, having ended religion in France, Robespierre had decided faith might be important. Now he was busy introducing a new Cult of the Supreme Being, henceforth to be the civic religion of France.
In the Conciergerie, the prisoners fared better; they had the devoted priest abbé Émery to see to their souls.
How ironic it was that the celebration of Robespierre’s new religion was to take place on the Champ de Mars, the same place the Fête de la Fédération had been held four years earlier where hundreds of priests had said Mass.
The Donet Townhouse, Paris
As the simple black carriage drove through the arched porte-cochère of her uncle’s townhouse, Zoé noted how unchanged it was from four years before. The fawn-colored stone, tall paned glass windows and scrolling wrought iron balconies bespoke a France untouched by revolution and chaos. Built in a rectangle with an inner stone courtyard decorated with potted topiary, the Paris townhouse was the most fashionable of her uncle’s three homes. Her spirit brooded when she recalled how Freddie had loved it when they came for the Fête de la Fédération.
Trying not to show her grief, she asked her uncle, “How have you managed to keep the Paris house?” He was sitting across from her with M’sieur Bequel. “I should have thought it gone with your title.”
“It might have been were it not for the fact I deeded the townhouse to Gaspar, my former carpenter on la Reine Noire, at least for the time being. And Flèche, who you’ll remember as my butler and former gunner, still reigns supreme over the household. I sent word for them to expect us.”
In his clothing at least, her uncle looked more like a merchant than the nobleman he was. A white cravat was the only adornment to his black coat, waistcoat and breeches. Zoé, too, had changed her clothing and now wore a gray dress of simple design.
Once the carriage passed through the arched entrance to the courtyard, it stopped in front of glass doors leading to the salon. Her uncle climbed down and greeted Flèche, who beamed his delight at the sight of the man he still called “Capitaine”.
Taking her uncle’s hat and sword, the butler passed them to a waiting footman. Where once Flèche had proudly worn a wig and elaborately embroidered waistcoat, now he dressed in a simpler style, as did the household servants, so as not to raise suspicions of wealth when they traveled about the streets.
Her uncle handed her down from the carriage and Zoé set her hat aright with its mandatory tricolor cockade. Surveying the inner courtyard, she wondered at the peaceful setting in a city where so much turmoil prevailed.
“Lest you worry,” said her uncle, “it might interest you to know that Robespierre moved in the last few years to a rather elegant apartment on rue Saint-Honoré. Not every revolutionary lives in squalor.”
Émile climbed down and muttered to Flèche, “’Tis good to be back,” before handing his tricorne and sword to the waiting footman.
As they entered the salon, Zoé took off her hat, marking the few changes in the room she noticed. The walls were still paneled in bird’s-eye maple inlaid with slabs of cream-colored marble. The red velvet chairs and comfortable salmon-colored sofa remained around the fireplace, but the silver candlesticks and her uncle’s gilded desk had been removed to Guernsey.
“Gaspar will be along shortly,” Flèche informed them before directing the footman to serve coffee and tea.
Her eyes darting from M’sieur Bequel to her uncle, Zoé accepted a cup of tea but did not take a seat. She was anxious to be about Freddie’s rescue.
In a grave tone, her uncle said, “We come on a matter of dire importance, Flèche, to rescue one of our own from the Conciergerie.”
The butler’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Why, that prison is one step from the—”
“To be specific,” her uncle interrupted, “the man we hope to rescue is my wife’s brother, Frederick West.”
In other words, thought Zoé, they were committed no matter the danger. For that, she was grateful.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Flèche. “An Englishman in the Conciergerie. We must make haste.”
“Pray we are in time,” said her uncle. “Meanwhile, I intend to call in a favor owed me by François de Dordogne to see what can be done.”
Flèche scratched his head of dark curls as if puzzled.
“If the name is familiar,” put in M’sieur Bequel, “’tis the scoundrel who was to marry the capitaine’s daughter, Claire, but was discovered to be a sodomite wanting to disguise his forbidden life with a respectable marriage.”
Dawning recognition appeared in Flèche’s eyes. “Ah, oui, I do remember him. He still lives after that?”
“Fortuitously, I allowed him his life,” said Zoé’s uncle, his dark eyes flashing with remembered anger. “As it happens, he now works for the Committee of Public Safety. Send him a message to call upon me immediately.”
The butler bowed. “Consider it done, Capitaine.”
Gaspar arrived a few minutes later to warm greetings from the men with whom he had once served on la Reine Noire. Zoé had not met him but was soon introduced.
M’sieur Bequel patted the former ship’s carpenter on the back. “Ye appear prosperous even in this time of revolution, old friend.”
“Well,” said Gaspar, his face brown from his time in the sun, “for some years, my work involved cabinets for the aristocracy and desks for the lawyers, a lucrative business. Now, of course, I make carts to transport the revolution’s victims to the guillotines and coffins for those who can afford them. A sad business but one has to feed one’s family. I now have five children.”
“You are blessed with a full quiver,” said Zoé’s uncle, “but the tales of your family will have to wait. We come on a matter of great urgency. Let us move to my study.”
Her uncle greeted visitors in the salon, but it was in his study the real business took place, be it privateering or plotting revenge. The shutters in the book-lined room were open to allow light to fall on his large desk where he unrolled a map of Paris.
Pointing to the ancient palace on the Seine River, he asked Gaspar, “What do you know of the dungeons of the Conciergerie?”
“Nothing good, Capitaine. There are many prisons in Paris, all overcrowded thanks to Robespierre and his friends, but that one is the worst. To be transferred there means a prisoner will soon meet the tribunal and then the guillotine, sometimes in the same day.”
“I meant,” said her uncle, “what can you tell me of its rooms and corridors, its procedures. We have a prisoner to rescue, my brother-in-law to be exact.”
Gaspar’s eyes grew wide. “Sacrebleu!” Gulping down a swig of his coffee, he said, “I have delivered benches and a few beds to the Conciergerie. I can tell you what I know.” All eyes focused on Gaspar as he continued. “There is a principal jailor who sits by the entrance to the immense room above the dungeons. He determines what visitors will be allowed inside. It depends, of course, upon his mood, the assignats offered him and,” with a glance directed at Zoé, “whether the visitor be man or woman.”
“And the cells?” asked her uncle. “Are they kept locked?”
“At night, oui, but during the day, unless a turnkey locks a prisoner in on a whim, they are allowed to walk about the gallery. At sunset, visitors, even tradesmen like myself, must leave. That is when they call roll. Since many of the turnkeys cannot read and are often sated with drink, the prisoners have to help them. ’Twould be easy to add or delete a name.”
Zoé watched the men carefully, looking for a sign they saw the mission as promising success. She would not leave Freddie’s fate to others. If there were any possibility he still lived, she would go after him, compelled to save the man she loved. “I will go, mon oncle. The jailor at the door may find me pleasing.” With tears welling in her eyes, betraying her heart, she added, “I must find Freddie if he yet lives.”
Her uncle gave her a knowing look. Did he see her desperate need to rescue her friend, now her love? Heaving a resigned sigh, he said, “I expected you would not be kept back.”
“I can go with her,” insisted M’sieur Bequel. “Killing the swine who imprison good men and women would bring me great satisfaction. ’Twould be like the old days.”
Her uncle smiled. “I may need you to remain outside to assist our escape, Émile.”
The quartermaster nodded. “As ye wish, Capitaine.”
“’Tis better if I go with the mademoiselle,” said Gaspar. “I know the prison.”
Her uncle nodded. “Oui, your knowledge will be most welcome, Gaspar. That is, if you are willing to take the risk. But I must be the one to lead the effort. I do not know the prison, but I can convince them the English dog they hold has dishonored my daughter and must pay for the child she is expecting.”
Gaspar chuckled. “Clever, sir. It might work. You would have the jailor’s sympathy, particularly if you and your daughter… er, niece appear supporters of the revolution.”
Zoé bit her lip in contemplation. “I’ll have to explain just how it was a patriot of the revolution succumbed to a charming English dog.”
Her uncle smiled. “You could always say you thought he was French.”
La Conciergerie
Each morning, the prisoners were assembled in the main gallery and an officer of the court appeared to read the list of those whose cases were to be heard by the tribunal the next day. Freddie had thought he had witnessed despair before, yet these sessions were worse.
The reaction of the prisoners whose names were called differed. Some wailed and turned to give their last farewells. Husbands and wives sat on benches placed against the stone walls, embracing for the last time. Others seem to welcome the anticipated end to a miserable existence, saying goodbye to the friends they had made as if leaving on a holiday. Those who had possessions gave them away. A favorite book might be entrusted to one who promised to read to the others. A few turned aside to write a last letter, which the intended recipient would, no doubt, never receive.
When his name and that of the boy he had befriended were called, Freddie slid his arm around Pax’s shoulder. The lad had become his constant companion. “Well, Pax, we knew this day would come. We must face it with courage, trusting God to deliver our souls to Heaven, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, M’sieur.” The boy’s voice quavered as he looked up at Freddie. “Will you be with me?”
“Bien sûr. I will be with you as we face the tribunal and I will not leave your side as we travel in the cart to the Place de la Révolution, whether it be tomorrow or the day after.” Freddie vowed to shield the boy from the mud the indignant onlookers were known to fling at the revolution’s victims in the hour-long ride to the guillotine.
The call for Freddie to appear before Robespierre had come the night before. Dressed in a fine suit of clothes and an ornately tied cravat, the master of the Terror sat behind a gilded desk in a room lit by chandeliers one might expect to see in Versailles. The sausage curls of his white wig curled up over his ears. Yet for all his finery, he seemed harried and more concerned with the stacks of papers piled in front of him than with Rossignol’s “gift” of an Englishman. His pockmarked face was unlined but Freddie thought he looked older than a man of thirty-six years.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Robespierre demanded impatiently. He did not invite Freddie to sit, nor did he rise to greet him. A guard stood at the door should Freddie have any thoughts to attack the man who effectively now ruled France. Not that he could do so with his hands in irons.
“I came to see the vegetation of Brittany and now wish to return home to England. General Rossignol was not accommodating, which was most disappointing. ’Tis rare that one who comes to learn about the plant life of another country is treated so rudely. But I am willing to forgive this injustice if I may now depart.”
“Ça suffit!” Robespierre shouted, holding up his hand. “I have no time for such prattle. What can you tell me of the Chouannerie? If you are forthcoming, I might be persuaded to let you live.”
Freddie harbored no illusion that he would be allowed to leave France and he had no intention of betraying those he had come to serve. When he had kissed Zoé in the woods outside of Rennes he had understood it was goodbye. “Alas, I know nothing of whatever that is. As I told the good general, I became lost in the woods and approached his soldiers for help.”
Robespierre gave him a studying perusal as if trying to decide if, under torture, Freddie might be persuaded to give different information “That was very foolish, Mr. West. Very foolish. I shall think on your case. If my inquisitors are available, I may send you to them to see if they can loosen your tongue.”
“Are you certain you want to do that, sir?” In Freddie’s lighthearted tone there was an edge of steel. He was not aware of any English aristocrat who had been tortured in France after the revolution had begun. “After all, I am the brother of an English peer and Prime Minister Pitt might not take lightly the torture of an English aristocrat.” Kill them, yes, but torture them, perhaps not.
Robespierre blinked rapidly, then looked down at the papers before him. “I care not what the English think. In any event, you will face trial and, I daresay, the guillotine. The good citoyens of Paris would relish throwing mud at one such as you.”
Freddie expected to die but he dreaded the thought of torture. Better men than he had cracked under the horrors inflicted by France’s inquisitors. So, when his name had been called for trial, he’d felt an odd sense of relief.
To lose his head was one thing; to lose his integrity was quite another.