The French House by Helen Fripp (english readers TXT) 📗

‘I was in the Bastille,’ said Thérésa gently. ‘The people who no longer exist are still in my heart. They filled it to the top. I won’t love again.’

‘My wife, daughter and son all died on the scaffold in front of my eyes. My life is over, but I don’t have the courage to die. There’s nothing more to tell.’ He stood and bowed to Nicole. ‘Your cargo’s safe with me. My story will have at least assured you that I’ll guard it with my life, which matters nothing to me. Good night.’

Thérésa followed him.

By the time she crept back to the room, the church clock had already struck four in the morning. Exactly five hours, thought Nicole.

Thérésa smelt of hay and night air. Her hand followed her body’s contours under the thin sheet and set Nicole on fire, then just as quickly abandoned her for her own bed.

The thought of her and Châtelet together tortured her. But no one owned Thérésa, least of all her. Like a blazing sunset, or a shooting star, you just had to be glad that you were there to witness it occasionally.

She slowed her breathing and forced herself to focus on the arrangements for the next leg of the journey, going over in her mind every detail of the planned mission until she drifted off into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of Châtelet’s family at the guillotine.

Early the next morning, Nicole was relieved to see Monsieur Châtelet ready and waiting, the wagon secured, horses calm. She estimated another hour to Charleville, where the barge was arranged for 6 a.m. An hour to load, and they’d be safely sailing along the Meuse, the waterway that would carry them all the way to Amsterdam. A journey of two and a half weeks, please God.

The sun was shining, the horses were speeding along at a fine clip, last night’s cloud had lifted and for the moment they were all intent on their mission. Grief came in waves and Valentin Châtelet’s story brought everything back too vividly. The receding of the wave might give even more power to the next, but while it receded, you had to make the most of it. Today at least brought calm waters for all of them.

A couple of hours into their journey, a battalion of soldiers could be seen marching towards them. Châtelet pulled over to let them go by, but the officer called for them to halt. Nicole eyed them in their scarlet coats and tricorn hats, bored young swaggerers with swords.

The officer stepped forward and bowed to Châtelet. ‘Papers, Monsieur?’

Nicole produced them from her bag. ‘You’ll find they’re all in order. This is my cargo, and the driver here is working for me.’

The soldier shook the papers open, taking his time to scrutinise the documents.

Natasha drew a secret figure of eight on her skirt. ‘Trouble. I warned you,’ she whispered.

‘That’s one hell of a big load for a lone peasant and a few female accomplices to handle, is it not?’

‘It’s the widow’s coffee, bound for Russia,’ said Châtelet.

Thérésa jumped down off the wagon. ‘A cargo of mercy. An old woman’s life savings invested in coffee to take to her dying mother and relatives in Russia. She has a long way to go and is weary from the road. Indeed, we are in a hurry to reach Charleville-Mezieres to meet our cargo barge.’

His expression hardened. ‘Heart-rending. You realise all the trade routes are closed to Russia?’

‘We’ll take our chances. Let us pass,’ said Châtelet. ‘On what authority do you stop fellow citizens on the road?’

The soldier marched up to him, sword drawn. ‘On mine. You are high-handed for a peasant, aren’t you? Hiding something, are we, citizen – or should I say, Seigneur?’

Châtelet said nothing. The slightest whiff of ‘aristocrat’ would give these bored young thugs a good excuse for mayhem.

‘Get off your high horse and kneel.’

The officer’s men sniggered.

Châtelet stayed where he was. ‘You do not have the authority.’

The soldier stroked Châtelet’s throat with his sword. ‘This gives me the authority. Get down, scum, and kneel.’

Châtelet jumped down, taking his time, and spat in the officer’s eye.

The officer kicked him down, sword pinning him to the dirt. ‘Filthy, inbred aristo. Think you’re better than me? Lick my boots.’

Châtelet spat again. The soldier thrust and Nicole looked away as Châtelet cried out in shock. Thérésa’s eyes set in determination and Natasha crossed herself.

‘How dare you!’ shouted Thérésa, her voice piercing as a gunshot. ‘Step away this moment, or General Tallien will hear of this outrage! Your rank and name. Now!’

The officer withdrew his sword from Châtelet’s bleeding chest, but stood his ground.

‘We are workers, like you, loyal citizens. Let us pass,’ Natasha pleaded. ‘A good soldier shows his men he is merciful, or the world is lost.’

‘He stays where he is, keep back!’ commanded the soldier as Thérésa rushed towards Châtelet. ‘Men, inspect the wagons. They’re hiding something.’

Châtelet’s blood pooled on the dusty road. Two infantrymen prised open a coffee chest to dig through the coffee beans. Nicole held her breath.

‘Satisfied?’ called Thérésa. ‘It seems you don’t believe me. I am Thérésa Tallien. If I say the code word white goose, does that mean anything to you, fool?’

The officer’s eyes widened and he stepped aside, saluting. ‘Madame Tallien. My sincere apologies. You can’t be too careful…’

‘You use your rank to cause trouble, soldier. You may continue this time, but keep a cool head. You are here to protect, not throw your power around like a crazed schoolboy. Instruct your men to leave the medical bag with us, and be on your way.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

He waved over a young soldier with rosy cheeks who was surely no more than fifteen years old. The boy dropped the leather medical bag at Thérésa’s feet and shuffled backwards, then scuttled back to join the battalion who were already marching away.

Natasha set to work stemming the blood, prising the wound open to inspect it. Nicole couldn’t watch.

‘In future, don’t involve us in your death wish,’