The Chateau on the Lake Read Free Page B

wife and daughter and hire a box where we can sit safely away from the rabble. I shall, of course, defend the honour of my womenfolk with my life.’
    ‘There’s no need to descend into melodrama, Philippe,’ says Mama, crossly.
    I’m delighted at the prospect of such entertainment. ‘I would so like to see the costumes,’ I say. ‘It will be as good as a play.’
    Mama sighs. ‘As long as we’re seated in a box and stay together, I agree that it would be entertaining.’
    ‘Then I shall send word to Mr Jephcott.’
    ‘And I’ll ask Sophie where we can hire costumes,’ I say, my mind brimming with visions of Greek goddesses, water sprites and ancient queens.
    ‘On a more sober note,’ says Papa, ‘on the way home from Mr Jephcott’s chambers I ran into Guy Foucault and Pascal Simonet. We repaired to the Cross Keys for a glass of wine. Simonet had the news that there was a massacre at the prison de l’Abbaye in Saint-Germain a few days ago.’
    ‘A massacre?’
    Papa is grim-faced. ‘An angry mob murdered twenty-four priests who were being taken to the prison. Then they forced their way inside to kill hundreds of the prisoners. The riots still continue.’ Papa sighs. ‘The
ancien régime
and the France of my childhood are gone for ever.’
    Although brought up as a Roman Catholic Papa rarely goes to church, though he never stops Mama and myself from attending. He’s always been reluctant to discuss religion, saying it’s up to each man to make peace with his own god.
    ‘Don’t you ever wish to go back to France?’ I ask.
    ‘There is nothing there for me.’
    ‘But don’t you want to know how your family fare since the Revolution?’
    ‘You know I never talk of them.’ Papa glowers at me.
    ‘But Papa…’
    ‘Enough!’ He pushes himself to his feet. Without glancing at me again, he walks back towards the house.
    ‘You must not worry him, Madeleine.’ Mama’s mouth is set in a disapproving line.
    ‘Worry him! Isn’t it my right to know about my family? What is so terrible that you make a conspiracy of silence?’ My hands are curled into fists and my nails bite into my palms.
    ‘I will not go against your father in this matter. The past is the past and we can never return to it. Besides,’ Mama reaches out to touch my hand, ‘we have each other. What more could we want?’
    I snatch my hand away and rise to my feet. ‘I need to know where I come from. Who are my grandparents? Do I have cousins, uncles, aunts? Tell me, Mama!’
    ‘I cannot speak of it,’ she murmurs, head bent again over her embroidery.
    My pleasure in the beautiful evening is all gone. Angry, I stalk away from her and set off along the street, hoping that a brisk walk will dissipate my annoyance.
     

     
    The following afternoon the excitement in the air of Georgiana’s crowded drawing room is almost palpable.
    ‘So that,’ says Sophie, ‘is the end of the French monarchy.’
    All the talk is of how the Convention has declared France a Republic. The escalation in violence during the September massacres resulted in over a thousand prisoners being killed: clergy, nobles, common thieves and prostitutes all together.
    ‘The Princesse de Lamballe was dragged out of her cell in La Force and killed most horribly,’ says Georgiana. She leans forward to whisper. ‘She was the Queen’s close friend but that didn’t stop the mob raping her, cutting off her breasts and sticking her head on a pole. They held it up outside the window of the Queen’s cell, jeering and taunting her.’
    ‘That’s barbaric!’ I’m sickened by the thought of it.
    Sophie shudders theatrically and stands on tiptoe, scanning the assembly.
    ‘The princess was in Bath last year, trying to raise support for the French royal family,’ says Georgiana.
    ‘She’d have done better to have stayed there,’ said Sophie, peering over my shoulder. ‘Even if she did end up having to scratch a living making bonnets, like some of the