‘Then I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Léon brought me to Lottie. He was my lover before that and when we were here … and still is. You see, even though your father acknowledged you as his daughter, you did not have all your own way. Léon, whom you wanted, was
Sophie was looking at me helplessly. I went to her and put my arm about her.
‘It’s true isn’t it,’ she said, ‘that Léon cared about me? He did care a little.’
‘He was here on a mission,’ I said.
‘But he was in love with Lisette all the time. He was only pretending … ’
‘People do pretend sometimes, Sophie. We were all deceived.’
‘And I blamed you. I blamed you for making up tales about him … tales which were not true. I said your lover murdered Armand that you might have my father’s wealth. I said all this of you, Lottie, and I tried to believe it, but I think something inside me rejected it. I didn’t really believe it. Perhaps I always knew that Léon could not have cared for me. It was the same with Charles. When I found that flower in his apartment I started to hate you.’
‘I was never there, Sophie. I lost the flower he bought for me. It was not my flower you found.’
‘What is all this about a flower?’ asked Lisette.
I turned to her. ‘What does it matter now? It was all long ago. Charles bought a flower for me in the street and Sophie found one like it in his bedroom.’
‘A red peony,’ said Lisette. Then she started to laugh. There was an element of hysteria in that laugh. ‘It was I who left the flower behind, Sophie. I dropped it in Charles’s apartment. I borrowed it from Lottie’s room because it matched my dress, I remember. I forgot about it. It was only an artificial flower anyway. It is proof to you, Sophie, that he was my lover. I had his child, you know. Yes, Louis-Charles is his son.’
‘Stop it, Lisette,’ I cried. ‘Stop it.’
‘Why should I? This is the moment of truth. Let us stop deceiving ourselves. Let us all show what we really are.’
The tears were running down Sophie’s cheeks making her hood wet. I put my arms round her and she clung to me.
‘Forgive, Lottie,’ she said. ‘Forgive … ’
I said: ‘When people know they understand. There is nothing to forgive, Sophie.’ I kissed her scarred cheek. ‘Dear Sophie,’ I said, ‘I am glad we are sisters again.’
Lisette and Tante Berthe watched us. Tante Berthe’s practical mind was trying to work out what we should do. Lisette still seemed bemused.
‘You should really get out,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘Perhaps we all should. You certainly, Madame Lottie.’
‘And what of the men?’ I asked.
‘We can’t move them.’
‘I shall stay here,’ I said.
Tante Berthe shook her head and Lisette said: ‘You and I have nothing to fear, Tante Berthe. You are a servant and although I am aristocrat Léon Blanchard is my friend. He will see that I am safe.’
‘Be silent’, cried Tante Berthe. She shook her head and turned away muttering: ‘What is best? What can be done?’
‘There is nothing,’ I replied, ‘but to wait.’
We waited through the long afternoon. The heat was intense. It seemed to me that I was seeing everything with especial clarity. Perhaps that was how it was when one looked Death in the face. I had seen the mob at Léon Blanchard’s meeting and could picture those people marching on the château with the bloodlust in their eyes. I thought of my mother’s stepping out of the shop and finding herself in the midst of such a crowd. I pictured the carriage as I had so often before. I saw the frightened horses. What had she felt in those horrific moments? I had heard of the people’s violence when they had smashed up the town and I knew that human life meant little to them. And as the daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné I was one of the enemy. I had heard that they had hanged one of the merchants from a lamp-post because they said he had put up the price of bread.
I had never before come face to face with death; but I knew that I was facing it now. I was aware of a light-headedness. I felt strangely remote. Fear was there, yes, but not fear of death but of what must happen before it. I knew now how people felt in their condemned cells awaiting the summons.
I looked at the others. Did they feel the same? Armand was too ill to care. He had suffered so much already. His companion was in the same condition. Sophie? I did not think she cared very much. Life was not very precious to her, though she had changed since Armand’s return.
