eagerly.
“Oh… several months back. We were a long time there. We stayed at one of the houses I spoke of managed by people who help others to escape.”
“Months ago!” echoed my mother. “What did Jeanne say? Did you ask about Sophie—and Armand?”
Madame Lebrun looked at my mother sadly. “She said that Armand had died in the château. At least the mob had left him alone. I think she said that the young man who was with him recovered and went off somewhere.”
“And what of Sophie?”
“She was still at the château with Jeanne.”
“At the château ! They didn’t destroy it then?”
“No, apparently not. They took the valuables and furniture and such. Jeanne said it was a shambles. But she had some chickens and there was a cow and they managed to live in a corner of the place. That was how it was then. People did not seem to bother them. Mademoiselle Sophie was an aristocrat, daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné, but she was almost a recluse… badly scarred. In any case they were living at the château unmolested. Jeanne was uneasy though. She kept lifting her eyes to the skies and murmuring: ‘How long!’ Perhaps even now the mood has changed. Now the King is dead, it will become worse, they say.”
“Poor Sophie,” said my mother.
The following day the Lebruns departed and, true to his word, Dickon went with them as their guide; naturally my mother went too.
After they had gone the whole mood of the house seemed to have changed. The Lebruns had brought into it a threat of what could happen to disrupt people’s comfortable lives. We had known, of course, what was going on over there, but this brought it home to us forcibly.
I soon discovered what was in Charlot’s mind.
It was naturally at the dinner table that we all gathered together and there the talk as usual turned to France and the plight of those refugees who were left behind.
The guillotine was claiming more and more of them every day. The Queen was in prison. Her turn would soon come.
“And our aunt is there,” said Charlot. “Poor Aunt Sophie! She was always so pathetic. Do you remember her, Claudine, in that hood she used to wear to cover one side of her face?”
I nodded.
“And Jeanne Fougère. She was a bit of a dragon. But what a treasure! What a good woman! She would not let us in very often to see Aunt Sophie.”
“She always liked you to go and see her though, Charlot,” said Louis Charles.
“Well, I do think she had a special fondness for me.”
It was true. Charlot had been a favourite of hers, if she could have been said to have favourites. It was a fact though that she had actually asked Charlot to visit her on one or two occasions.
“Those people who are helping aristocrats escape the guillotine are doing a wonderful job,” went on Charlot.
He looked at Louis Charles, who smiled at him in such a way that I knew they had discussed this together.
Jonathan was attentive too. He said: “Yes, it is a great adventure. My father went over there and brought Claudine’s mother out. It was a marvellous thing to do.”
Charlot agreed, though he had no great love for Dickon. “But,” he went on, “he just brought out my mother. Just one person because she was the only one he was interested in.”
I defended him hotly. “He risked his life.”
It was a good thing that Sabrina was not present; she would have grown hot in her defence of Dickon; she often did not come down to the evening meal when Dickon was away, but had something in her room. Yet if he was there she usually made the effort to join us.
“Oh yes, he did that,” said Charlot lightly. “But I think he enjoyed doing it.”
“We usually do well what we enjoy doing,” said David, “but that does not detract from the virtue of the act.”
The others ignored him.
Jonathan’s eyes were shining. They blazed with that intense blue light which I had thought I aroused in him. Obviously other matters than the pursuit of women could make it
“Oh… several months back. We were a long time there. We stayed at one of the houses I spoke of managed by people who help others to escape.”
“Months ago!” echoed my mother. “What did Jeanne say? Did you ask about Sophie—and Armand?”
Madame Lebrun looked at my mother sadly. “She said that Armand had died in the château. At least the mob had left him alone. I think she said that the young man who was with him recovered and went off somewhere.”
“And what of Sophie?”
“She was still at the château with Jeanne.”
“At the château ! They didn’t destroy it then?”
“No, apparently not. They took the valuables and furniture and such. Jeanne said it was a shambles. But she had some chickens and there was a cow and they managed to live in a corner of the place. That was how it was then. People did not seem to bother them. Mademoiselle Sophie was an aristocrat, daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné, but she was almost a recluse… badly scarred. In any case they were living at the château unmolested. Jeanne was uneasy though. She kept lifting her eyes to the skies and murmuring: ‘How long!’ Perhaps even now the mood has changed. Now the King is dead, it will become worse, they say.”
“Poor Sophie,” said my mother.
The following day the Lebruns departed and, true to his word, Dickon went with them as their guide; naturally my mother went too.
After they had gone the whole mood of the house seemed to have changed. The Lebruns had brought into it a threat of what could happen to disrupt people’s comfortable lives. We had known, of course, what was going on over there, but this brought it home to us forcibly.
I soon discovered what was in Charlot’s mind.
It was naturally at the dinner table that we all gathered together and there the talk as usual turned to France and the plight of those refugees who were left behind.
The guillotine was claiming more and more of them every day. The Queen was in prison. Her turn would soon come.
“And our aunt is there,” said Charlot. “Poor Aunt Sophie! She was always so pathetic. Do you remember her, Claudine, in that hood she used to wear to cover one side of her face?”
I nodded.
“And Jeanne Fougère. She was a bit of a dragon. But what a treasure! What a good woman! She would not let us in very often to see Aunt Sophie.”
“She always liked you to go and see her though, Charlot,” said Louis Charles.
“Well, I do think she had a special fondness for me.”
It was true. Charlot had been a favourite of hers, if she could have been said to have favourites. It was a fact though that she had actually asked Charlot to visit her on one or two occasions.
“Those people who are helping aristocrats escape the guillotine are doing a wonderful job,” went on Charlot.
He looked at Louis Charles, who smiled at him in such a way that I knew they had discussed this together.
Jonathan was attentive too. He said: “Yes, it is a great adventure. My father went over there and brought Claudine’s mother out. It was a marvellous thing to do.”
Charlot agreed, though he had no great love for Dickon. “But,” he went on, “he just brought out my mother. Just one person because she was the only one he was interested in.”
I defended him hotly. “He risked his life.”
It was a good thing that Sabrina was not present; she would have grown hot in her defence of Dickon; she often did not come down to the evening meal when Dickon was away, but had something in her room. Yet if he was there she usually made the effort to join us.
“Oh yes, he did that,” said Charlot lightly. “But I think he enjoyed doing it.”
“We usually do well what we enjoy doing,” said David, “but that does not detract from the virtue of the act.”
The others ignored him.
Jonathan’s eyes were shining. They blazed with that intense blue light which I had thought I aroused in him. Obviously other matters than the pursuit of women could make it