For Our Liberty (6 page)

“Is he still there?”

“No, he is dead, and so is my mother,” she said with as little emotion as she could.

“I am sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“How did they die?”

“If you expect me to keep my guard down you should not thrust quite so hard.”

“I apologise. Can I ask another question?”

“No. It is my turn I think,” she said and retreated into the darkness.

“Fire away.”

“What were you doing here in Paris?”

“Avoiding being in London.” I decided to be honest with her. Well almost.

“Why?”

“Debts.”

“Is that the only reason? Money?”

“Perhaps there were other debts… Obligations, responsibilities, call them what you will, that I was trying to avoid.”

“A man who runs away from such things does not inspire trust,” she said and I couldn’t disagree with her there.

“At least I am honest enough to admit my faults.” If only a few of them, I added silently.

“And that is a virtue?”

“A start, perhaps.”

“Have you any other virtues?”

“A few, but it is my turn to ask a question.”

“Very well, but when it is my turn I may return to the subject.”

“Why are you so interested in my virtues?”

“Is that your question?” she laughed.

“No.”

“Then I won’t answer. Ask me your question.”

“May I call you Dominique?”

“Is that all? I expected more,” again there was the mockery in her voice.
 

“Well, may I?”

“Yes, but don’t expect me to waste one of my questions by asking you the same, Benjamin.”

“I prefer Ben.”

“I think it is my turn, Ben,” she said and leant forwards again, twisting her hair behind her ear while she thought of her next parry. “Let me think. Does anybody miss you in London?”

That was a surprise, I floundered for a moment before recovering and saying, “My sister, Lucy, perhaps.”

“Only her? What of your parents?”

“That’s another question,” I said. That was one subject I was used to avoiding.

“Indulge me,” she pouted.

“My mother died some years ago.”

“It is my turn to be sorry,” she looked genuinely saddened but she continued with an unknowingly equally difficult question. “And your father?”

“Rarely acknowledges that I exist.”

“I don’t understand?”

“My parents were not married.”

“I see,” she didn’t know what to say. A reaction I was familiar with. “Your turn.”

“What was the favour that you owed to Henri?” I decided that perhaps it was best to return to attempting to find something out about my present situation rather than continuing to uncover aspects of our mutually painful pasts.

“That I may tell you soon, but not now.” Dominique also seemed more comfortable with evasion than disclosure.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because other people’s lives are at stake,” she said and was silent for a moment. I welcomed the pause and ran my fingers through my hair. Dominique stood and walked to the window. Her dim reflection in the glass looked pained as she stared out into the blackness. She closed the drapes and came back to her chair. She sat with her hands beneath her. “My turn now,” she said.

“But you didn’t answer my question.”

“True, but I don’t remember that being a condition of the game.”

“You’re not playing fair!” I laughed.

“Only you English believe in fair play.”

“And what do you French believe in?”

“Winning.”

“I suppose you have done that, on land at least. At sea I think…”

“Let’s not talk about the war,” she said quickly.

“Fine. It is your question, you can change the subject if you wish.”

“I think we’ll talk about you some more.”

“I am flattered that you think me worthy of discussion. I appear to be a favourite topic of yours,” I said, grinning.

 
“I think you flatter yourself, Ben. I just need to know if I can trust you. Tell me, why do you flirt with me?”

How is that women always know when your confidence is rising and you actually begin to think that you are making some progress, and then invariably pour cold water over your hopes? I don’t think she was being mean spirited, I was starting to think that perhaps she wasn’t used to men finding her interesting. So either she didn’t meet many men, or she was not very perceptive, or I suppose the men she met were subtler.
 

“Is that your question?” I asked. Like any man faced with such an enquiry I stalled. It was one of those questions that we always get wrong, like ‘do I look too fat in this dress?’ If I told Dominique that I flirted with her because she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen she would think I was being trite, which would be true, and ignoring the virtues of her personality. If I said that I liked her sense of humour she would assume that I thought her ugly.

“Yes,” she said with a look that said I wasn’t going to escape.

“I am not obliged to answer.”

“But you will.”

“Why?”

“What man could resist such a challenge?”

“I can.”

“So you are not going to answer?”

“I may do, if you promise to answer my next question, whatever it may be.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “Very well. Answer me then. No more prevarication.”

Once more into the breach I thought as I began to stumble my way through an answer. “Because when I saw you first…” I began badly and had to recover quickly. “No that would be banal and you have warned me about being conventional. So, I’ll say that I flirt with you because you are…”

“Let me answer for you,” she interrupted. “You flirt with me because that is what you do with women.”

“That is harsh.”

“But true?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Why?”

“Perhaps we are back to my insecurities.”

“Do women ever take your flirtations seriously? Do you?” she said. I was finding this interrogation increasingly disagreeable but kept my temper in check. You can often find out more by the questions someone asks rather than the answers they give.

“Most women I have flirted with know there can never be anything serious between us.”

“Because you are a bastard?”

“Yes.”

“So…”
 

I stopped her there. “Enough about me. It is my turn. Why do you scorn men so much?”

“Perhaps I just have contempt for you?” It was her turn to squirm.

“I don’t think so,” I said flatly.

“It is a hurtful question.”

“But one you have promised to answer.”

“It is not a gentlemanly question.”

“I think we have already established that I am not a gentleman.”

“I think you are, but you do not allow yourself to be,” she said. She was trying to deflect me.
 

“Don’t change the subject,” I said.

“Mon Dieu! All right. Perhaps I show derision for men because that is all you deserve. I have seen men in mobs baying for blood. I have seen men murder. I have seen men lie and cheat and betray. What reason do I have for not holding them in such contempt?” she said, almost as if she was stating the obvious. After she had finished she sank back into her chair with what seemed like relief, but her eyes glistened in the candlelight.

“Thank you for answering my question. It is your turn,” I said softly.

“I have had enough of this game.” Dominique leant forward and massaged her temples with her fingers. I, as you could imagine, felt contrite.

“I didn’t think the French gave up so easily.”

“Give up? I wish I could.”

“Ask me your question,” I asked quietly.

“Oh, alright. But it will be the last. It is late.” She sat back up and looked at my face intently. I looked back and for a moment I felt a connection between us.
 

“Make it a good one,” I urged.

“You have a scar on your cheek, where did you get it?”

I don’t think that was really what she wanted to ask me and I was going to make light of my scar but I didn’t. One of us had to drop our guard completely and I didn’t think it was going to be her. So I began to tell her about Egypt, about the battles, about the Pyramids, the Nile and everything else I had seen. She asked questions occasionally but when I finished she just sat there looking at me.

“What else happened?” She asked.

“What do mean?” I said, flustered by the intensity of her stare.

“The thing that changed you?”

“Isn’t battle enough?”

“Ben, battle may change someone but it won’t twist them like guilt can.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” It was so tempting to tell her but I had never spoken of what happened that hellish night in the Roman ruins and at the time I thought I never would. I was saved by a knock at the door. Dominique got up to open it, reluctantly. Whatever had been passing between us was lost, like smoke blowing away in a breeze.

A boy entered the room, carrying a tray. Dominique looked slightly annoyed to see him.

“Claude, what are you doing?” she asked, sharply.

“Bringing Monsieur Blackthorne his food?” he replied, but he wouldn’t meet Dominique’s eye. He was perhaps sixteen, possibly slightly older. He was tall and thin, with the same dark brown hair as Dominique and similar features.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your brother?” I asked, guessing at their relationship. I had seen that look of disapproval from my own sister many times.

“He should not be here. I asked that he keep away from you,” she replied to me but was looking at the boy.

“Sorry,” he said, but he brought the tray over to me. “I’m Claude.”

“Ben.”

He placed the tray on the bed beside me and opened his mouth to ask me something but then saw the glower on his sister’s face and though better of it. I winked at him and he smiled, shrugged and then left. Dominique shut the door behind him.

“Why were you trying to keep him away from me?” I asked as I sliced some cheese and put it on a thick slice of bread.

“Because you are dangerous.”

“Hardly, I can barely stand.”

“No, I meant that your presence here is dangerous. The less Claude knows the better.”

“He doesn’t seem to agree with you,” I said after finishing my mouthful.

“He thinks he knows best.”

“At his age so did I.” I sipped some wine. “This is good,” I said, indicating the glass.

“It’s from my family’s vineyard,” she said. “Please Ben, stay away from Claude. I do not want him involved. He is all I have.”

“Dominique, what did happen to your parents?” I asked. She looked at me for a long time and said nothing.

“It’s alright,” I said. “You needn’t answer if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she said. “I will. In a moment.” She sat on the end of the bed, straightened her dress and then spoke.

“My father was a member of the National Assembly. He saw hope in the Revolution. A chance to make our country better. He and his brother came to Paris. François, my uncle, was also a member of the Assembly. A little more radical perhaps. Maybe that was why he wasn’t denounced.”

“And your father was actually denoucned?” I asked.

“Yes. My father was arrested and accused of treason. I don’t know why or who accused them. My mother protested, a little too well, and so she was also arrested.”

“What happened to them?”

 
“Both were guillotined.”
 

I reached out and touched her hand. She didn’t draw away but continued, with some effort. Her eyes were moist but she seemed to be trying to control her emotions, to not cry.

“Claude and I were orphaned. My uncle took care of us. This was my father’s house. Now it is his. The hope my father saw was squandered. Instead murderers rule France. The Bourbons were bad but this is worse.”

She stopped talking, her head down. I squeezed her hand. It seemed to bring her back from whatever dark place she had been to. She stood.

“That’s enough talk for one night,” she said as she walked to the door. “Tomorrow we’ll start planning your journey to the coast. Eat, regain your strength. You’ll need it.”

The door closed behind her and the key was turned. The click of the lock sounded very loud in the silence that remained.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was on the tenth night that I heard the music. I was finishing a couple of lamb chops, washed down with another glass of the Calvet family wine, when the first notes of a Mozart nocturne floated up from the floors below. I had recovered much of my strength and was getting rather bored of my faux Egyptian cell; I had spent the day pacing up and down like a tiger in a menagerie. Boredom has always been a vice of mine. Give me nothing to do for a day or so and I’ll soon spiral down from ennui to melancholy. Usually I fought it by immersing myself in a good book but even the borrowed copy of Candide and Voltaire’s satirical optimism hadn’t helped this time. I had too much to reflect upon and too little information to come to any conclusions. My conversations with Dominique had not helped ease my troubled soul. I had spent so many months in Paris doing very little but now that I could do nothing at all I found it unbearable.