The English Heiress (27 page)

“It has nothing to do with being English,” he said. “Englishmen are men like any others. It is only that—Leonie, I am sorry, but this trial can have only one conclusion. Perhaps I see the more clearly because I am English.”

“What do you mean?”

“A deposed king cannot be allowed to live.”

“Why?” Leonie cried. “God knows, I have little enough love for Louis. He is stupid, and he permitted an extravagance that had already ruined the country to continue, even to increase. He stood in the way of every reasonable reform that was suggested. No one except a lunatic could believe that he should be allowed to rule this nation absolutely. But it was wrong to depose him—”

“You have said it,” Roger interrupted. “The constitution your father helped to write was a reasonable compromise. If only there had been time enough… But it is no help to talk of might-have-beens. Once Louis was deposed, his death warrant was signed.”

“I cannot believe that! They have not condemned him. There is to be a trial. Roger, you know the king is not really guilty of all those silly things. They say he shed the blood of Frenchmen. It is ridiculous! If he had not been so anxious to avoid bloodshed, he would not be where he is. If he had ordered the Swiss and the troops to fire on the mob, probably they would have run away.”

“Yes. That is another reason he must die.” Roger sighed. “Think, Leonie. If the king is innocent, then those who deposed him must be guilty of a crime. Can the republic admit that it had no right to depose and imprison Louis—whether or not he is innocent?”

“But the deputies agreed to a trial. The majority of the convention voted for it. Many spoke against death and suggested banishment. They could say he was guilty of conspiring with the émigrés to restore the absolute monarchy—”

“That is treason,” Roger pointed out.

“Oh nonsense,” Leonie protested. “If someone took away something I always believed was mine, would it be wrong for me to try to get it back?”

“In law, yes. Even morally, if it had been explained very carefully that it was not yours and why it was not yours…” Then Roger shook his head. “No, it does not matter. Even if he had not conspired, even if he had done his very best at all times to act in accordance with the constitution, it would not matter. Once he was deposed only two choices remain. Give him back his throne or kill him.”

Leonie was neither weak or silly, but she had abundant evidence that Roger always knew what he was talking about. Tears rose in her eyes. She did not give a thought to the first possibility. After what had been done and said, it was out of the question. Louis had been a kind and merciful king, but even he could not overlook the insults and disrespect with which he had been treated. No one in the government could afford to consider restoration.

“But why death?” Leonie asked. “So many have spoken for banishment. If he were sent away and made to swear he would not return…”

“You must know Louis’ character and realize he would never give such an oath. He would rather die than—”

“He permitted himself to be deposed,” Leonie interrupted.

“My dear, he could do nothing to prevent that, except what we have already said—he was either too weak or unwilling to do—but he never agreed to it either. Anyway, I tell you, it does not matter. Even those who spoke for banishment will vote for death when the vote is taken. Leonie, at this point I would vote for death myself—if I had a modicum of common sense, which I begin to fear I have not.”

He pushed his chair back impatiently and began to stride around the small room. Leonie watched him, the horror she had felt at his saying he would vote for death fading as she saw his agitation and recalled the final part of his sentence.

“There is nothing I can do!” he burst out.

“No, of course not!” Leonie cried, also jumping to her feet. She had forgotten, in her absorption in the fate of a person she felt was being grounded to bits between the millstones of an inexorable force, that Roger, like her father, always felt responsible for things that happened.

“And even if I could, I know I should not,” he went on, not seeming to have heard her. “It is one man, one life. Is it right to preserve that one life when thousands and thousands would die because of it? I don’t know. When is justice wrong? Is it a thing that can be measured in terms of cost, like a bushel of corn?”

“What are you talking about?” Leonie caught at Roger and stopped his pacing.

“A deposed king must not live,” Roger repeated. “Charles I was executed—that was wrong, an injustice, although he was a foolish man—but his death ended the civil war in England and the country was at peace. Perhaps it was not such a peace as many could have wished for, but the bloodletting was ended. Then James II fled the country and was deposed. That saved the nation the blood of one stupid man and brought us instead a torrent of blood—the Boyne, and Culloden, and the massacre at Glencoe, not to mention the many little hopeless risings and the heads on Traitor’s Gate. As long as the deposed king lives—or his acknowledged heirs—there are those who will try to restore him.”

Leonie put her hands to her mouth.

“Think about it,” Roger urged, “and do not be so quick to call ‘monsters’ all those who vote for death. Some are monsters—Marat, Danton, perhaps that ‘incorruptible’ block of ice Robespierre—but most are only men, torn apart among what they know is just, their fears for themselves and their own families and their knowledge of what is good for the country. When the last two agree on an answer and overshadow the first so greatly, does that make a man who accepts the answer a monster?”

Shivering, Leonie pressed herself into Roger’s arms, and he held her and kissed her, “I am sorry to kill your hope,” he whispered against her hair, “but it will hurt you less if you understand.”

That was true. As the weeks passed and Leonie saw the moves, like a stylized dance of death, she grew to accept what Roger had said. On December eleventh Louis was arraigned, on the nineteenth he and his lawyers had finished examining the documents to be used as evidence against him. Sometime during that period he said to Lamoignon de Malesherbes, an old friend and ex-minister who had petitioned to help defend him, “They will put me to death. I am certain of it. For all that, let us engage in the trial as if I were about to gain. I shall gain really, because justice will be paid to my memory.”

This statement and others made their way mysteriously from Louis’ closely guarded prison and aroused considerable sympathy for him. Nonetheless, Leonie was not seduced into hope again, and on December twenty-sixth the trial was held. A few, moved by the logic of the defense and the quiet dignity of the king, forgot practicalities. A deputy called Languinais even pointed out that the tribunal that had boldly declared itself the author of the event of August tenth, which had resulted in Louis’ deposition, could not, in reason, also be his “impartial” judge, and cried in fury that he would rather die himself than condemn to death, by a violation of all legal forms, the most detestable tyrant.

However, these voices were drowned in the more vocal radical outpourings of St. Just and Robespierre. St. Just cried passionately, “To pardon the tyrant is to pardon the tyranny.” But it was Robespierre’s cold, quiet, unemotional voice that really drowned resistance to the judgment against Louis. “So far as I am concerned,” he had said, “I abhor the punishment of death of which your laws are so profuse, and I ask for its abolition… I have for Louis neither love nor hatred. I only hate his crimes and therefore pronounce with regret the fatal truth. Louis must die because the country must live.”

Voting on the verdict began on January sixteenth and on the seventeenth the sentence of death was announced. A movement for reprieve was voted on and rejected on January nineteenth with a much greater majority than the original vote.

When they had that news, Leonie said to Roger, “You were right—although you are too generous, I think. The more they thought about it, the more they realized it would not be practical to let him live. Only I think what turned the tables was their fear for themselves, not for the nation.” She shivered. “Roger, can we escape from here? I want to go to England.”

“England isn’t any better,” he soothed, hugging her to him. “We did it too, although that was a long time ago. Still, it isn’t likely to happen again. Poor old George is just as stupid as Louis, but everyone knows he’s mad, and Prinny—he’s too clever and too weak-kneed to cause any real trouble.”

Nonetheless, Roger went to see Fouché the very next day. He agreed with Leonie, in spite of some reluctance, that it was time to get out of France. There were aspects of the situation that he had not mentioned to her because he did not wish her to be frightened. Roger was reasonably sure that Louis’ execution would cause a reaction in other nations that would result in an intensification of the war. On that front, things had been going well. There had been another French victory, at Jemappes, which had driven the Prussians off French soil completely. It seemed to Roger the best opportunity to leave Paris. There was no war panic, he had been in the city for four months and might reasonably wish to visit his home for a few days. There would be, he hoped, a period of quiet before the king was executed during which he might obtain a pass.

In this hope he was disappointed. “There is no time,” Fouché replied. “Joseph told me last night that the execution—murder, I should say—will be tomorrow. You will see the notices up when you walk home, I do not doubt.”

“They are cleverer than I thought,” Roger said with a tinge of bitterness. “I would lay a high wager that Robespierre knows his Machiavelli by heart. If you wish to do a series of evil things, do them all together as quickly as possible. I am only surprised that he did not call for Marie Antoinette to be tried at the same time as the king.”

Fouché changed color and Roger gasped. “You cannot mean that he did! What grounds could there be?”

“She was never loved,” Fouché replied, “and truly, she was probably more guilty than Louis of the things of which he was accused. She was a strong and generally a bad influence on him. Anyway, the motion was not carried to the convention. It was something thrown out to see whether the idea would take. Let us hope it will never come to pass. She is powerless now. As to your problem, I do not know what to say.”

“Do you think it would be wise simply to go? The barriers are not so carefully watched now. Since the Prussians were defeated, the patriotic fervor is somewhat dimmed. Times are hard, too—although God knows not for me—and if I used a golden key I think the lock might open easily.”

“You might get out of Paris,” Fouché said. “There is so much contempt for all authority. But the roads are the towns are all most carefully watched for émigrés. Besides, how would you get out of the country?”

“I have a friend in Brittany who has a ship and knows the English coast well,” Roger replied.

“Ah,” Fouché breathed, “I remember. In that case, come back tomorrow—” Suddenly Fouché shuddered. “No, not tomorrow. Come back the beginning of next week. I will ask Joseph… But you know, my dear St. Eyre, it is not really reasonable for a man to abandon a thriving business and travel all that distance in the depths of winter to ‘pay a visit’ to relatives.”

Roger sighed. “Yes, and we are likely to be held up by the weather from crossing the Channel too, which might put my friend in danger. Let it go then. I am certainly in no danger, and the lady I was sent to bring home is taken for my wife and not suspect. I would be foolish to bring attention to ourselves. However, give my compliments to your cousin and tell him I would be happy to serve him at any time.”

The last was a polite nothing, spoken without much consideration. Roger’s mind was on the events of the following day. He found the notices up, as Fouché had said, and read them with horror. Louis was to be executed in the Place de la Revolution—only a few streets from their house, which sat in the shadow of St. Roche. He could do little for Leonie except warn her and when the drums began to sound—they had been ordered to beat continuously so that no cries of mercy or support for the king nor signals for rescue could be heard—take her in his arms to kiss and comfort her.

The drums stopped once. Roger heard later that the king had wanted to say a few words but had not been permitted more than a single sentence lest his dignity and generosity inflame the crowd. Leonie had shuddered and sighed with relief that it was over, but before Roger could release her the hideous rattling began again. The second time they stopped, a salvo of cannon fire followed. Then Leonie had wept.

“It is ridiculous,” she sobbed. “I don’t know him. But it is so unfair. He wasn’t a bad person. He meant well. He didn’t deserve to die.”

By the next day Leonie seemed recovered, but for Roger the sound of those drums lingered in the house. Then three days later, he had been working a pressure-fitted piece into place with quick, repeated taps of a hammer, which caused another piece of metal sitting in a pewter dish rattle. When he was finished, he heard Leonie crying in the kitchen. She apologized for her silliness after he rushed in to ask what was wrong, but she was shuddering with horror, and Roger knew she heard the drums also. Then, the day after that, a man came asking by name for the tailor who had been accused of conspiring with the royalist party. Roger said as blankly as he could that he knew no one by that name. That did not silence his visitor, who explained. Roger then said he still did not know the man and had no idea what had happened to him.

“I will leave my name,” the man said.