The Heiress (23 page)

The Governor of the Bastille was in bed when the turnkey summoned him. He got up yawning and grumbling and dressed hurriedly What a devilish hour to be woken up; his bed was warm and he shivered as he pulled on his coat.

‘The devil,' he muttered again. ‘The devil, why must they bring someone in at this hour! Riveau, you damned fool, why didn't you leave it till morning?'

‘The police say it's important, sir. They want to deliver the prisoner personally.'

‘Bah!' He began the long walk from his apartments down the icy stone corridors to the prison section, the turnkey holding a torch ahead of him. ‘Some cut-throat I suppose … wait till I see them!' He came into the small room where prisoners were received and entered in the fortress records, and their personal belongings and all means of identification taken away from them. Two officers of the city police were waiting for him, holding a shrouded figure between them. He knew one of them and he turned to him irritably.

‘Bertrand! What the devil is the meaning of this? Getting me out of bed at this hour? Who have you brought here?' The Governor was surprised to see the prisoner was a woman; when Bertrand left her, the cloak fell open a little and he saw the flash of diamonds. He took the paper from him and read it carefully.

‘Ah,' he said at last. ‘Ah yes, I see. You did quite right to wake me. My apologies. I will see that she is entered. Turnkey, take hold of the prisoner. You can go now, gentlemen. She will be safe with us.'

He had not seen a
lettre de cachet
for a woman for nearly two years, and the name on this one made him whistle to himself. De Bernard. One of the richest women in France. He'd heard of a magnificent ball given in Paris only a few weeks ago … she must have made the King himself her enemy. He gave an order, and the turnkey bent and unfastened her feet; he was an old man with a creased monkey face and small eyes and he had been a gaoler at the Bastille for forty years. His breath stank of stale wine and garlic and Anne flattened herself as he touched her, releasing her wrists; they were stiff and swollen and her mouth ached from the gag.

‘You've been giving trouble,' the old man muttered close to her face. ‘You'll learn not to do that here.… Stay silent now till the Governor speaks or I'll put this back,' and he held up the cloth which had been used as a gag. Women were a nuisance, especially this class; they screamed and raved and wheedled and made the turnkey's life a misery unless he began by being firm. There had been one, a long time ago—very high born and with the temper of a wildcat, who flew at the previous Governor and boxed his ears when she first came. There wasn't much temper left in this one; he dragged a stool up and pointed to it. ‘Sit there,' he said. ‘And be still.'

For most of the drive Anne had been unconscious; when she came to her senses the coach had stopped at one of the city gates; the door was open a little and she could see the Watch peering inside with his lantern. She had not been able to move or make a sound and the hood covered her face. She heard the man beside her whisper something, and the Watch answered and slammed the door shut again and the coach went on. This was no ordinary kidnapping as she at first suspected. The dark little prison coach told her that, so did the behaviour of her guard. He had not touched her or looked at her or tried to rob her. This was official, this horror. Now, sitting on the stool in the bare room, she watched the sleepy man in his rumpled clothes writing something in a book and referring again to the paper the man who brought her had given him. When he had finished he looked up.

‘Do you know where you are, Madame?'

‘No,' she could hardly whisper.

‘Then I will tell you. I will explain to you your position and hope that for your own sake you will be sensible. You are in the Bastille, Madame Macdonald. You have been sent here by order of His Majesty, to be held incognito for as long as this order remains unrevoked. I do not know what crime you have committed—none is stated here.'

‘What is that thing?' she said at last, although she knew and still could not believe it.'

‘A
lettre de cachet,'
the Governor answered. ‘I think you know what that means, Madame? Very well. You must give me your jewels and any money you carry. You must also understand this. I am the Governor of this place; what I say is obeyed by everyone. Princes of the Blood have learnt that arrogance and rebellion are not permitted here. I used your name just now. It is the last time it will be spoken while you're inside these walls. You are not to mention it to anyone. You are not to try and communicate with anyone. You will receive no letters, no visitors and there is no use your waiting for either. No one knows you are here and no one will ever know. Is this quite clear? Any breaking of the rules will bring punishment, Madame. I advise you not to nurse vain hopes. You will only suffer if you are obstinate. I have given you a number, and by that number you will be known from now on: 713. The name written here does not exist. It is forgotten. You are forgotten. Accept that, and you will find it easier. Now hand me your jewels, if you please.'

Very slowly she took off her necklace, unfastened her earrings and slipped a fine sapphire off her finger. She dropped them into the turnkey's dirty hand. She touched her dress where the lace fell in folds at her neck and felt something hard under the folds. Some sad impulse of sentiment had made her wear the O'Neil's little pin. It was so small that the lace hid it completely.

‘I have nothing else. Any money I carried was in my coach.'

‘Very well. Turnkey, take Madame 713 to the West Tower, to the cell of that number.'

‘One moment,' Anne turned to him wildly as the gaoler caught her arm. ‘I beg you, I have no clothes, no necessities … Isn't there a woman here you could send to me?'

‘There are no ladies-in-waiting here,' the Governor said coldly. ‘You will have to wait on yourself. It won't be difficult, we have no social life to speak of; when your clothes are worn out we may think of finding you some more. Take her away!'

It was not uncommon for guests to stay the night with the de Louvriers if the hour was very late. No one of the skeleton staff left at the Hôtel remarked on Anne's absence the next morning. But by the evening, when there was still no sign of her, Marie-Jeanne went to the Comptroller. He was busy seeing that the last of Madame's boxes were corded up before the journey to Charantaise and, besides, he had never liked her maid; he thought she gave herself airs because of her intimacy with her mistress. He told her curtly that the coming and going of the Marquise was no concern of theirs. She would return in her own time. He suggested that Marie-Jeanne mind her own business and get on with packing what was left of Madame's personal belongings. The day passed and another followed, and now the maid decided that she must take matters beyond the Comptroller, but without authority she did not know to whom she should go. The Comtesse de Mallot had left Paris two weeks before to return to her estates; the Chevalier Macdonald and his wife were at Versailles. In desperation, Marie-Jeanne ordered one of Madame's small coaches, used by her servants when the household travelled, and set out for the Palace.

‘She said nothing of any change of plan?' Lady Katharine demanded. ‘How do you know she is not still with the Vicomtesse de Louvrier?'

‘Madame, I know nothing but what I've told you,' the girl insisted. ‘My mistress set out for the evening and that was three days ago. She never came back and she sent no word to the Hôtel. I don't know what can have happened to her!'

‘Does she usually stay away without telling you?' Katharine asked. It seemed unlike her daughter-in-law to stay with friends so close to the date of leaving for Charantaise, but Anne had not been herself in the last few weeks; when they saw her she seemed nervous and withdrawn from them as if she wished to be alone. She looked at the anxious girl standing in front of her and smiled.

‘You were quite right to come to me,' she said. ‘I'm sure we shall find a simple explanation for Madame's absence. You had better go back to Paris and carry out her instructions. Leave for Charantaise with the other servants as arranged. I will send a messenger to the Vicomtesse de Louvrier and see if my daughter-in-law is still there. She may even have gone to Charantaise ahead of you; I know how anxious she was to get back.'

When the girl had gone Katharine wrote a note to the de Louvriers, asking if Anne were still with them or if they knew where she had gone. By the time she saw Sir James that evening at the King's reception she had the answer. Anne had left their house three days ago, and as far as they knew she was returning straight to Paris.

‘I can't understand it,' Katharine said. ‘Where has she gone? The maid swore she said nothing about going on to Charantaise or making any other visit. She had no luggage with her! Everyone expected her at the Hôtel. James, I'm worried! Something must be wrong!'

‘Come, my darling, what could possibly have happened to her? If she were robbed on the road she'd have got back and reported it … the de Louvriers said she was in excellent spirits, didn't they? Do you know,' he took her arm and pressed it: after thirty years he could not bear to see his wife distressed, ‘do you know what I think? I think she suddenly decided to go on to Charantaise. It's on the way. Why don't you do this, and set your mind at rest—go to Charantaise yourself. I promise you, you'll find Anne there.'

‘I'll go,' Katharine said. ‘I shan't rest till I know where she is; that servant frightened me. I'll send you a message as soon as I get there. I'll go tomorrow morning!'

‘By the way,' Sir James said, ‘have you noticed the change in the King? I've never seen him in such a good mood.'

‘Or the Dubarry in such a bad one,' his wife whispered. ‘Look at her there; she's so downcast she can hardly speak.'

‘There
is
a new mistress,' he said. ‘I heard for certain from the Duc d'Aiguillon this morning. He and Dubarry's faction are in despair. No one has seen her yet; she's kept in rooms somewhere near the King's with a guard to protect her. He visits her every night and leaves the Dubarry entirely alone. D'Aiguillon is beside himself. If the Dubarry is dismissed he will be ruined. They expect the new mistress to make her appearance openly at any time now.'

‘I wonder who she is,' Katharine said. For the moment she had forgotten Anne. So many people's fortunes depended on those of the Dubarry. If she fell, the unknown woman and her sponsors would set about removing her friends from their positions. The Duc d'Aiguillon had every reason to be anxious. He was likely to be sent to prison.

‘No one has any idea,' Sir James replied. ‘I've heard the most fantastic rumours; someone said yesterday it was a former convent inmate, sent by the Princess Louise to wean her father away from the Dubarry. Other people say she's a protégée brought in by the Duc de Richelieu. But we'll soon know, my love. Luckily we've never been on too close terms with the poor woman, so we shan't suffer if she's sent away.'

‘She looks so wretched,' Katharine said. ‘Whatever she is, she's not malicious. God knows what her successor may be like, remembering the Pompadour. I feel really sorry for her!'

He smiled tenderly down at his wife. Proud and unpredictable, it was impossible to tell which way her feelings would be moved. She was genuinely sorry for the vulgar, low-born mistress in her humiliation and her fear, but she had nothing but condemnation for her own son's failings. In spite of his love for his wife and his unwavering loyalty to her, he sometimes felt a twinge of conscience for his unregenerate son. It was such a pity that Charles had never loved his cousin Anne, or been able to make a sensible compromise when he was married. She could have been with him now, in Scotland, helping to rebuild the life that he and Katharine had left in ruins behind them. Instead, his son was alone in the Highlands and his wife had gone off on her own. They would never be reconciled, and he felt absolutely sure in those few seconds that Charles Macdonald would go completely to the devil if they weren't.

‘Go down to Charantaise first thing tomorrow,' he said suddenly. ‘If Anne's not there send for me. I'll come at once.'

The window in Cell 713 was so small and set high up in the wall that it gave only the meanest impression of light; the cell itself was small and very damp. The stone walls sweated, and the bed of foul straw was dank and smelling. Anne had lain on it without moving for so long that the miserable light faded and turned into pitch darkness as the twenty-four hours passed since her arrest. The turnkey had come to her once, bringing a bowl of soup and some bread which he left beside her without speaking. She turned her head away and would not touch the food. It seemed for that first dreadful day as if she were suspended; nature was being merciful, it eased her slowly through the shock, sparing her the violent hysterics which tore so many prisoners' sanity to shreds as the full realization of their fate was borne upon them. Anne did not shriek or cry; she lay and trembled as if she had fever, and there was a time during the long night when she lay in total darkness and her mind shuddered as helplessly as her body and came very close to giving way. But the dawn came, and with it came a terrible flood of tears; her weeping rose and fell in the tiny room where so many had suffered and raved and mouldered away until they died, and at last she was on her feet and the shock of what had happened began to pass. She went to the door; it was small and so low that the turnkey himself had had to stoop when he brought her through it and pushed her inside. It was thick and black with age and strong as the oak from which it was made. She turned then to the walls; when she touched them, her hands were wet. Near the miserable slit of window she could see marks upon the stone, initials and dates carved crudely by long forgotten hands. Beside one initial there were two dates, and when she made them out she shrank away.
J.D. 1725–1762
. Thirty-seven years. For thirty-seven years a human being had existed in that place, eating and sleeping and losing count of time, with nothing of their life on record but that uneven carving in the stone. The last date was very hard to read; the hand that cut it was unsteady, whether through age or mortal sickness only God knew. But for thirty-seven years they had been held a prisoner in the same cell. No one had ever got them out. Seventeen-sixty-two was the year of J.D.'s death.