The Rainbow Bridge (4 page)

The Count called at the mill, ostensibly to thank M. Brouchard for the note he had sent, but really to find out what direction the Jacobin had taken once the riot had broken up. Having established that the man had left, on foot, and was heading south, he laughed and said he was going that way himself and would give him a piece of his mind if he saw him. Working on a hunch, he sat up on the box beside his coachman, looking left and right for anywhere that a coach might have been driven off the road. He guessed that the man was not used to walking in sabots, and was soon proved correct. Tracks showed where a coach and horses had drawn off into the shade of a large oak tree. Leaving his carriage on the road, the Count walked over and found his recent adversary sitting on the coach step, massaging his feet.

‘Don’t get up,’ said the Count pleasantly. ‘I know, those sabots are damned uncomfortable.’ He bowed. ‘Count du Bois at your service, Citoyen. Or is it “Comte” perhaps? Or “Duc”?’ He held up a hand. ‘No, don’t apologise. It is just that I have a feeling that we have certain things in common.
Perhaps I can learn from you. Perhaps you also can learn a little from me. Would we be more comfortable, do you think, if we sat in the privacy of your coach?’

At the precise moment when the Count was greeting his adversary, Gaston, now a mile or more from Les Clos du Bois, reined in with an oath; he had forgotten to look up towards the mulberry tree. Colette would have been waiting, and he had never waved. He turned to go back, but realised that she would be gone by now. The sun was sinking behind a distant cloud, sending shafts of light like devil’s horns up into the sky. He rode on, dissatisfied with himself, and feeling that he had somehow made a bad beginning to his life as a hussar.

‘Vite … vite, dépêchez-vous! Keep moving. What do you think you are – bloody dragoons? At this rate the army will be in Amsterdam before we catch them!’ Lieutenant Gaston Morteau stood high in his stirrups and bellowed down the line. The cavalry horses, bunched together by the sudden halt, shifted restlessly, their hindquarters shuffling sideways, hooves scraping, filling the cold air with the flinty smell of steel on stone. The short plumes on the men’s shakos tossed.

Much had happened in the two and a half years since Gaston rode out beneath the mulberry tree without an upward glance. France, having driven the invading army back over the border – without calling on Gaston’s help – turned in on itself, and began, with unbelievable ferocity, to devour its own. King Louis was beheaded, as was his wife, Marie Antoinette, and many of the aristocracy. The Jacobin faction, led by the fanatical Robespierre, then attempted to secure the Revolution by fear. Jacobin factions sprang up throughout France, using the guillotine to impose a regime known as The Terror. Some of the older regiments, such as the Hussars of Auxerre, stood back, shocked and aloof, while their aristocrat officers slipped quietly away to the safety of exile abroad. In this situation, Gaston, young, able, and patriotic, rose rapidly in rank.

Now with his own command, Gaston found himself on foreign soil and engaged in a real campaign at last. A French army, under the leadership of General Daendels, had crossed the frozen Rhine. Daendels was a leading light in the Dutch Patriot movement, whose slogan was ‘People against Princes,’ and whose intention was to topple Stadtholder William V, and thus bring the spirit of the French Revolution to Holland. Gaston had been ordered to join this army and put his small troop of Hussars at the General’s disposal; speed was of the essence.

At the head of the column an earnest conversation was taking place between two officer cadets, Marcel Beauchamp and Pierre Colbert, who had taken it upon themselves to halt the column.

‘Go on, tell him. I dare you!’

‘But, Marcel, what will I say?’ the younger boy pleaded.

‘Ask him to come quickly. Tell him a lady has fallen into the canal.’

‘He’ll say it’s none of our business.’

‘If you think that, Pierre, you don’t know our brave lieutenant. Just try it and you’ll see. Ask him for orders …’

‘What will you give me?’ Pierre demanded, hoping that Marcel’s usually precarious finances would put a stop to the dare. Marcel paused for a moment’s calculation.

‘All right, one louis d’or if you tell him, but you must be convincing; he must come.’

‘Done!’ The boys touched hands. Pierre wheeled his horse and set off down the column while Marcel turned to examine the scene of the ‘tragedy’. A covered cart lay abandoned on its side in the canal beside the road, where the driver had attempted to escape the advancing troops by driving it over the frozen water. Unfortunately for him, the ice had betrayed him. Some hidden flow or spring had
weakened it, the cart had broken through, and now great slabs of ice, like sharks’ fins, rose about it in the freezing water. The driver, together with his precious horses, had fled, leaving just one visible casualty, an oil painting in a heavy wooden frame that had floated clear of the cart. The subject of the painting – a girl in a green dress – looked up at Marcel from beneath the water, like drowned Ophelia. A momentary ripple danced over the surface of the canvas and her face took life; it seemed to be appealing to him. Marcel felt uncomfortable and began to have misgivings about his dare. He decided to withdraw to the comparative safety of the head of the column.

Gaston could see the boy – Pierre – galloping down the line towards him, his face flushed with excitement.

‘What is it, Colbert?’ The boy reined in, tried to salute, but tipped forward and had to grab the pommel of his saddle. Gaston glared at him, ‘Lean back while you salute, you sack of potatoes!’ The boy righted himself.

‘Oh, Lieutenant Morteau, come quickly, sir! There is a woman, sir – a lady. She has fallen into the canal.’ Gaston noticed how the soldiers, suddenly interested, turned in their saddles. He kept his eyes on the boy.

‘Well, have you got her out?’ he snapped.

‘No, sir. The water is too deep!’

‘Can’t you swim?’

‘Yes, sir. But it’s too …’ The boy blundered to a halt. ‘We … we need your orders, sir.’

All Gaston’s instincts told him that the boy was up to something. The lad was, after all, no more than a reflection of what he himself had been like when he joined the Hussars – a carefree happy-go-lucky youngster on the brink of an adventure. But that was before the noyades – the drownings – when the innocent cadet that had been Gaston
Morteau had been obliterated forever. He slammed the door on that memory, and pulled the head of his little mare out from the line. His first duty was to young Pierre; one way or the other Pierre would have to learn that a good officer must take seriously what his subordinate tells him, no matter how outlandish it might seem. He glared at the lad, and touched his horse’s sides with his spurs. His mare, which had hardly felt a spur since he bought her, leapt forward, forcing Pierre to rear his horse out of their way. Gaston thundered down the line. As he approached the head of the column, he could see the capsized cart, looking like a foundered ship. He reined back, sending stones skittering over the shattered ice. Perhaps there really had been an accident.

‘Where is she, then?’ he shouted, looking for ripples, for any sign of someone struggling. He turned to the silent ranks. The pale face of Cadet Beauchamp stood out like a beacon from among the grinning soldiers. Silently the boy pointed to the water. The lieutenant followed the line of his finger to where, just beneath the surface, a picture floated, face up. He had been right, it was a prank, but even so, the sight of that picture affected him strangely. He could see the girl, just as Marcel had seen her a moment before, startled into apparent life by the moving water that seemed to ruffle the green silk of her dress. There was a suppressed snort of laughter from the ranks.

Suddenly Gaston felt the hot blood of anger suffusing his face. For the past year he had clung to chivalry as his only protection against the horrors of civil war. For him a soldier had two alternatives: to become a monster, or to preserve his sanity within a shell of impeccable behaviour. He schooled himself; he must not turn. The obvious thing to do was to ride on, to ignore the men, and to discipline the
boys later. But the laughter would still be there. Damn the boys! They should be flogged, but how were they to know that his elaborate façade – his moustaches, his swagger – had a purpose, not just for him, but for them also. He would not have them turned into monsters!

‘Here,’ he snapped at Marcel. ‘Hold my mare.’

Pierre rode up. ‘You, Colbert, my pelisse, my shako.’ He wouldn’t stoop to removing his trousers. In dismayed horror, the boys took his fur-lined cloak and cap and held his horse. It was Pierre who cracked first.

‘Sir … I’ll go, sir.’

‘You had your chance, Colbert, and you did not take it.’ Gaston lowered himself into the water; it was so cold it almost burned. It was also deeper than he had expected; it was not a drainage ditch, but a canal that had been dredged to take barges. He took a deep breath and struck out for the picture, forcing down the rafts of ice. He covered the distance in only a stroke or two, but the cold hit him like a hammer blow. He seized the picture, turned in a fury of water, and was back in seconds. Eager hands stretched out to relieve him of his burden, and then to haul him out. He stood on the bank, willing himself not to shiver, and pulled his clothes over his streaming body. He took his cloak and shako, and looked coldly at the two boys. A cheer went up from the old hands in his troop behind. He didn’t even blink. The soldiers, bless them, took him at face value, regarding his chivalry as a source of entertainment.

‘Take the lady,’ he said to the boys. ‘Secure her to a re-mount so the men can see her. Stay at her side, and if anyone shows her the slightest disrespect you are to defend her honour with your lives.’ He swung himself into the saddle. ‘Avancez!’ The familiar rattle of cavalry in advance was reassuring. In the distance a windmill turned lazily in
the scarcely breathing air and Gaston thought wryly of a lean and foolish Spanish knight.

‘Gaston, my young friend! Lord save us, you were a lad of sixteen when I saw you last!’

‘General! Come in please. Sit down, sit down. I have ordered hot punch – I am frozen – will you join me?’ General Daendels had stayed with the Morteau family back in 1789, while in exile from Holland for his political views. When the Revolution broke out in Paris he thought it best to leave the capital and, finding himself near the vineyards of Les Clos du Bois, had introduced himself to M. Morteau, who was known to him as a winemaking legend. As he said himself, he came for the day and stayed for two months.

‘I’ll join you with pleasure.’ The General doffed his hat and stood stroking its blue white and red cockade while he looked around. ‘So, what have you been up to, Lieutenant? I have had at least two complaints that your young coxcombs have been challenging my men over some lady of yours?’

‘Have they indeed?’ said Gaston with a laugh. ‘Excuse me, General, while I call them off. Raoul!’ he shouted. His servant appeared. ‘Go and tell Beauchamp and Colbert that they are to bring her ladyship up here, at the double.’ Raoul looked puzzled. ‘Go on, they will know what I mean, and be careful what you say, or they will run you through.’ He turned to the General. ‘We had a little rescue today. I have hardly had a chance to look at her. But tell me, do we march on Amsterdam?’

‘No, not yet. We wait here in Maarssen. I am sending Adjutant Krayenhoff into the city under flag of truce. If he can persuade the City Council to resign, the Stadtholder will
be out, and we will then do business with the Pro-Patriots; there will be no need for war.’

‘Oh good … excellent,’ Gaston said enthusiastically.

The General raised an eyebrow. ‘I have heard that you do a fine line in chivalry, Gaston, and promoted lieutenant already! Not spoiling for a fight, then?’

‘No, General. After witnessing Frenchmen fighting Frenchmen, I have no illusions about war. If we can bring you victory without unsheathing our swords, all the better. As for the promotion, I have been lucky. Many of my senior officers were Royalists at heart. When the King was executed they fled for England, so there was no choice but to promote me. No, give me victory without war any day.’

‘Amen to that.’ There was a clatter on the stairs.

‘Careful as you bring her up,’ shouted Gaston.

‘What? Is the poor lady in a litter, then?’

‘A litter? Oh, I never explained,’ Gaston laughed. ‘My latest conquest, she’s a picture.’ A small procession entered the room. Marcel came first, hand on sabre, then Raoul – small and bandy legged – carrying the portrait, and lastly Pierre, backing in at the door as if completing a rearguard action. ‘Prop her up here, Raoul, at the foot of my bed.’ The Lieutenant turned to introduce the two boys: ‘Cadet Beauchamp, Cadet Colbert … meet General Daendels.’ The boys sprang to attention and saluted. The General acknowledged their salute with a nod, but he seemed more interested in the painting.

‘Good heavens, Morteau, where did you find this gem? Look at her! She is Dutch – of course she is – her hair, her skin. Haven’t I stared calf-eyed across the aisle in church at girls such as this? Look at her dress, yards of priceless green silk – a painter’s nightmare. But it’s the girl that holds my eye. See how she leans forward, as if she has just made
some point in argument, to her lover perhaps. Poor fool, he’d have to have his wits about him. I wonder what was the occasion for the portrait? The artist often leaves clues about his subject, you know.’ The General was leaning close, examining the canvas, inch by inch. ‘This is unusual … for a girl, that is. You see, there are books – so we know she can read – but not books on etiquette or house management, as you might expect for a young bride. And look, here is a globe and, if I’m not mistaken, a telescope. A young astronomer perhaps, but also a musician – the guitar and the pretty spinet tell us that. Now, what about the painting hanging on the wall? It’s a seascape so that could mean a lover across the seas, but the sails are aslant so it may not be plain sailing. Wouldn’t it be nice to know who she was?’

‘Her name is Louise, sir!’ A strangled voice interjected. Gaston had forgotten about the boys, and the interruption reminded him of their misdemeanour. He turned. Both cadets stood stiff as ramrods.

‘Who said you could put a name to her, let alone speak?’ He noticed Pierre blushing to the roots of his hair. ‘Well?’

‘Sir, it’s … it’s inscribed on the urn, sir, on its plinth. It says “Louise”, sir.’

‘It does, you know,’ agreed the General, examining the urn, which stood as a centrepiece to the arrangement on the table. Then he straightened his back. ‘But you still haven’t told me how you came by this lady.’

Before Gaston could reply, Pierre blurted out, ‘Lieutenant Morteau jumped into the canal and saved her, sir.’ The admiration in his voice was evident.