Paris: The Novel

king should be executed, I reminded the assembly of a very important fact. We were not there to try the king, I said. We were not there to decide if he was guilty of this, or of that. We were there for a greater cause, which was the cause of the Revolution. And it had become abundantly clear by that time that the Revolution was in danger, both from forces inside France and outside, so long as the king lived. Therefore, it was simple logic that the king must die. There was really nothing else to discuss.”
    “You were right, Citoyen Robespierre,” she said.
    “And now the case is the same again. The Revolution is in danger. And until these nobles are eliminated, it will remain in jeopardy. By themselves, the de Cygnes are perhaps not important. But their existence is a threat. That is the point.” He took out a sheet of paper. “Will you oblige me,
citoyenne
, by taking this note to the Committee of Public Safety?”
    “At once,
citoyen
,” she said proudly. “At once.”

    After Father Pierre had gone, young Étienne de Cygne paced restlessly. His wife had taken up a piece of needlework. She did not interrupt him.
    The de Cygne mansion was very quiet these days. Étienne and Sophie used the big old salon in the summer months, when it did not require heating. In winter, they used a smaller sitting room. Most of the other rooms were under covers so that the housekeeper and the handful of servants could keep the place running.
    “It was wonderful to walk with you today,” he suddenly said.
    “I am happy we went, too,” she answered.
    “It’s difficult being cooped up,” he remarked.
    “But we have our occupations,” she reminded him.
    Had they not still been so much in love, this close proximity, with little to do, might have become irksome indeed. But fortunately, quite early in the Revolution, as social life fell away, they had each found projects to keep themselves occupied; and these had been most helpful during their recent seclusion.
    Sophie and the housekeeper had decided to take every piece of linen and lace in the house, to mend and embroider it all. This, as she told her husband, was a task that might possibly go on forever. For two hours a day, she practiced the piano, mastering it in a way that she had never dreamed of doing before.
    Etienne, deciding that he would attend to the furniture, had gone to a local restorer to learn how the fine old tables and fauteuils from the reign of the Sun King should be properly cleaned and waxed. Having learned that, he decided to try his hand at carpentry. His first efforts were clumsy enough, but by now, he could make quite a creditable kitchen table or chair, and he was amazed to discover the sense of achievement and peace this simple craftsmanship brought him.
    “I can do things,” he laughingly told Sophie. “I’m not an aristocrat anymore.”
    And during the long summer evenings, they would sit together very contentedly, and read to each other, as the sinking sun made the polished wood of the old chairs and tables gleam softly, like ancestral friends, in the high salon.
    But one other thought was troubling Étienne that evening.
    “Sometimes, you know,” he said, “I wonder if I made a mistake. Perhaps we should have gone down to the château long ago, instead of staying here in Paris. At least we could have walked in the park.”
    “I don’t think we made a mistake. I think we are safer here, Etienne,” Sophie replied.
    “Why?”
    “The château is too near the Vendée. At the moment the rebellions there have mostly been crushed, but they could start again. What if the fighting came to the château? I think the local people would all join the rising. They love their religion. And they don’t hate us. Then we’d either have to oppose our own workers and tenants, or be called traitors to the Revolution.”
    “That is true. All the same …”
    “We are quiet as mice.”
    “I feel we are alone.”
    Sophie held out her hand.
    “At least,” she said sweetly, “we have each other.”
    And so it was that evening that they sat together quietly. But before the sun sank, as the room filled with a warm, red light, Étienne put his arm around his wife, and in no time at all they were in a close embrace, only disengaging from each other enough to reach their bedroom, where their embrace became complete.

    The battering at the outer door soon after dawn took them completely by surprise.

    Dr. Émile Blanchard rode along the edge of the big