the curtain. When he sees no mob of vengeful English apprentices, bent on hacking the silk from a Frenchman’s looms, but a party of volunteer constables, he is only a little less alarmed. Ever since Louis’ dragoons ate and drank him out of his house in Lyon, officers of the Crown have made Guillaume nervous.
Theresine joins him at the window. She is more than usually pale.
‘What do they want with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Guillaume truthfully. He is, however, beginning to have a dreadful inkling. ‘Get your jewellery and wait for me in the closet.’
Theresine does not need to enquire which of the seven closetsin the house her husband means, any more than she needs to be told to hurry. On the second floor, hidden in the panelling between her bedroom and his, is the special closet. Here, Guillaume keeps, among other things, a small amount of gold, the title deeds to his properties and a supply of notarised paper.
The secret of the closet was shared with Guillaume and Theresine by the carpenter Samuel Beckwith when he departed, and they’ve kept it ever since, even from the servants. They are surprised, therefore, some minutes later, when Beth opens the door.
‘They’re waiting for you, sir, downstairs,’ she says. ‘They’re going to arrest you.’
Theresine gives a little cry, and Guillaume takes her hand. He draws himself up as best he can in the confines of the closet. ‘For what?’
‘Treason, sir.’
Theresine would like to faint, but there is no room. ‘It is not possible. Guillaume?’
‘I am not a traitor,’ he says to Beth. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘I believe you, sir.’ The housemaid smiles encouragingly. ‘But they won’t go away until you come down.’
‘You told them I was here?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘That I didn’t know where you were.’ She shakes her head. ‘But I can’t just go on lying.’
‘They have the wrong house,’ says Theresine. ‘It is a mistake. When they see us, they will understand. We can explain it.’
‘That’s just what I told them,’ says Beth. ‘I said you’d never go against King George, and you’d explain all about what that French spy kept coming here for, just as soon as I find you.’
‘French spy?’
‘That Monsieur LeBlanc, sir. They’re saying his real name’s Daytevvy-something, and he works for King Louis of France, and you were going to give the French king money so France would win the war.’
‘That’s not true!’ cries Theresine. ‘We would never do such a thing.’
Guillaume presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. Feeling the softness of his own skin, he is filled with nostalgia for its safety. ‘You must help us,’ he says softly. ‘Please.’
‘Oh, I daren’t, sir.’ Beth’s caterpillar brow shoots up. ‘I don’t like to think of you hanged, sir, and your parts hung up round the city walls, and the mistress thrown out to beg for her bread down the market, if she’s not transported. But if they find out I’ve let you slip away out the attic window, it’ll be my neck in the noose, you see.’
Guillaume stares at the maid. She looks back at him.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to, sir. But just think how much you’re asking.’
There is a pause. Theresine sobs quietly.
Beth continues. ‘More than my life’s worth, maybe. And my life’s worth ever so much to me, sir. Just as yours is to you, I’m sure.’
Guillaume’s life, it turns out, is worth almost everything. The seventy remaining years of the lease on the house in Fournier Street, with its looms and its silk and its silver and marble and tarnishing brass, and its fig tree in the garden. All Jean-Pierre’s new designs, as well as the dining table on which Guillaume has left them sitting.
He leaves through the attic window with nothing but his gold, and a pocket full of bank notes. With his wife, he hurries, crouched, along the rooftops of Fournier Street in
Theresine joins him at the window. She is more than usually pale.
‘What do they want with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Guillaume truthfully. He is, however, beginning to have a dreadful inkling. ‘Get your jewellery and wait for me in the closet.’
Theresine does not need to enquire which of the seven closetsin the house her husband means, any more than she needs to be told to hurry. On the second floor, hidden in the panelling between her bedroom and his, is the special closet. Here, Guillaume keeps, among other things, a small amount of gold, the title deeds to his properties and a supply of notarised paper.
The secret of the closet was shared with Guillaume and Theresine by the carpenter Samuel Beckwith when he departed, and they’ve kept it ever since, even from the servants. They are surprised, therefore, some minutes later, when Beth opens the door.
‘They’re waiting for you, sir, downstairs,’ she says. ‘They’re going to arrest you.’
Theresine gives a little cry, and Guillaume takes her hand. He draws himself up as best he can in the confines of the closet. ‘For what?’
‘Treason, sir.’
Theresine would like to faint, but there is no room. ‘It is not possible. Guillaume?’
‘I am not a traitor,’ he says to Beth. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘I believe you, sir.’ The housemaid smiles encouragingly. ‘But they won’t go away until you come down.’
‘You told them I was here?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘That I didn’t know where you were.’ She shakes her head. ‘But I can’t just go on lying.’
‘They have the wrong house,’ says Theresine. ‘It is a mistake. When they see us, they will understand. We can explain it.’
‘That’s just what I told them,’ says Beth. ‘I said you’d never go against King George, and you’d explain all about what that French spy kept coming here for, just as soon as I find you.’
‘French spy?’
‘That Monsieur LeBlanc, sir. They’re saying his real name’s Daytevvy-something, and he works for King Louis of France, and you were going to give the French king money so France would win the war.’
‘That’s not true!’ cries Theresine. ‘We would never do such a thing.’
Guillaume presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. Feeling the softness of his own skin, he is filled with nostalgia for its safety. ‘You must help us,’ he says softly. ‘Please.’
‘Oh, I daren’t, sir.’ Beth’s caterpillar brow shoots up. ‘I don’t like to think of you hanged, sir, and your parts hung up round the city walls, and the mistress thrown out to beg for her bread down the market, if she’s not transported. But if they find out I’ve let you slip away out the attic window, it’ll be my neck in the noose, you see.’
Guillaume stares at the maid. She looks back at him.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to, sir. But just think how much you’re asking.’
There is a pause. Theresine sobs quietly.
Beth continues. ‘More than my life’s worth, maybe. And my life’s worth ever so much to me, sir. Just as yours is to you, I’m sure.’
Guillaume’s life, it turns out, is worth almost everything. The seventy remaining years of the lease on the house in Fournier Street, with its looms and its silk and its silver and marble and tarnishing brass, and its fig tree in the garden. All Jean-Pierre’s new designs, as well as the dining table on which Guillaume has left them sitting.
He leaves through the attic window with nothing but his gold, and a pocket full of bank notes. With his wife, he hurries, crouched, along the rooftops of Fournier Street in
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