Page 69 of The Count’s Charade

“I will inform you, m’sieur. Please to understand that it is a story not easily believed. Also I have learned last night one thing I did not know, from Jean-Marc.”

He paused, but Sir James said nothing. Emboldened, Henri drew a breath, and took the plunge.

“These three men who seek me, together with myself, have worked for the Revolutionary Government of France since near the beginning. Myself and Jean-Marc have made progress to become aides to Citizen Robespierre, with whom we worked in the Committee of Public Safety. Etienne Daudet has been a clerk for the Revolutionary Tribunal, and Augustin Blanchet also, but lower down.”

He saw the revulsion in the magistrate’s features, and sighed inwardly. Had he not known how it would be? If Sir James supposed there was pride or pleasure for him in speaking of it, he greatly mistook the situation. Despite himself, a bitter sense of injustice rose up within him. He could not help the throb of anger in his voice.

“You judge me, m’sieur, but you judge only the outside. You do not conceive how a man must act against his desire, must force himself to things of which you in England have no image.”

“What are you telling me, sir?” demanded the other man stiffly. “That you took part in this damned revolution only to save yourself from its consequences?”

A harsh laugh escaped Henri. “Ah, oui, it is as I thought.”

It was this that had held him silent. He had known how his stance must be perceived. At the time, he had done what he had to do, and never counted the cost. It had not occurred to him he would ever need to justify himself. Those four endless years he had every moment expected discovery, almost resigning himself to the inevitable loss of his head. To explain the inexplicable had never been in question.

Yet it galled him. Unable any longer to sit before a man who dared to condemn him, he rose up and began to pace. Who was Sir James Levisham that he should assume power over the life of Henri Rousselle? A country squire! An Englishman, safely distant, who knew no reality of that unnatural world of barbarity and slaughter. How should he? Such news as he had came from those Henri had dedicated himself to save.

“Bon dieu!” He turned on Sir James out of the turmoil of his thoughts. “Is it for this I have given my life? To make a plea to an enemy of France?” Making for the desk, he slammed his hand down on the harsh wood. “You think I speak for this France, this — this nation cursed by evil? Non, m’sieur! I speak for that France we have lost. Yes, there were men who perhaps have deserved the death. Men who have behaved without care, even with cruelty. But there have been men who do not use this power they have against people more unfortunate, these poor, who serve, who desire only bread.”

Puzzlement was spreading over the magistrate’s face, and a mutter from the two by the door brought Henri’s head round. He pointed.

“It is men such as these who have made the revolution. Men who are honest, who had no wish to kill, and kill, and kill.” He drew a steadying breath. “Now they suffer for men like Robespierre. You do not know how is France, m’sieur. You think only for the émigrés who come here to be safe. Believe, more men like these here of yours are dead for this revolution than are the aristocrats of France.”

Henri became aware of the dull ache in his shoulder. With his right hand, he grasped his upper arm, resting today in its sling. His anger had gone cold, and he no longer knew what had prompted the tirade. Making for his chair, he grasped its back for support, and raised his head to look at Sir James.

The magistrate’s lips were pursed, and he was frowning heavily. “Quite the orator, my friend,” he said, the irony unmistakable. “You’ve a lot to say for yourself, but I’ll take leave to tell you that it don’t make much sense. Would you have me believe you are for or against this damned revolution?”

“Both,” uttered Henri wearily. “It was my choice to enter inside it, but it means not that I enjoy what I have to do there.” He let out a breath. “When a man sees these things so close, he can no longer remain for one side. Yes, it was for the aristos that I have gone there. But when there, my heart is touched for the people.” Remembering, he let out bitterness. “Not so my friend Jean-Marc. For him it has become a game of politics. I thought he has betrayed me to save himself. Last night I learn that he believes in this revolution, and for this he is ready to kill all who stand in his path.”

“Including you?”

Henri laughed out. “I do not stand there, mon ami. It is only that if he takes me to France to stand trial, he risks that I indict him also.”

Sir James uttered a grunt of surprise. “For what, sir?”

“For that of which he accuses me, enfin.”

“Which is?”

“But have I not said it? Did you not understand?”

The magistrate raised his brows. “I understood little from your discourse, my young friend. Moreover, I require you to say it outright.”

Henri stared at him. “Then it is known to you.”

“Damn it, sir, will you speak out?”

A commotion behind Henri brought him swinging round. Both Wooferton and Mayberry were on their feet either side of the open library door. In the aperture, looking both pale and desperate, stood Grace.

The sight of Henri drove out everything but the intensity of feeling brought about by seeing him standing there alive. Her eyes fixed upon his face, Grace limped painfully forward. He moved quickly, reaching out a hand that Grace seized within both her own. Her eyes devoured the lean-featured face, revelling in the bright green gaze.

“You are safe!”

Henri’s swift smile warmed her. “Assuredly, ma chère. But you, Grâce, what do you here? How have you come?”

“On foot to —”

“You have walked here?” Shock and disapproval in his voice.