‘A saucer of milk for the cat: I should have guessed!’ declared Mimi, none too pleased that I had come in to interrupt her attempt to hook herself a lord. ‘One forgets that she’s such a baby.’
Joseph presented me with a beaker of milk as if I were the queen herself.
‘Miss Royal is no baby, mademoiselle,’ said Frank loyally. ‘I could tell you tales about her that would soon convince you of her wit and bravery.’
‘No need, sir,’ said Mimi primly. ‘She has told the world herself.’
Mimi was beginning to really annoy me but there was nothing to be gained by exchanging insults with her.
‘Shall we call on your parents and Lizzie, Frank?’ I asked, ignoring her. ‘I don’t have to be at practice until ten.’
‘Good idea, Cat. It’s a lovely morning – let’s walk.’ Frank rose from the table and bowed to the company. ‘Excuse me, ladies.’
Emerging into the summer sunshine, Frank got out his trusty map. Joseph appeared at his elbow and coughed.
‘I took the liberty, my lord, of asking directions from the concierge; rue de Clichy lies a little to the north of us.’
Frank looked downcast to have this opportunity to navigate snatched from him but swallowed his disappointment.
‘Lead on then, Joseph. Miss Royal and I will follow you.’
Paris was already awake. A baker’s boy trotted by carrying a stack of long loaves in a basket. A woman swept her front step, humming to herself. Carts rumbled in from the countryside, heading to the markets. The buildings looked quite grand from the waist up, as it were: windows sparkling in the sunshine, pots of flowers blooming on the sills. However, Paris didn’t bear too close an inspection lower down: the gutters were full of filth and the smell was ripe to say the least. Many of the people we passed had a bleary-eyed just-got-out-of-bed look. One pretty maid was plaiting her hair at a casement, enjoying the good-humoured compliments thrown her way by the messenger boys. As we walked, we caught the occasional whiff of fresh bread and pipe smoke from the street corner cafés.
‘Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?’ announced Frank cheerfully, quite in the holiday mood. ‘Certainly beats studying at Boxton.’
I yawned. ‘You could do with brushing up on your French though. You talked to that beggar last night as if he were the king. No wonder he didn’t understand you.’
‘You’re right.’ Frank steered me round a pile of manure. ‘I was never taught the equivalent of “Oi, you, how the hell do I get to that flash place where they sing and dance?”’
‘Just as well, as I doubt he’d’ve directed us to anywhere very respectable on the basis of that description.’
A dog trotted over and sniffed around our feet until called off by a whistle from its owner.
‘What do you make of your first proper view of Paris?’ Frank asked me.
‘I like it. It seems more peaceful than London.’
No sooner had these words passed my lips than a rider galloped by, crying something at the top of his voice.
‘What was that? I didn’t catch what he said,’ said Frank.
‘I didn’t hear him either. Something about the king. He’s not ill, is he?’
Though we may have not understood, it was clear those around us had. Like a wind passing through a forest came the noise of voices repeating the news, shouting it from one house to the next. It swept passed Frank, Joseph and me.
‘The king has fled! The royal family have disappeared!’
‘To the palace!’ the baker’s boy shouted and took off at a run down the street, closely followed by the woman bearing a broom. They joined a tide of people all heading south. I grabbed Frank and pulled him around.
‘Come on – let’s go and see for ourselves!’ I urged him.
‘But Cat!’
‘It’s my job to be inquisitive.’ Frank had evidently not been brought up on the streets of a capital city as I had: when there’s a free show, everyone goes.
Shielded by Joseph, we rushed along with the crowd. It was like being a stick carried by a flooded stream. It didn’t matter that I had not the first clue where the palace was: the crowd were taking me there no matter what.
‘It can’t be true!’ cried a woman on my left. She sported a red, white and blue ribbon pinned to her apron. ‘He’s the father of the nation: he won’t have abandoned us!’
‘He must have been abducted,’ shouted a man beside her, clearly unable to imagine that the man they had all been taught to revere could leave them. ‘He wouldn’t betray his people!’ He too wore the ribbon. Now I came to think of it, everyone was wearing one – everyone except Frank, Joseph and me. Was there something I was missing?
‘It was the Austrians – that evil wife of his,’ cursed another.
I glanced across at my companions. Frank had his lips pressed in a worried frown; Joseph was concentrating on protecting us from being trampled – neither appeared to be enjoying the experience. But I was. After weeks of feeling low, I felt buoyed up on the surge of people, exhilarated by the shouting, excited by being part of a momentous event. The king gone! When I reported this to Mr Sheridan, he could not deny that my first letter was worth a guinea.
Bells began to ring across the city. Drums rolled and men dressed in uniforms stumbled out of their houses, still pulling on their jackets.
‘The National Guard have been called to arms!’ cried the woman. ‘It must be true then!’
The crowd slowed as we neared some big iron gates. As people were still pouring in from all directions, the press increased. Being a good head shorter than nearly everyone else, I was in danger of being crushed between a fat country woman and a sweep carrying a sack. Joseph grabbed me from behind.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said firmly, lifting me up on to his shoulders so that now I towered above the crowd, having a grand view of events.
‘What’s happening, Cat?’ asked Frank.