‘But now it would be better if they lost sight of you for a few hours, and the market is the best place to do this.’
With that, he ducked between two vegetable stalls as a flock of housewives passed, baskets in hand. I followed and found that he had led me into a narrow alley. At a smart pace, we made our way out the other end, leaving the noise of the market behind us. Renard handed me into a doorway and stood watching the alley for a moment. No one appeared at the far end.
‘Good, they are still scratching their heads then, wondering if you’ve been turned into a pumpkin. Let us hurry.’
We proceeded at a trot towards the Palais Royal.
‘Will you tell me what’s going on now?’ I panted beside him.
Renard patted my arm which was linked through his. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, mademoiselle. My grandson is rabble-rousing.’
‘He’s what?’ I’d experienced the French mob once already; I wasn’t certain I wanted a repeat performance.
‘He’s calling the people of Paris to demand justice.’
‘How’s that going to help?’
‘It’s the people who rule now, mademoiselle. We ruled when we knocked down the Bastille; we did it again when we dragged the king from his hiding place in Versailles. It’ll surely be but the work of a morning to raise enough people to free a few foreigners, particularly with the promise of a free show.’
As we turned into the courtyard of the Palais Royal, we were greeted by the sight of J-F standing on a barrel outside a café, addressing a crowd of onlookers. Annette and Marie were passing through the people handing out copies of Captain Sparkler’s latest cartoon.
‘Citizens,’ cried J-F, ‘we must not let this happen. One of us – a woman of the people – has been locked up with her husband and daughter at the whim of the bureaucrats. These English visitors came to pay their respects to our revolution and have been thanked with a prison cell. I thought we had kissed goodbye to such abuses when we broke down the walls of the Bastille, but already our new rulers resort to the same methods.’
The crowd shouted their encouragement to the little orator. There was a holiday mood in the air.
‘What’s J-F up to?’ I heard a woman ask her neighbour.
‘I don’t know. Something about an opera singer. He’s said she’ll sing for us if we get her out.’
I could tell that few cared about the cause, or really understood it; they were just enthusiastic to exercise their political muscle again, to prove they were still a force to be reckoned with.
‘Will you come with me,’ J-F called, ‘come with me to demand the release of the songbird? Such talents should not be caged but let loose for all of us to hear.’ He jumped down from his barrel, holding aloft a stick with a familiar pink ribbon on one end. The crowd gave a huzzah and turned to follow him. For the second time since coming to Paris, I found myself swept along with a mob, this time bound for the Conciergerie.
‘What if the national guard take it into their heads to send us packing?’ I asked Renard nervously.
‘Don’t worry, mademoiselle. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, J-F said to keep you safe.’
‘That’s kind of him.’
‘He doesn’t want to lose his dancing partner, does he, so close to the big night?’
‘Oh.’
As we crossed the Seine, my arm was seized on the other side.
‘Frank!’
‘How are you, Cat? I hear you’re to dance for us tonight. See, I told you you could do it.’
‘You haven’t seen me dance yet. But should you be here? Isn’t it dangerous for you?’
‘You think they’ll spot me as an English lord in this crowd? If they do, they deserve to catch me.’
It was true. Almost a week of living with the thieves had roughened Frank’s polished edges. He looked dirty, a little hungry, he even walked with a slouch – in fact, he now resembled the rest of us.
‘I suppose not. Do you think this’ll work?’
‘It’s got to.’ His expression was grim. I had the impression that Frank had grown up a lot over the past few days.
We arrived outside the gates of the Conciergerie. Our number had swelled in our passage through town as people flocked to find out what the fuss was all about. J-F hoisted himself on to the shoulders of an all too recognizable footman and shouted to the guard inside, ‘Release the English woman and her family! You’ve got the king back – let these people go!’
The guard tried to ignore him.
‘Listen to your brothers and sisters, citizen!’ cried J-F. ‘The people want no friends of the revolution behind bars!’
No one replied; a guard even turned his back – a very bad move for it was this contempt for the people that infuriated the crowd. The masses started to beat on the gates, whistling and booing.
‘We’ll make them listen,’ shouted a black-bearded man. ‘Oi, citizen, if you don’t bring them out here now, we’re coming in to get them.’
‘Remember what happened to the gaoler in the Bastille!’ shrieked a woman.
‘Bastille! Bastille! Bastille!’ chanted the crowd.
This had the desired effect: the guardsman darted inside to fetch the governor. The concierge himself appeared on the steps and held up his hands, appealing for calm.
‘Citizens, what can I do for you?’ he said with an entirely false smile. He was shaking with nerves – as well he might as his predecessor at the Bastille had ended up with his head on a pike.
‘Let the innocent go!’ called J-F.
‘Innocent? That is not yet decided.’
‘Where’s your proof they were involved? You have none. But we have proof that they are friends to our cause. Bring them out – let them pledge their support before us, the people, and let them go.’
At this point, the crowd helpfully surged against the gates, which groaned on their hinges.