The concierge wiped his brow. ‘I want no trouble today, my friends. The king is returning – the streets must be quiet to show him that we can govern ourselves in his absence.’
‘Then do as we say and we’ll return peacefully to our homes, and this will be remembered as a mere discussion between friends,’ J-F replied shrewdly. ‘You can take the credit for righting an injustice.’
The concierge was clearly weighing up the options: risk a battle on his patch or release a few prisoners who were at the most only marginally involved in the king’s flight.
‘All right, my friends, I will bring them to you. But how shall they make their pledge?’
J-F was ready with his answer. ‘Let the British songbird sing the ?a ira, the people’s anthem. That will be proof enough.’
The crowd cheered this suggestion. The concierge nodded to his guard who disappeared inside.
Frank squeezed my hand. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s working.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ I warned. ‘Do you think she’ll do it – sing the song, I mean?’
‘She must, or she’ll be lynched,’ said Renard cheerfully, chewing on a handful of sunflower seeds an enterprising salesman had just sold him.
A few minutes later, the Duke of Avon appeared, supporting Lizzie on his arm. His wife followed, listening to the explanations of the guard. She was frowning and shaking her head.
‘I’m not sure she knows it,’ said Frank.
‘Quick, Renard, tell me how it goes,’ I begged. ‘Whistle the tune.’
‘Oh, it is easy to learn.’ The Frenchman began to trill the notes. The melody bounced along, proclaiming that the people would come out on top of aristocrats, priests, and all who stood in their way. I only hoped that would prove the case today.
‘Get everyone to sing it,’ I urged.
‘What?’
‘She’s not heard it before. Sing it – please! The duchess is trained for the opera: she’ll pick it up if she hears it even once.’
Catching on, Renard took a deep breath and began to boom out the words. His neighbours joined in with gusto, rollicking through the tune like a victorious army returning home. The song echoed off the walls of the prison – a magnificent, impromptu concert hall. Up on the steps, the duchess was concentrating hard, her hand pressed to her brow. Then, as we returned to the chorus again, she dropped her arm and clasped her hands loosely before her. A sublime voice joined us, rising over the song of the crowd like a seabird gliding over a rough sea. Our voices fell away to listen.
‘Ah, ?a ira, ?a ira, ?a ira!’
When the duchess finished, the crowd cheered and stamped. Even the concierge applauded. The duke and Lizzie were both smiling.
‘Encore! Another!’ chanted the crowd.
The duchess bowed and, moving to safer ground from a song about hanging aristocrats from lamp posts, sang an aria from Handel’s Messiah. Chairs were produced for Lizzie and the duke. A tumbler of water was handed to the duchess. It seemed that the Conciergerie guard had as much appetite for a free concert as the crowd. The duchess sang to us for a full half hour, before finally bowing a last time and looking across at the concierge. He leapt up, took her hand and kissed it.
‘You are free to go, madame. All doors will spring open before such a voice.’
‘God bless you, monsieur,’ she said.
The duke offered her his arm, and the Avons walked out of the Conciergerie, freed by the power of song.
SCENE 3 – LA FILLE MAL GARDéE
By popular demand, the Avons were to be given a box on the side of the stage at the Opera that night. I was the only person in Paris not to be cheered by this prospect: if I was going to make a fool of myself, I’d prefer to do it in front of strangers.
‘I’m sorry not to see you dance,’ said Lizzie, wrapped up in shawls as she sat up in her bed in the rue de Clichy, ‘but Dr Montard thinks I should rest until I’m fit to travel.’ She succumbed to a fit of coughing which she covered with a lace-edged handkerchief. She looked so fragile sitting there, her pale skin almost translucent. I was seized with the fear that my friend might fall into a consumption and never live to see happiness with Johnny. It looked as if the merest puff of wind would blow her away.
‘Dr Montard is a clever fellow then,’ I said brightly, hiding my thoughts. ‘Don’t worry – you won’t be missing much, except perhaps my utter humiliation. But when will you be fit, did he say?’
Lizzie shook her head and lay back on the pillows. ‘Mama and Papa think we should leave Paris as soon as possible. With Mayor Bailly returning to town with the king’s family this afternoon, they are worried that he might reverse the will of the people and lock us up again. Your little friend doesn’t think that likely, but I don’t know – things seem to change on a whim here. After all, our cousin is still in detention. Her fate rests on that of her husband, which in turn depends on what the king has to say for himself on his return.’
I nodded. ‘I think we could all do with putting some miles between us and Paris, if the truth be known. You’ve heard about the spy, of course?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. How absurd to suspect Joseph and you!’
I fiddled with her silver-backed hairbrush. ‘Not so silly as you might think,’ I mumbled.
‘Oh, Cat . . .’
‘Why else do you think Mr Sheridan paid for me to come here? It was just supposed to be a little bit of discreet sniffing around for him, but I turned up in the middle of a political crisis and stupidly added more fuel to the flames with my letter.’
‘You weren’t to know . . .’
‘Oh yes, I was. I should’ve at least sent it under a cover to Mr Kemble or Syd’s parents. I deserve everything I get for scrawling “Sheridan” on the envelope. I can’t seem to get anything right at the moment.’
Lizzie reached out and took my hand. ‘What will you do when you return to London?’
I shrugged. It was too difficult a question to answer.
‘There’ll be a spare bedroom – that is, one more than normal – in our house. I’m sure Mama and Papa would like you to stay. It’ll help them get used to it.’