Chapter 23
The silence stretched like a gulf between them, charged like static, as Lorna shifted her gaze evenly from one face to the next. There were five in all, three old and two young, though it was one of the younger two that arrested her gaze. The first man sat centrally, his jowly face resting upon the lace masterpiece that formed his tightly knotted cravat. The whiteness of it made his sallow skin look all the more waxen, and it seemed to Lorna that she was staring at something more dead than alive, with its sunken cheeks and deep hollows of shadow from which glittered a pair of eyes, their colour indistinguishable in their gloomy wells. His head was topped with a tightly curled wig, as black as the rest of his attire. A wig which, Lorna suspected, was there to disguise a somewhat lacking head of hair - or so she surmised from the scarcity of his eyebrows.
This man had to be Robespierre.
But although Lorna knew this was the man that controlled her fate, this was the man with the key to the guillotine… it was not this man to whom her eyes were drawn. The other sat at the far right extremity of the heavy table, and though bearing certain similarities to the corpse-like façade of Robespierre there could not have been a more opposite impression. His skin was pale as alabaster, so he too gave the impression of death. Not the decaying ghoulery of his companion, but of a figure carved lifeless from stone - so pale and so still did he hold his head. His cheekbones were high and French, with a thin nose and sharp jaw on a long elegant neck. His eyes, half-closed beneath sweeping black lashes and charcoal brows, were as black as beetles. And his hair, for indeed it was his own, was of the same colour and cropped short above his collar. He was beautiful, and it was a long moment in which they stared at each other, both haughtily holding their chins aloft.
"Attention, Mademoiselle, en tout vous dites! Vous ne pouvez pas le savoir encore, mais je tiens la décision si vous vivez ou mourez. Nous vous croyons un traître à votre pays - une aristocrate! Et si vous êtes une aristocrate, votre vie est confisquée à la république! Qu'est-ce que c'est vous dites au ce, mademoiselle?" [Caution, Mademoiselle, in all you say! You may not know it yet, but I hold the decision as to whether you live or die. We believe you a traitor to your country - an aristocrat! And if you are an aristocrat, your life is forfeit to the republic! What do you say to that, Mademoiselle? ] The voice that shattered the stillness ground like glass beneath a pestle. Lorna snapped her gaze back to the vulturuous figure of Robespierre.
"Rien! [Nothing!]" (For the sake of your sanity and my terrible French, the rest of the dialogue shall be continued in English) This time it was Lorna who decided the silence was stretching on far too long to keep the ball in her court: "I am a faithful servant of the revolution!" She tried to inject something akin to religious fervour into her voice.
"Who are you? Name!" It was a bark, not a question. Under normal circumstances she would not have dignified it with a reply, but that was upbringing shining through. She swiftly repressed all pride in her voice to manufacture an image of meek docility.
"Josephine Dubois. My father was a merchant sailor, he bought a share in the colonies, an honest man, and loyal to the republic!"
"Silence! Where do you think you are? Loyal he might have been, but he didn't spare any time to teach you any manners! Your mother, what of her? Repondez vite!" His speech was akin to a volley of musket balls, as he battered her defences. It was hard to remember that this wasn't even the official tribunal. Lorna just stared back in defiance, and shot back her own round of fabrication.
"Dead, monsieur - the sweating sickness. My father, too! That is why I have come here. As to my manners, I spent most of my life on ships around rough sailors - I am sorry if it offends you." That much was true. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "When they died, I could not stay out there alone, a young girl! So I hid myself in the clothes of a young revolutionary - you must understand, for no treacherous reason, but to preserve my chastity, for sailing at war no one can be trusted.
"And I was right! For what did happen, but her ship was attacked and sunk round Cape St. Vincent, the English port, and our crew were taken as prisoners of war by the English, though the rest were taken aboard the larger vessels in the convoy. They did not recognise me for what I am, and I praise God, for I know how the English treat their women. Death is better! Citizen Monsieur Robespierre, I have sailed this far all for the love of the republic - I can help you win this war."
For several moments Robespierre simply looked at her, un-smiling and un-frowning. Lorna could only hope her own voice was so devoid of any emotion by which she might betray her true loyalties. This was the moment when her life's gossamer thread was running bare - she knew that this man's decision could spell success and life, or torture, base humiliation and death. The guard who had bound her was an indication of the latter fate that awaited her so uncertainly in the shadows of her future. She sucked in her breath, calm as the man who sat before her, and waited for him to speak. She was acutely aware of the pallid youth's dark gaze boring onto the side of her face, as he leant forward from his high-backed seat, shifting with uncomfort. Robespierre's lips parted and the room listened:
"You, mademoiselle," Lorna never flinched as she looked straight before her, though the pain in her arms was intensifying from the brutal chord, and his voice sounded out devoid of emotion to bounce of the panelled walls. "Have suffered much! And I should hope that our beautiful Republic should never be ungrateful to those who which to defend her." He continued, his voice frigid and disparaging, "I feel nothing but pity and contempt for you, a woman, too weak to fight for your country, un-fit for politics. But you want to help your country, nonetheless, and I admire that! Leave us to our council! A sentry will cut your bonds. Though do not stray too far - I will have to find you suitable accommodation… Do not forget I have spared your life, you owe me much!" Lorna lingered, aware that the gaze to her left was still unwavering, but the sallow face spoke again: "Go!"
Lorna waited in the anteroom, rubbing the red wheals, which had sprung up on her flesh where the waxed rope had dug deep. With the doors shut tight about her she turned to the long gilded mirror, which hung extravagantly on the silk draped wall. She looked at her reflection, something she had not had opportunity to do since that moment in the tavern a long time afore. It was ironic to see herself, her hair limp and flaccid in greasy ringlets beneath the cap and her dark brows cutting a dark line across her forehead from where they had not been plucked for ages. Many black smears and spots of dirt and grease blemished her pallidity. She was thinner too, small hollows appearing beneath her cheekbones from a diet of weevils and broth. Even her eyes seemed darker, more frightened. Only her nose was the same: small and stubbed and unattractive, the worst irony of all.
Lorna looked at herself, all hint of any prettiness she might have had lost to wear and strain, realising she didn't give a damn. She gave a lopsided grin into the glass. Her reflection grinned back.