The Chateau on the Lake by Charlotte Betts

would be wise to take heed of your host’s warning,’ says Dr Dubois. ‘But never fear, Mademoiselle Moreau, I shall attend the apothecary immediately.’
     

     
    The doctor is as good as his word and within the hour Sophie’s medicine has arrived. The day drifts by in the routine of sick-room care. I read to Sophie from my book of poetry and watch the clock to be sure she has her medicine on time. In the evening when she’s asleep, I join Monsieur d’Aubery in the dining room for supper.
    I feel a certain awkwardness in dining with him
à deux
. It’s perfectly proper as there are two footmen in attendance but, apart from a short journey in his carriage, we have never been alone together until now. We sit formally at either end of a long table with glittering candelabra set between us. The table is set with starched linen and gleaming silverware just as if we are at a banquet, even though the food is simple: soup, bread and cold chicken.
    Monsieur d’Aubery smiles wryly. ‘My mother would have been mortified to see such plain fare,’ he says, ‘especially when a guest is present. But life is different now.’
    ‘And we dine in comparative luxury while so many in Paris are hungry,’ I say, remembering the ragged children who chased after the diligence.
    ‘Bread is criminally expensive and soap and other necessities are scarce.’ His eyes gleam in the flickering candlelight. ‘I always think that, without soap, man is quickly reduced to the level of the beasts.’
    As I finish my dinner I wonder how much soap his housekeeper has squirrelled away and what would happen if the protesting
sans-culottes
came to look for it. I cannot imagine my urbane host, murderer or not, behaving like a beast.
    ‘I must thank you again, Monsieur d’Aubery,’ I say, ‘for your assistance in accompanying us on this journey and for your kind hospitality. Truthfully, I don’t know how Sophie and I would have managed if you had simply left us to fend for ourselves.’
    ‘Perhaps I am not so unmannerly as you first thought me?’ There is a hint of amusement in his eyes.
    I’m covered in confusion. Perhaps he sees more than I have imagined. ‘Please rest assured,’ I say, ‘that we have no wish to trouble you for longer than necessary. I’m anxious to meet my father’s relatives as soon as Sophie is well.’ I blot my mouth with a napkin and smother a yawn.
    ‘Tired?’ His voice is kind.
    ‘I do beg your pardon,’ I say. ‘Although my chill is better it has left me fatigued.’
    ‘Then I suggest you retire.’
    We say goodnight and I experience a brief moment of regret that I’m not joining him in lingering over a glass of brandy.
    Upstairs, Sophie is still asleep and I go to my own room. The bed has been warmed and I sigh with pleasure as the sheets enfold me. I lie in the dark, illuminated only by the fire, and ponder on the conversation I overheard between Monsieur d’Aubery and Dr Dubois.
History will be made tomorrow.
The knowledge reverberates around my head.
History will be made tomorrow.
At last I fall asleep, my thoughts full of vivid pictures of King Louis mounting the scaffold.
     

     
    The following morning as soon as I’m dressed I visit the sick room.
    ‘The king is going to the guillotine today,’ I say as I pour out a spoonful of Sophie’s medicine. ‘It’s hard to believe that such a terrible thing can happen.’
    ‘I only want to sleep,’ she says, swallowing her medicine.
    I plump up her pillows and wash her face and she’s asleep again as soon as I’ve straightened the sheets.
    Outside the church clocks strike the hour. Nine o’clock. In one hour, on the twenty-first day of January 1793, history will be made.
    In the Rue de Richelieu below a number of people are hurrying by and I wonder what King Louis is thinking in the Temple prison. Are the soldiers coming for him even now, to tear him from the arms of his sobbing wife and children and bundle him into a coach for his final journey?