‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s – I’m not…’ Ada squeezed her eyes shut. ‘He can explain it himself, if he wants to. But right now I can’t blame him for not wanting to do this.’
‘Where is he?’ asked James. ‘We have to go after him.’
‘No.’ Camille shook herself. ‘He made his choice. We’re doing this without him. We have one shot at this andI’mnot going to mess it up.’
She wrapped her hand around Olympe’s arm and pulled her over.
‘Cam…’ started Ada.
Camille ignored her and headed towards the Left Bank. ‘James, get in position. Ada, the duc is expecting you.’
She had to move fast, keep moving or her nightmares would catch up with her.
They reached the Quai d’Orsay, and James saluted.
‘See you on the other side.’
Ada came with them as they followed the river towards the Champs de Mars. The mountain rose above the crowds like the quiet eye of the storm that swirled around it. Up there, the Revolutionaries would be congratulating themselves. Comtois and Molyneux. Camille curled one hand around the handle of her pistol, eyeing the toy-like figures on the platform at the top.
They paused while Ada squeezed Camille’s hand, then she disappeared among the crowds on the Pont de la Révolution, heading towards the Jardin des Tuileries to meet the duc. Camille led Olympe past the columns of the Palais Bourbon and onto the vast grasslands of the Champs de Mars where the mountain finally came into full view.
‘Is that where Docteur Comtois is?’ asked Olympe.
‘That’s the spot.’
They stopped by the mossy foothills. Deputations from each Paris section were arranged around the mountain, girls and boys in pure white, young women decked in tricolore sashes paraded aboard donkey carts decorated with twists of greenery and wildflowers. Competing bands of musicians played in every direction, dancing breaking out in gaps in the crowd, bottle after bottle of pastis and wine flowed like water. The carnival atmosphere teetered, as it always did in Paris these days, between exultation and protest. Spirits and tempers were too high, soldiers gripped their muskets twitchily and drunken people eyed the politicians on the mountain with barely concealed contempt.
Olympe edged tighter into her side.
‘You promise you won’t let them hurt me?’
Camille’s nightmare kept playing through her mind, the slice of the guillotine blade as it severed skin and muscle and bone. She’d thought the worst machine of death had made its home in Paris already. If anyone got hold of Olympe, they could make the guillotine look like a toy.
‘Do you trust me?’ she asked.
Olympe hesitated, a coil of smoky grey sliding across her mouth. Then nodded.
‘My dear Camille!’ Molyneux called down to her from the pathway on the first tier up. ‘I am glad to see you here, and who you’ve brought. I knew you would see sense.’
Camille yanked Olympe in front of her so Molyneux could get a good look at her.
‘I did. May we come up?’
‘Of course!’ He rocked on his heels, tracking Olympe’s movements with glinting eyes.
The guards blocking the entrance to the path stepped aside, and Camille and Olympe climbed the mountain. It wasn’t long before Camille's lungs were wheezing and tight, her head light. Molyneux met them at the first tier and led them the rest of the way to the top platform where Comtois was leaning against the railings, surveying the sea of people spreading to the river and along the far side on the Champs Élysées. Next to him was an unimposing man with a lithe, cat-like face and green eyes behind small spectacles. He wore a sky-blue silk suit and a tricolore striped scarf.
Molyneux guided her over, his hand on her elbow. ‘Now, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I don’t think he’s seen you since you were still in the schoolroom.’
Camille kept a tight grip on Olympe’s arm as they were drawn into the belly of the beast. Comtois straightened immediately on sight of Olympe. Camille felt her trembling. The man beside Comtois turned as well, examining them through his spectacles.
Molyneux nudged her forwards, giving her an avuncular wink of encouragement.
‘President Robespierre, I’d like you to meet Camille Laroche.’
4
