Excerpt of Scarlet Angel by Elizabeth Thornton

Paris, September 2, 1792

The Prison Massacres, The Abbaye

He stood transfixed at the small turret window overlooking
one section of the prison courtyard, unable to drag his
eyes from the appalling scene of slaughter. The latest
batch of prisoners to be forcibly pried from their cells
was dragged before their “judges.” God, and what judges!
The rabble of Paris, butchers in their red caps and
leather aprons, their bare arms covered in blood; sans-
culottes, those illiterate dregs of society; and federés,
citizen-soldiers from the provinces, an undisciplined gang
of cutthroats who would murder a man as soon as look at
him.

The executions had been going on for hours. They’d known
what was coming. Even in prison, word traveled fast. It
had started in the afternoon when gangs of armed men had
attacked several coaches of priests who were being
conveyed to prison for, predictably, refusing to take the
constitutional oath. From there, the mob had moved to
Carmes prison and systematically murdered the total
population imprisoned there. When night had fallen, and
there was no one left to murder at Carmes, the same
rabble, their ranks now swollen to two hundred or so, had
surged en masse to the Abbaye. No one tried to stop them.
And now the executions had become indiscriminate.

Sickened, his heart pounding in his chest, Cam closed his
eyes to shut out the frightful spectacle made all the more
hideous by the presence of poissardes—fishwives and other
market women who, on request, were feeding the
executioners brandy mixed with gunpowder to aggravate
their fury for the unending task. He had never before seen
women in the throes of bloodlust, could not take in what
his eyes told him—that they were totally immune to the
growing pile of mutilated corpses and the suffering of
those who were not yet ready to meet their end.

His turn was coming. He knew it. No one would be spared,
except, pray God, the women and children. His stepmother
and twelve-year-old sister were in another part of the
building. He could not believe that even this canaille
would stoop to murder such innocents.

Another man jostled him aside to take his place at the
window. Cam moved to one of the filthy cots against the
wall. How ironic, he thought, that when they had finally
been captured and incarcerated— was it only a fortnight
before?—he had been glad that they had been taken to the
Abbaye and not to one of the other prisons, where his
sickly sister might be shut up with women of the street or
worse.

Three months in France, and two of those in hiding, and it
had come to this! Oh God, how naïve they had been in
England to welcome the first reports of the Revolution!
They should have known from their lessons in history that
moderation and restraint were not part of the human
temperament once blood had been spilled. And France’s
bloody past did not bear thinking about.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing! And so was the English
Channel! How could they know, how could they possibly
imagine in England, what it was like to live in terror of
the mob?

Shutting his ears to a bloodcurdling scream that came from
below, he stretched full length on the cot and forced
himself to think of anything but the fate that was rushing
to meet him.

Recriminations pressed in to scourge him. He should never
have allowed his stepmother to remove to her family in
France on the death of his father five years before. He
should have kept his sister with him in England, in spite
of the doctors’ advice that a more temperate climate would
benefit her delicate health. He should have defied his
guardians sooner, before he reached his majority, and come
to France himself to see what was afoot. He should have
insisted that they quit Paris in the first days of his
arrival, even supposing his stepmother was right in
averring that Marguerite would never survive the journey.

He stirred restlessly and turned his face to the wall. Oh
God, how could he have done any of those things? He had
been only a boy of sixteen when his father had died. There
was no panic in England when the Revolution began. His
stepmother’s family was close to the French throne—God,
and who knew what had become of them?—and therefore as
powerful as any. His sister’s health had completely broken
down. There was no question that she would survive the
rigors of the kind of journey they would be compelled to
endure. What else could they have done but go into hiding
until the worst of the storm had passed?

And who could have foreseen this sudden turn in events? It
was the massacre of five hundred of the king’s Swiss
Guards at the Tuileries two months before, that and the
appointment of their archenemy, George Jacques Danton, as
minister of justice, that had finally convinced the French
aristocracy that their days were numbered.

The royal family was now under heavy guard in the gloomy
fortress of the Knights Templar. The atmosphere in Paris
was suddenly transformed. Foreign governments had
withdrawn their ambassadors. Embassies were closed. And
the aristocrats, long since stripped of their titles, were
leaving their houses in droves and going into hiding or
making a dash for freedom across the Channel.

All Paris had been waiting for something to happen, for
the bloodletting to begin. And it had started with
reprisals against the defenseless populations of the
overcrowded prisons. Most of the inmates were classified
by the mob as dangerous opponents of the Revolution—
priests, lawyers, journalists, ordinary citizens who had
criticized the conduct of their new masters, and those
unfortunate members of the aristocracy, men, women and
children, whose hiding places had been discovered in the
house-to-house searches.

“When they take us out, we should offer no resistance.”
The comment came from one of the Carmelite priests who had
been hearing the confessions of some of the prisoners.

Cam raised himself to a sitting position and surveyed the
shadowy figures of the other dozen or so occupants of the
small cell, most of whom were priests on their knees,
praying for the dying and for the suffering to come. He
understood the priest’s reference. Perhaps everyone did,
for no one asked the old man to explain himself. The
condemned prisoners who tried to protect themselves with
their hands were first dismembered before being stabbed or
decapitated. But there was no question in his mind of
going docilely to his fate like a lamb to the slaughter.
He could not to it.

The man he knew as Rodier, a lawyer by profession, joined
him on the cot, and Cam made room for him.

“Good advice if you’re an old man and already have one
foot in the grave,” said Rodier in an ironic undertone for
Cam’s ears only.

In the weeks since they had been incarcerated, the two men
had developed something of a friendship, despite the
disparity in their ages. Rodier was in his early thirties,
eternally an optimist, and as ugly as sin, though he
possessed a certain charisma that stood him in good stead
whatever the circumstances. He was also a member of the
more moderate Girondist party, which, for the present, had
been discredited. But on the morrow, who was to say which
clique would hold the upper hand?

“You’re not thinking of following the old man’s advice?”
asked Rodier, eyeing the younger man with a considering
eye. He liked what he saw and knew of the young English
aristocrat; approved of the ungallic, stoic reserve;
admired the devotion to family that had propelled the
youth to his present, perilous course of action; and, not
least, was gratified by the boy’s grasp of French language
and letters. In his experience, the majority of the
English nobility was a herd of ignorant asses, just like
their French counterparts, and proud of it. But then, the
boy had been raised by a French stepmother, an unhoped for
happenstance, in Rodier’s opinion.

Still, the boy sorely needed guidance, which was why
Rodier had taken him under his wing from the moment they
had been unceremoniously thrust behind the gloomy walls of
the Abbaye. The youth had given his gaolers his correct
name, with no thought of subterfuge. Thankfully, many
English surnames were French in origin. “Camille Colburne”
had passed without comment. Thank God the boy had had
enough sense not to reveal his title! It would never do to
let the authorities know that they had a member of the
English aristocracy, a duke no less, in their hands. And
from the boy’s appearance, apart from the intelligent,
startlingly light-blue eyes, he was swarthy enough to pass
for a Spaniard, let alone a Frenchman.

Those blue eyes had learned to be guarded in the weeks
since Rodier had first befriended the boy. In that small,
overcrowded cell with the only light coming from the pitch
torches in the prison courtyard, it was too dark to read
his expression. But his hesitation in answering the
lawyer’s question left no doubt in Rodier’s mind that the
deep-set eyes would be cautiously half-hooded.

“You’re not thinking of following the old man’s advice,”
Rodier prodded.

“When hell freezes over,” drawled the boy.

A laugh was startled out of Rodier. He clapped Cam on the
shoulder, and several of the priests crossed themselves as
if to protest some obscene profanity that had just been
committed.

“Young men were ever hotheaded,” said Rodier good-
naturedly. “I like you, Camille.” In a more serious vein,
he went on, “Listen! If you perish, you will be of no use
to your mother and sister. Use your head, man! Resistance
will gain you nothing. There’s always tomorrow if we
survive this night’s work.”

“I mean to die happy,” said the young man.

“What? By taking a couple of those canaille with you?”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I make no promises, mind, but I suggest that you follow
my lead. I’m not a lawyer for nothing, you know. Before
they dispatch us, they’re giving us a chance to defend
ourselves.”

“You’re referring, I presume, to the makeshift tribunal
presided over by that rabble-rouser, Maillard?”

A strange smile touched Rodier’s lips. “Maillard may be
their leader, but there is someone else who holds the real
power.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Someone who is keeping very much in the background.
Danton’s right-hand man. He’s there in the shadows. You
didn’t notice him?”

“No. Who is he?”

“Mascaron.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Few have. He doesn’t want to be known.”