Free The Chateau on the Lake by Charlotte Betts Page A

has no room for a simpering, extravagant queen and a spoilt king utterly out of step with his people, it has shocked me to the core that they are to be executed and not merely exiled. It appears that Monsieur d’Aubery is right and I lack the necessary knowledge, at present, to make proper judgements.
    Monsieur d’Aubery, looking annoyingly healthy and well groomed this morning, pulls down the window of the coach and peers outside.
    Tall houses line the mean streets and a gang of ragged street children race past, banging their fists on the sides of the diligence, shouting demands for sous. The coachman swears and cracks his whip, scattering the screaming urchins.
    Sophie, her eyes fever-bright, presses her fingers to her mouth, her face so pale it’s almost green. ‘Please, the smell…’
    Monsieur d’Aubery closes the window and the elderly woman sitting opposite hastily draws back her skirts as Sophie is wracked by another coughing fit that makes her retch into her handkerchief.
    I sneeze violently into mine.
    ‘Mademoiselle Moreau, I cannot in all conscience leave you both in your current state of health to seek accommodation once we arrive in Paris,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.
    ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’ But I dread the thought of tramping the streets to find lodgings.
    ‘You shall come and stay with me until you are both well,’ he says.
    His tone might be dictatorial but I’m more than happy to accept his invitation, at least until we have recovered from our chills.
    A stout gentleman eating raw onions and pungent goat’s cheese is pressed against me and I peer around him to look out of the window. We travel slowly, our coach’s progress impeded by hawkers of all kinds shouting their wares, selling everything from lottery tickets and kindling wood to rabbit skins. An oyster seller with a large basket on her back wrenches open the diligence door and offers us a dripping oyster shell. One of the young men casually kicks her off the step and slams the door again.
    Suddenly we grind to a halt as a noisy group of men in loose trousers swagger down the narrow street, their hoarse cries reaching us even through the closed windows.
    ‘Give us bread! Give us candles! Give us soap! Give us sugar!’ they chant, over and over again.
    The diligence rocks as they surge past us and two of the male passengers wearing the cockade rise to their feet and hang out of the windows, waving their fists in the air and shouting their support.
    The elderly woman sniffs. ‘The grocers who hoard supplies to inflate prices should be hung up by their ears above their own doorways.’
    Once the protesters have passed, the two young men plump down in their seats again, eyes bright with excitement.
    The diligence moves off and after a while the crowded, refuse-strewn thoroughfares give way to wide streets of shops and fine houses. Before long we draw to a halt.
    We alight, stiff from hours of travelling, and the coachman throws our baggage down from the roof.
    ‘It’s not far,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, picking up Sophie’s bag out of the mud. He sets off and I take her arm, shivering in the cold, damp air.
    Rue de Richelieu is lined with substantial stone houses several storeys high and soon we arrive before an elegant mansion. A footman admits us and we are shown into the salon while Monsieur d’Aubery goes to find his housekeeper.
    Sophie and I sink into red velvet chairs and regard the delicately carved and gilded
boiserie
s on the walls, the high ceiling and ornate chandeliers. Our feet nestle into claret and gold carpets set upon intricately patterned parquet flooring.
    ‘I hadn’t realised that Monsieur d’Aubery lived in such grandeur,’ I whispered.
    ‘At least we can expect clean sheets here,’ says Sophie.
    All I want is to lie down quietly somewhere, anywhere, until my thunderous headache has gone.
    Monsieur d’Aubery rejoins us, bringing his housekeeper. ‘Madame Guillet will take you to your rooms. Please