Free For Our Liberty by Rob Griffith

floor. Whilst we walked she primed me with a very short character sketch of each of the men I was about to meet. I only half listened. I was just enjoying the novelty of being able to walk more than ten paces in any direction. The house was large and well furnished. The family wine business had obviously prospered for many years prior to the upheavals and tragedy of the Revolution.  
    I could hear voices, even laughter, ahead. The door to the salon was open but as we approached the conversations ceased, it was like walking into a tavern where you are not known. Dominique entered first and I followed. Large windows overlooked the square and outside the last of the blossoms were falling and the sun was winning a battle with the rain. Calvet was already there, along with the three others Dominique had warned me to expect. Claude was also there, and that was a surprise for me but more so for Dominique.  
    “What are you doing here? Get back to your room,” she said, like a governess discovering her charges under a table during a ball.
    “No, I can help. I want to help,” Claude replied. Planting himself more firmly in his chair.
    “Claude it is too dangerous. You’re just a boy,” she said, looking so anguished that I was about to leap to her aid and suggest to Claude that he did what his sister said when Calvet intervened.
    “Let him help, Dominique,” he said. “He is almost a man. I asked him to come.”
    Dominique glared at her uncle, and then back to Claude. She looked furious, but quickly controlled herself. The other three men were looking at their shoes, embarrassed by the argument. She looked back at Claude and nodded, grudgingly, but didn’t say anything. The room was silent for a few moments.
    “Jules Montaignac, at your service,” said one of the three as he came to shake my hand, obviously eager to break the awkward silence.
    “Ben Blackthorne,” I replied. Montaignac was in his early thirties. He was taller than me with short brown hair and a too-quick smile. His handshake was as brief and insincere as his smile and I immediately disliked him. We men seldom take against another simply because they are more handsome but I was prepared to make an exception in his case. Dominique had told me he was a lawyer and a deputy of the Corps Législatif, the latest and largely toothless French parliament. A politician and lawyer. Two more reasons I had for not liking him. You can imagine what I thought when I found out later that he and Dominique had been lovers.
    Montaignac, taking charge, introduced the other two men. Ferdinand Fauche, was Swiss, a former teacher at the university and quite possibly the fattest man I have ever met. He made the then Prince of Wales look svelte. Fauche wore a green suit of superfine that must have been reinforced by an inventive tailor to withstand the strain around the buttons. On top of his rotund body sat an equally round head. He did not appear to have any neck that I could see. A mop of unruly black hair framed a ruddy countenance and a friendly smile. In contrast to Montaignac his greeting was warm and genuine, even if his handshake was like holding a pound of sausages.
    The last of the three was André Duprez. He was a small man, but anybody would appear small next to Fauche. Even before Montaignac introduced him I had him pegged as a clerk. He was slightly stooped with worn elbows. Montaignac said he worked at the Ministry of Marine, but he said it as almost as an apology and Duprez frowned at him. Duprez was quiet and said little, but the one thing that endeared him to me was that he obviously shared my opinion of Montaignac. He refused a seat next to him and cut short any attempt by Montaignac at small talk, all of which seemed designed to emphasise to me how important the Corps Législatif was and, of course, how he was one of its leading lights.
    “Let’s get to the business,” said Duprez, brusquely.
      “Yes, indeed. We have much to discuss,” said Calvet,