Free For Our Liberty by Rob Griffith Page B

balloon,” said Claude. Everyone looked round at him, as if just remembering he was there.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Dominique, a little sharply. “Claude, balloons are dangerous and unpredictable. We need a better plan.” She softened and smiled at her brother, but he looked away.
    “But Monsieur Blanchard made it all the way across the Channel nearly twenty years ago,” Claude retorted.
    “And I seem to remember he almost landed in the middle of the sea,” said Dominique.
    “The boy might have something,” said Calvet. “There is somebody, an aeronaut, who owes me a very large favour. I made certain that some complaints against him went away. He has a balloon.”
    “Are you really suggesting that I fly from Paris in a balloon?” I asked incredulously. “I agree with Dominique. It’s ridiculous. The whole of Paris would see us.” It was my turn to stand and pace beside the windows.
    “Not if you left at night,” suggested Montaignac. I couldn’t believe he was taking the suggestion seriously.
    “Yes, that is true. But where would he be able to, how do they say, lift off?” asked Fauche. I thought a man of learning would have more sense than to give credit to the idea but perhaps he felt an affinity to balloons due to his similarity of shape.
    “The convent of Saint Catherine. Its walls are high and it has been deserted for years now,” said Duprez. They were really considering it. I was speechless.
    “Yes, we could get the balloon ready in the courtyard. Out of sight. By the time they were in the air it would be too late for anybody to stop them and as long as the night was dark they probably wouldn’t be seen,” said Calvet. “Who looks up?”  
    Everyone was quiet for a moment, thinking the plan through and I hoped realising the impossibility of success.
    “When?” asked Montaignac.
    “Tomorrow night,” answered Calvet.
    I really couldn’t believe it. They weren’t joking. The science of aerostation was not unknown to me; I had read the reports in the newspapers and overheard those more learned than I predicting dire consequences to those who dared try to imitate the birds; giddiness, shortness of breath, freezing temperatures.
    “Forgive me Monsieur Calvet, but what makes you think this balloonist will agree.” I asked.
    “If he doesn’t those complaints that I made disappear will soon reappear. He knows I am not a man to say no to,” he said. Unfortunately he was right. I tried to reason with them. I suggested that I travel dressed as a woman, as Henri had arranged for Dalrymple. I refused. I was ignored. In the end even Dominique was won around. Claude was very happy. I was not.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    The Convent of St Catherine may have once been a house of God but in the dark of a moonless night its abandoned and derelict buildings looked to have been taken over by his competition. Had Mrs Shelley been with us that night she could well have garnered inspiration for a story or two but my own tale will have to suffice.  
    We had arrived in Calvet’s carriage just after midnight; Calvet, Dominique, Claude and I. We were far too close to the centre of Paris for my liking. Far too close to the Ministries of Justice and Police. I felt as if we were heading for the heart of the lion’s den rather than away from it. The clip of the horses’ hooves echoed as we entered the convent through an archway. The old wooden gates hung rotten and sagging on their hinges. We stopped in a courtyard, unlit and broken windows surrounding us. The walls of the convent had probably never echoed with laughter and song but the silence that night was total, forbidding and ominous. We got out of the coach without any of us saying a word, the quiet was too oppressive. After a few moments Calvet broke the silence and told his coachman to leave us. Calvet’s voice and the clatter of the coach leaving broke the spell.  
    “Claude, go watch the street,” Calvet ordered. Claude looked disappointed that he