“Words cannot express the blood-lust, the mad desire for revenge, the senseless hatred that compelled the people in those days. It was the sort of frenzy only rarely witnessed by rational beings—thank God.”
“But how came you to escape?”
She shrugged and averted her gaze. “My relations in England exerted their energies on our behalf—you should know that Mr. Sidmouth is the son of my mother's sister—and for once they were successful. We were smuggled out of the prison beneath a load of refuse, and borne swiftly to Boulogne, there to embark upon a ship bound for this coast; and here I have remained ever since, walking these cliffs that I might gaze towards France, and remember those who did not escape.”
“You speak in the plural, Mademoiselle,” I said tentatively. “Was there some other who escaped at your side?”
“My youngest brother, Philippe. He was but ten at the time.”
“A brother! How fortunate that you should be left with some prop in the midst of tragedy—some confidant in sorrow! But where is your brother now, Mademoiselle? Away at school, perhaps?”
To my surprise, she shrugged, the faintest of smiles overspreading her lips. “Philippe has returned to France. He is with Napoleon's army there.”
“With Buonaparte?” I could not disguise my incredulity. “But how is such a thing possible?”
“How might a victim of the revolution throw his strength and ardour behind its greatest opportunist, you mean?” Seraphine said, with a delicately-lifted eyebrow. “Well might you ask. My cousin and I have spent many long hours in contemplation of it.” She exhaled a gusty breath and drew the collar of her red cloak closer about her throat. “I cannot rightly say. I loved Philippe as almost a mother—I clung to his sturdy boyishness, his indomitable spirits—until the moment when he disappeared in the night, taking only a few belongings and leaving but a few words. Perhaps I never understood him—what it was to grow up as a dispossessed child, aware of his family's noble history, and the ruthlessness of its decline.”
“Women arc more accepting of the vagaries of Fate, perhaps,” I said thoughtfully. “We sit at home, and mourn in solitude, and find no oudet for our resdess tides of vengeance. It should not be remarkable that a young man should wish to make his way in the world, and resurrect the glory of his name, by any means that offer. We cannot judge rightly, without standing awhile in his skin, and feeling all the burden of outraged youth.”
“But you forget, Miss Austen,” Seraphine replied. “I have stood there. I have felt the outrage. I have railed against the bitterness of Fortune, and shaken my fist at every sun that rises again to shine on the revolution's children, and I have hated Napoleon for his steady ascent. He climbs on the backs of the old aristocracy—who were cut down by men he has never disavowed, however little he formed a part of their schemes—and marries his generals to the orphaned daughters of the great. But I beg to hope, Miss Austen, that he will reach the height of power, only to discover that he has been ascending a scaffold— and that there is no escaping the noose”
I confess I was overwhelmed by the hardening of her tone and aspect; Seraphine seemed no longer an ethereal angel, but a woman clad in steel, and burnished by the sunlight thrown up from the sea.
“It would perhaps be justice,” I observed, “did Napoleon fall as swiftly as he has ascended; but I do not believe it likely. Many years of blood and hopelessness remain, I fear, before vengeance may be done.”
Seraphine turned a speculative eye upon my countenance. “That may be, Miss Austen; and then again, it may not. Time alone will tell.”
“Assuredly,” 1 said, in some confusion. For she spoke as though blessed with a more intimate knowledge of events than I should have credited in one so remote from their ordering.
We turned at the cliff's edge and walked on a few paces in silence, heads bowed against the fresh breeze off the sea. The pause in conversation afforded me the opportunity to recollect my true purpose in soliciting the mademoiselle's confidence—and for the space of several strides, I gathered my courage to speak. We could not labour on entirely in silence, however, without some end to our exercise being precipitated; and so I forced myself to broach a subject that could not but be distasteful to the lady.