Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Of course.” I hastened to procure another cup. LaForge drank it down entire while his rescuers kept silence in the sharpest suspense. At last he set aside the tea and sat fully upright. His voice, when next he spoke, gained in timbre and strength.

“You must understand, above all, that nothing in my plan went as I had hoped when I fled Paris. I did not reveal myself to you when first I came to Wool House, because I have already escaped death too many times to invite it willingly. The wisest course was to wait, and watch, and turn to advantage what I could. When I heard of the good Seagrave's court-martial, I thought to bargain my way to safety by telling what I had seen during the batde for the Manon. I did not comprehend, hein, that by accusing the man Chessyre, I should tomber de Charybde en Scylla.” [27] “… fall between Charybdis and Scylla.” This is similar to the English phrase “between a rock and a hard place,” or “out of the frying pan, into the fire.” — Editor's note.

“Are you, in fact, a surgeon?” I enquired curiously. “Is any part of your testimony the truth?”

LaForge shrugged, “I told you, de vrai, what I had seen. As for my profession — a man may be anything his circumstance demands, mademoiselle. Certainly I have studied physiognomy in my day; I have worked among some of the finest men of science that Paris may offer; I am no stranger to the scalpel and saw. I have also killed a chicken and eaten him for my dinner from time to time — but if you would ask whether it is as a butcher that I earn my bread …” He smiled, and said nothing further.

“I think,” Frank said sharply, “that you owe us a complete explanation, Monsieur LaForge.”

“If you will give me another cup of that excellent tea,” the Frenchman returned, “I shall be happy to oblige.”

The tea was fetched, and placed in his hands; his back propped against a pile of empty sacks that served as a Wool House pillow; and the four of us ranged around him expectantly, Frank with his face to the door and an expression of wariness on his features.

“I was not always as you see me now,” LaForge began. “I shall not wear at your patience with tales of my youth in the Haute Savoie — of my father, Gaspar, Comte de la Forge; or of my mother Eugenie; I shall say nothing of how they spent their winters paying court at Versailles, and were counted among the blessed of France. You know enough of the fate of such people in our Revolution — you have heard, even in England, of the guillotine. I will begin only with myself as I was in 1792, an orphan of thirteen years, sent to live with my maternal uncle — Eugenie's younger brother, a captain of Grenadiers. He had a fine revolutionary fervour, Hippolyte; he had a fine revolutionary bride, and a fine revolutionary daughter — a girl named Genevieve, my cousin.”

“Aha!” I murmured.

His brown eyes found my face. “Genevieve was a sort of perfection, to a boy of my turbulent history. She was younger than myself by seven years, a child of sweetness and laughter who grew, with time, into a beautiful young woman. My uncle, in turn, grew into one of the Emperor's most respected officers. He died last year at Jena — but by that time, Genevieve's hand had been sought in marriage by every notable in France. My cousin had refused them for years — I like to think because it was me she loved. But then the Emperor himself came to call.”

“Buonaparte already possesses an empress,” I observed. “And thus we must assume his attentions were dishonourable.”

“The Empress Josephine cannot bear children,” LaForge replied. “Napoleon is mad for an heir, you understand; he talks of nothing but divorce. There are some who claim he has debauched his own stepdaughter, the Princess Hortense, in order to get a child of Josephine's blood — but I will spare you the sordidness of court intrigue. [28] LaForge refers here to Hortense de Beauharnais (1783–1837), the daughter of Empress Josephine's first husband, a nobleman guillotined in the Revolution; Hortense was forcibly married in 1802 to Louis Napoleon, brother of the Emperor, and her third son, Charles-Louis Napoleon — whom court rumor identified as Buonaparte's — eventually became Napoleon III. He ruled France from 1852 to '71. — Editor's note. It is enough to know that he paid his court at my Genevieve's feet, and that Napoleon was the death of her.”

“Your cousin was not flattered by the Emperor's esteem?”

“She took him in such dislike, that her father considered a complete break with his sovereign in order to protect his child. But he was embroiled in Austria, you understand. He wrote to urge my protection for Genevieve — and when I learned of his fears, I threw up my studies at the Sorbonne and fixed myself at my cousin's side.”

LaForge paused, and sipped his tea.

“I had loved her for years, of course; but I could not hope for her heart in return. I was nothing — my estates had been seized, my patrimony hidden. I was not the Comte de la Forge, as I should have been, but a man of science labouring in obscurity. All seemed well, once I returned to my aunt's household; but then my uncle was killed at Jena not three months later.

“Genevieve was determined to see in his death a vengeful murder. She could not believe that her father must fall like any soldier in batde; the cannonball that sundered his frame must have been sent with diabolic purpose. It was her fault, she believed, that her papa lay dead; he had been crushed by a ghoul who was determined to have her virtue.”

“Another reader of horrid novels,” Frank murmured in my ear.

“I did not comprehend the depths of my Genevieve's despair. The Emperor paid a call of condolence upon his return to Paris; he kissed my cousin's hand, and uttered phrases of comfort for her ears alone. Later I learned the import of his words: since my uncle had died without a son, his fortune was entirely forfeit to the state, and my aunt and cousin would be thrown into the street. Unless, of course, Genevieve could find some way of earning her bread …

“She came to me that night and begged me to take her from Paris. She would go anywhere I liked, as long as we were far from the Emperor's clutches. She had not reckoned, however, with my sense of honour: I could not abandon my uncle's fortune to the rogue, without attempting to fight. I told her I would contest the forfeit of the estate, on behalf of my widowed aunt and Genevieve; we would try what the law might do. Later, while the household slept, Genevieve threw herself from her bedroom window.”

“How horrible!” I exclaimed.

LaForge stared at me, his eyes implacable now. “I had no love for the Empire. It had cost me all that was dear. But I could take my revenge. My uncle had long been intimate with the Emperor's closest counsels. He knew all of Napoleon's plans, his perfidious intentions with regard to Europe. It was within my grasp to hand these to the only power capable of crushing the Monster: the Crown of England.

“I returned to the Sorbonne and requested the aid of a person I shall not name — a fellow man of science, who knew a good deal of British politics. He sent a message to your Admiralty, which has always been in command of certain funds disbursed for the purpose of buying information. I did not require recompense. I required the satisfaction of seeing the Monster's ambitions thwarted wherever he turned. I waited a few weeks in apprehension and impatience, and at last I was instructed how to act I must take my uncle's maps and papers, and embark upon an expedition of science — a survey of the flora native to the Pyrenees. While thus employed, I must cross over the mountains into Portugal and make my way by degrees to the coast. An English ship would await me there.”