'Thank you, Amalia.'
'Instead of that, our servant will have the privilege.'
'Beatrix is our weak spot,' said Daniel, 'and the one person who could ruin everything. Were she in the boat when you were questioned by the river guards, her nerve might fail her. All three of you would be captured then.'
'If she travels in the coach,' Amalia argued, 'she could endanger Father for the same reason.'
'I don't think that will happen.'
'It could do, Daniel.'
'It's imperative that Beatrix leaves the city in the coach. I need both her and her luggage with me.' He rubbed her arm gently and ventured a kiss on her forehead. 'In due course, you'll realise why.'
In his fine house in Amsterdam, Emanuel Janssen had glass in his windows and a fire in every room to take off the autumnal chill. There were no such refinements at the Bastille. The wind howled all evening and blew the rain into his cell through the slits carved in the thick stone walls. He did, however, have other concessions. He had a comfortable mattress on which to sleep, a small table and a chair, some books and a wooden bucket in which he could relieve himself. From time to time, the bucket was emptied, a luxury that was denied those below ground or those in open cages under the roof. In a storm like the one now pelting the Bastille, prisoners in the calottes would be whipped by the wind and soaked to the skin. As his gaolers kept telling him, Janssen was comparatively lucky.
It was only since his nameless visitor had appeared during the previous night that the Dutchman dared to believe in luck. Until then, he had rued his ill fortune. With frightening speed, he'd gone from talking with the French king at Versailles to inhabiting a lonely cell in a prison. Instead of being treated with exaggerated respect, he was met by sneers and jeers. Instead of sharing a home with his beloved daughter, he was cut off from all contact with her. Speculating on what might have happened to her had caused him intense grief. For the first time, he'd now heard word of her.
The gaoler on duty that evening was a stocky man with bandy legs and a malicious sense of humour. To make the prisoner suffer, he taunted him with the prospect of execution, going into gory details about what would be done to him. He'd also told Janssen that his daughter had been arrested, deflowered and put to work in a brothel. Other falsehoods were used to torture the Dutchman.
'Do you see how lucky you are?' said the turnkey, waddling over to the bars. 'Listen to that rain outside. You're snug and warm and in the best possible place. You should be thankful for that.'
'I'd be more thankful if you'd empty my bucket,' said Janssen.
'Ask someone else.'
'It's almost overflowing.'
'Then you shouldn't shit so much,' said the man with a harsh guffaw. 'Or maybe we shouldn't give you so much food.'
Janssen said nothing. He knew enough French to issue a sharp retort but it would only be to his detriment. When he'd made even the slightest complaint in the past, he'd been denied the next meal or threatened with violence. To a man as fastidious as him, living in such dreadful conditions was a daily trial. Yet he'd learnt to hold his tongue for fear of reprisals. The men outside the cell held more than a set of keys. They controlled him completely. To upset them was to increase the severity of his deprivation. The sensible course of action was to be obedient and undemanding. Whatever the provocation, Janssen had to rein in his temper.
'Oh,' said the man, goading him, 'I've got some more news about that daughter of yours. Sergeant Bermutier has met her.'
'Has he?'
'Yes, I spoke to him when he was going off duty this evening. He told me he'd spent a whole night fucking her in every way known to man and woman. I thought you'd like to know that.'
'Thank you,' said Janssen, turning away in disgust.
'I know you think the French are all monsters but we have very soft hearts really. That's why we're going to let your daughter watch when you're executed next week.'
His grating laughter reverberated around the tower.
Rain made the decision for him. It lashed down so hard that Daniel had to seize the advantages it gave him. Scouring the streets, it kept people in their homes or shepherded them into taverns and other places where they could escape the downpour.
It made visibility much more difficult. Though he was only yards away from some of the other turnkeys who scurried towards the Bastille, he recognised none of the faces through the deluge. Everyone was keeping his head down. By the time he went into the prison, Daniel was drenched. His shoes splashed through the puddles that had formed in the undulations and water dripped off his cap on to his face. Having their own problems with the storm, the others ignored him.
From the shelter of the gatehouse, the duty sergeant checked the names of incoming gaolers, barking them out above the noise of the wind and the relentless patter of the rain. For once in his career as a turnkey, Daniel was glad to plunge into the dark safety of the cachots. Water was seeping in there from a broken drain but at least he was out of the storm. Some of the others took off their uniforms to wring them out or removed their sodden shoes to dry them before a brazier. Daniel was forced to keep his coat on. Hidden beneath it was the loaded pistol he'd acquired on his journey to Paris. A dagger was concealed in his breeches as were some short lengths of rope.
Everyone else was complaining about the rain but Daniel was hoping that the storm would last. It was an ideal accomplice.
Janssen, by contrast, was cursing the storm. He'd got used to the rain that was blown in on him. What troubled him was the swirling wind that invaded his cell, blowing out his candle time and again. Eventually, he gave up even trying to read and adjourned to his bed. Light from a lantern illumined the area outside, enabling him to watch every move made by his turnkey. In addition to Janssen, the man looked after other prisoners in the tower and he moved slowly between them, feeding them, giving them fresh water and making sure that everything was as it should be in their respective cells. Two of his charges were French aristocrats and they merited politeness from him. All that the Dutchman received was derision. When the turnkey had finished ministering to the prisoners, he drank from a flagon of beer before settling down on the long bench. As was customary, he was soon fast asleep.
The prisoner watched, waited and prayed. Hour followed tedious hour and nothing happened. The storm raged on outside. The turnkey began to snore and occasionally broke wind in his sleep. Janssen grew more and more weary. When another hour crept slowly by, his eyelids began to droop and he had to stifle a yawn. The man was not coming. It was the only conclusion to draw. Janssen had either had his hopes deliberately raised so that they could be dashed again or his earlier visitor had been unable to reach him again. All that he could do was to give up the struggle and surrender to sleep. Within minutes of closing his eyes, he was slumbering peacefully.
What brought him awake was a sharp nudge in the ribs. He tried to protest but there was a hand cupped over his mouth. When he squinted in the dawn light, he saw that there were two people in his cell. One of them lay full-length on the floor. The other one removed his hand from the prisoner's mouth.
'We have to be quick,' he said. 'Help me to take off his uniform so that you can put it on.'
Recognising the voice, Janssen did as he was told, buoyed up by the fact that his mysterious friend had somehow overpowered the turnkey, unlocked the cell and dragged the unconscious man into it. Between them, they stripped the turnkey. While Janssen clambered into the uniform, his rescuer tied the man up then lifted him on to the mattress. The last thing he did was to put a gag in place.