Voices in a Haunted Room

Dickon was very well informed. We were never quite sure why he spent so much time in London about the Court; he was a friend of Prime Minister Pitt, and at the same time on excellent terms with Charles James Fox and the Prince of Wales. It was rare that he talked openly of what we thought of as his secret life, though I daresay he confided to some extent hi my mother. She went with him everywhere, so she must have had some notion of what his business was. But if she had, she never betrayed it.

On this occasion he did talk a little. He said that Pitt was an excellent Prime Minister, but he wondered how he would shape up to war.

“War?” cried my mother. “What war? Did not Mr. Pitt say that England was assured of peace for some years to come?”

“That, my dear Lottie, was last year. A great deal can happen in politics hi a very short time. I am sure William Pitt regarded all that turmoil on the other side of the Channel as a local matter ... no concern of ours. But we are all realizing now that it is of concern to us ... of the greatest concern.”

Chariot said: “And it is right that it should be so. How can the nations of the world stand aside and let an outrage like this pass unavenged?”

“Quite easily,” retorted Dickon dismissively. He always showed a faint contempt for Chariot, which I think would have been more than fault but for the fact that it upset my mother. “It is only when events affect us tangibly that we act. The revolutionaries, having ruined France, how seek to see others in a similar plight. The success of the French debacle was assured by its agitators. They are the real provokers, those who pointed out to the people how wrongly they had indeed been treated, who stressed the differences between the aristocrats and the peasants, and who, where there were no grievances, created them. Now we shall have them here. The dog who has lost his tail cannot bear to see those who have retained theirs. The agitators will be here.

That is one thing. I can tell you this: societies are being formed in London and as far as Scotland. They are seeking to bring about in this country that to which they have so successfully contributed in France.”

“God forbid!” said my mother.

“Amen, my dear Lottie,” replied Dickon. “We will not allow it here.

Those of us who know what is going on will do everything possible to prevent it.”

“Do you think you will be able to?” asked Chariot.

“Yes, I do. We are aware of what is happening, for one thing.”

“There were some who were aware of it in France,” said my mother.

Dickon snorted. “And they involved themselves with the American colonists instead of cleaning out their own stables. Perhaps now they see the folly of their ways, for those young fools who were screaming for liberty, and for the elevation of the oppressed, are now seeing what the oppressed are offering them-the guillotine!”

“At least Armand tried to do something,” insisted my mother. “He formed a group of real patriots who wanted to see justice. Oh I know you thought he was incompetent ...”

“He thinks everything is incompetent which is not done in England,” said Chariot.

Dickon laughed. “How I wish I did! I should like to see this country act wisely, which I admit to you, my young Monsieur de Tourville, it does not always do. But perhaps we are a little more cautious, eh? That little bit more likely not to act rashly ... not to excite ourselves unduly over matters which are not to our advantage.

Shall we leave it at that?”

“I think,” said David, “that it would be wise.” Dickon laughed at his son. “I see troubles ahead,” he went on, “and not only for France. Austria can hardly stand aside while its Archduchess follows her husband to the guillotine.”

“Do you think they will kill Marie Antoinette too?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly, my dear Claudine. There will be more to gloat over her death than those who have done so over that of poor Louis. They have always blamed her, poor child ... which was all she was when she came to France, a pretty little butterfly who wanted to dance in the sun-and did so most charmingly. But she grew up. The butterfly became a woman of character. The French liked the butterfly better. And she is Austrian.”

He grinned at Chariot. “You know how the French hate foreigners.”

“The Queen has been much maligned,” said Chariot.

“Indeed it is so. Who is not maligned in these ferocious days? France will be at war with Prussia and Austria. Holland too, most likely, and it will not be long before we are drawn in.”

“Horrible!” said my mother. “I hate war. It does no good to anybody.”

“She is right, you know,” said Dickon. “But there are times when even peacelovers like Mr. Pitt see the necessity for it.” He looked at my mother and said, “We must leave tomorrow for London. The Court will be in mourning for the King of France.”