“I suppose their poor habits are a consequence of having nothing else to do, and being so far from home,” said Fanny dubiously, but she was inwardly certain that William Gibson, whatever his condition, employed his time in a more rational manner.
“And in justice, I must add, Mademoiselle, that I think we are better treated than our English counterparts in France.”
“And better,” said Madame Orly, with feeling, “than our friends, swept up in the Terror.”
“Ah, Madame,” said the captain. “There is a sympathy between us that only you and I, a Frenchman and a Frenchwoman, can comprehend. Only we can truly know what it is we have lost, and what may never be recovered. I was a young cadet at the time, fighting in Flanders, and we never knew from one month to another who was in authority over us, or who would prevail back in Paris.”
“And I,” said Madame Orly, “of course, was just a child.”
Fanny looked away and hid a little smile here. Her friend’s declaration, however, had no other effect on the captain but to make him express his admiration for Madame, for having created a new life for herself in England, and for having supported herself, bereft of family and any nearer tie.
The ladies and their gallant escort had now almost completed their circuit of the courtyard, and were returning to the gate when Fanny observed a group of fellow-visitors, all men, eagerly handling some trinkets and cheerfully disputing the price with those who offered them. Fanny stepped forward to peek at the items which had aroused such interest, but the captain placed a light hand upon her arm and said, “Mademoiselle Price will not be interested in those particular articles.” He and Madame Orly exchanged a knowing glance.
Fanny was perplexed, but did not dispute the point.
Captain Duchesne then recommended they conclude their visit with a stroll around the exterior of the prison. “I understand the view on the other side is very pleasant,” he said with a wry smile.
Before they departed, Fanny found an excuse for talking with the turnkey for a few moments, so that Madame Orly and the captain might enjoy a brief conference alone.
“Pray, are the prisoners here well acquainted with the progress of the war?” she asked.
“Oh yes, madam,” said the turnkey, “and some of them is hoping to go home soon, and some of them is breaking their little frog hearts over their precious Boneyparte, and saying they would follow ‘im to ‘ell and beyond—begging your pardon—and they is refusing to believe that we ‘ave nearly got them beat at last.”
“Should the war end—” Fanny began.
“When the war ends, begging your pardon—” returned the turnkey.
“Of course. When the war ends,” said Fanny, “will all the prisoners be compelled to return to France? That is, what if some of them would rather remain here?”
The turnkey scratched his chin. “Stay ‘ere in prison?”
“No, I meant, should they prefer England to France, and wish to live here, might they do so?”
“Uh. Mebbe. But most of them think everything is better in France, and they’ll waste no time telling you so. Arrogant bastards. Begging your pardon.”
Madame Orly, usually so vivacious and talkative, was rather quiet as they returned to town. Fanny did not tease her about the captain, but said a few calm words in his praise, which appeared to gratify her. “He bears his captivity so lightly, so well, compared to the others,” she ventured.
“Naturally!” said Madame Orly. “He is of a very distinguished family, or was, before the Revolution turned the world upside down.”
“Do you suppose he prefers Napoleon, or the old royal family?”
Madame Orly shrugged. “He is a soldier. He is loyal to the army.”
“But when the war is over, he could resign, could he not? Surely his first loyalty need only be to himself, after all that has transpired.”
Madame smiled, and patted Fanny’s arm. “I think so.”
* * * * * * *
The day chosen for her next excursion with Madame Orly was sunny but not too hot, and at Fanny’s urging, the ladies walked to the prison, instead of riding in the carriage. Madame Orly was much preoccupied with the news from the continent. Everyone was in confident expectation that the war with France would soon be successfully concluded, which of course would mean the French prisoners of war would be sent home.
When Fanny and Madame Orly reached the prison, they were much astonished to find the gate closed firmly against them. The little Frenchwoman reached up and grabbed the bell pull hanging outside the gate and tugged on it with vigour. At length, a little shutter opened, and the turnkey’s face appeared at a small grated window. He looked down at Fanny and her companion.
“Go away ladies. There ain’t going to be no more markets.”
“What? What is the matter?” exclaimed Madame Orly.
“Has illness broken out within the prison?” enquired Fanny anxiously.
“Naw, naw, no more than usual, that is. Naw, it’s that do-gooding flat-headed bastard—oh, begging your pardon, that gentleman by the name of Mr. Birtle, wot is with the Society for the— I can’t quite think on the name of it.”
“The Society for the Suppression of Vice?” asked Fanny, for the members of the Society were frequent guests at Mrs. Butters’ house and she had met Mr. Birtle, the secretary of the Bristol chapter.
“Aye, that’s the one. So this Mr. Birtle came here last week, and bought himself some merchandise of a particular kind, shall we say, and straightaway takes them to the Lord Mayor, and says how the prisoners is making filthy objects that is polluting the morals of the young folks hereabouts.”
“Oh, phagh!” Madame Orly said. “The foolish old
