Vive la Revolution - or not as the case may be!

 

His hand firmly clasped to his bright yellow hat and his grey curly locks blowing in the gale-force winds, the Storyteller clung, with his other hand of course, to the side of the boat which was hurtling across the heavy seas to France.

Only two days' ago he had been sitting in front of his roaring fire, sipping a rather special port and humming to himself when an ominous knocking made him jump at least two feet in the air.

He wobbled his way (oh no, just that one too many ports again!) to the door and opened it.  There, in front of him was a bedraggled and beret'ed figure smelling strongly of onions.  In fact, just by the garden gate the Storyteller could make out a barrow-full of the things (he supposed the apparition would have been riding a bicycle if they had been invented.......).

"Aha!" breathed the figure odorously. "Monsieur le Raconteur, we 'ave beeg nid ov u!"

The Storyteller had to think very carefully and cautiously to understand this statement but, once he had it straight in his head - took quite a long time I can tell you - he invited the stranger in.

With a French Dictionary to hand the Storyteller was able to understand the tale of woe the stranger had to tell.

The family he worked for, le Duc de Panquaque and his duchess were being held in la Bastille (the notorious prison the French Revolutionaries used to keep the aristocrats neatly stashed away before chopping off their heads).  They were due to meet Madame la Guillotine in exactly seven days and desperately needed the Storyteller's help.  They had been told about him by one  Viscount David James  (now why does that name seem familiar?) who was languishing in the next-door cell having been accused of being the Scarlet Pimpernel (it's ok - he was released the very next day as they captured the real Scarlet Pimpernel just as he was about to rescue someone else very important - can't quite remember who right now - oh and he escaped la Bastille as well but that's another story.  Makes you wonder how they ever managed to keep anyone in there really doesn't it?).

ANYWAY, the Storyteller quickly packed his bags and accompanied the de Panquaque's servant down to the coast and they boarded the next boat to France.

After and long and bumpy ride on the back of an old grey mare (the onion man was on  the front of the old grey mare if you are wondering), the Storyteller arrived in Paris just the day before the executions were to take place.

He spent the day making his preparations (involved a selection of vegetables, a large iron pot and a chicken stock cube - hmmmm - oops, sorry that may have been preparations for his tea .........on the other hand...........).

The next day dawned rather cold but clammy. 

Madame la Guillotine waited impatiently for her next meal.   The executioner was tapping his feet impatiently but was somewhat disconcerted by a small figure in a long red coat and bright yellow hat who was sitting amongst les tricoteuses (old women who would sit and knit whilst waiting for the fun to start), peeling carrots and shelling peas.

The rumble of the cart coming from La Bastille to la place de la Concorde (home to Mme la Guillotine) could be heard quite five minutes before being seen.  The tricoteuses knitted more furiously than ever and the Storyteller crumbled his chicken stock cube into the iron pot.

The cart appeared along la rue de Rivoli and the de Panquaques could be seen, looking rather milky and pale, huddled in the back.

As it drew to a stop at the foot of Mme la Guillotine, the executioner hopped, skipped and jumped (well, he did love his job you know) down the steps to greet the de Panquaques, who rather sloppily slid out of the cart.

He led them gently up onto the platform and was busy laying le Duc de Panquaques head "just so" on the head rest (?) when a shout went up from the crowd.

The little figure in his long red coat and yellow hat, his monocle slipping off the end of his bobbly nose, was climbing the steps holding the biggest carrot you have ever seen, calling out:

"Hang on a minute will you, won't take a second and it would really help me out....."

He huffed and puffed his way to the platform. 

He grabbed le Duc and pulled him away from Madame la Guillotine; he waved the carrot around his head furiously shouting:

"I just need to...... it's just too big you see....if you could just wait a minute whilst I....."

And with that he threw the de Panquaques back into the cart from whence they had come with one hand, whilst he put his carrot on the headrest with the other and shouted loudly at the executioner, who jumped five foot in the air in surprise, let go of the rope and, voila, a neatly chopped carrot.

In the meantime, the smelly servant had replaced the driver of the cart (don't ask how - not a nice tale at all - suffice to say the driver of the cart would not be driving again due to a problem with his eyesight - well, a problem with one of his eyes which had gone missing to be truthful.  Shall say no more) - and whipped up the horses.  The cart shot up the Champs Elysees with the de Panquaques hanging on for dear life (which they were lucky to still have let's face it) and disappeared over the horizon.

Why did none of the soldiers follow them you may ask?

Well, the Storyteller had gathered up his chopped carrot, had quickly placed his iron pot onto a passing hot-chestnut seller's cart, thrown all his vegetables in so that the resulting delicious aroma had quite put everyone off anything that they were supposed to be doing (including the executioner I might add) and they were all crowding round wanting a bowl-ful of the savoury hotpot thus created.

The de Panquaques made their way over to England just in time for Shrove Tuesday.  The Storyteller, having been invited to start up a Restaurant in the centre of Paris by the executioner who had eaten more than his fair share of the hot-pot, declined gracefully but was feasted and feted all the way back to the coast.

Footnote:  It has been said that Marie-Antoinette, who was the next occupant of the de Panquaques' cell, was heard to mutter:

"Hmm, perhaps instead of saying 'Let them eat cake' I should have said 'Let them eat the Storyteller's Stew' - they might have appreciated that a bit more and I wouldn't be where I am today!"