Den of Thieves

by Julia Golding

  ‘Let’s pray this means peace. No foreign invasion. No war. And freedom for your family, Frank.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Frank hopefully.

  Marie plumped herself down on his knee and ruffled his hair. ‘Pauvre François, I’m afraid not. We Parisians will not want the conspirators free to plot another escape.’

  ‘But they’re not conspirators!’ Frank protested, blushing deeply as she caressed him.

  Marie shrugged. ‘Then they have nothing to fear.’

  Annoyed seeing her take such liberties with my friend, I said rather more waspishly than I intended, ‘For someone who spends most of her time avoiding arrest, you seem to have strange faith in your law officers.’

  Marie cast me a knowing look and cuddled up closer to Frank. ‘But I would be guilty, n’est-ce pas? François says his family is innocent. I believe him.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  I turned my eyes away only to see Johnny looking amused by Frank’s discomfort. I glared at him, trying by the force of my gaze to remind him that it was Lizzie’s little brother that he was laughing at. Johnny winked at me.

  ‘Enough, mademoiselle,’ Johnny said, patting his knee. Annette was already leaning against him on the other side. ‘You have tested that young man’s modesty enough for one evening. Come sit here and behave yourself. We have work to do.’

  From my point of view, the exchange did not improve matters. I now had the distraction of watching the two girls hovering round Johnny like bees to a honey pot. Cudgelling my brains into order, I tried to concentrate on our predicament. Lizzie would not thank me for wasting time fuming over a couple of flirtatious girls. Instead, I told Frank about Pedro’s arrival.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Frank. ‘I’ve been wondering how we can get to see my family again. They’ll obviously not let either of you in – I daren’t show my face – but I had thought that maybe Pedro could take a message for us. No one would suspect him. But how to get him into their cell – that’s the real challenge.’

  The suggestion prompted me to an inspired thought. ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your mother. She’s rediscovering the power of her voice. I bet they wouldn’t be able to resist the offer of a free concert – her and Pedro: an unbeatable bill. It’s almost worth being arrested to hear it.’

  ‘That’s not bad, Catkin,’ commented Johnny, brushing a strand of Marie’s hair off his face. I bit my tongue. I only wished he had his hands more worthily employed.

  Now there’s an idea.

  ‘If Marie’s right about the Parisian people wanting to keep the conspirators locked up,’ I said, ‘we’ve got to do something to make the public feel differently about the Avons.’

  ‘I know, Cat. It’ll be too easy for the authorities to blame it all on foreigners,’ agreed Johnny.

  ‘Well then, what do you think about Captain Sparkler coming out of retirement and beginning a new campaign on behalf of the Duke of Avon: the English peer who had the good taste to marry one of the people; the innocent swept up in the scandal around the king’s flight?’

  Johnny leaned forward quickly, dislodging Marie from his knee. He apologized and helped her on to the seat next to him. I hid a smile.

  ‘You know, that’s a brilliant idea!’ he said eagerly. He turned to his admirers. ‘Mesdemoiselles, do you know a good printer of political cartoons in Paris?’

  Annette giggled. ‘Of course, Monsieur Johnny.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. You’re surrounded by them. They’re at liberty to print whatever they like in the Palais Royal.’

  Johnny kissed her hand. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. I am indebted to you.’

  What about me? It was my idea, I thought grumpily.

  Johnny got to his feet. ‘Let’s go, Cat. No time like the present. I’ll escort you home and get drawing.’

  Giving me only time for the briefest of farewells to Frank, Johnny dragged me off in the direction of the Opera quarter.

  ‘You can’t wait to sharpen your pencils, can you?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed I can’t. It’s been too long since I picked up my drawing things for a cause I believe in.’

  I could see he was already planning the cartoon in his head. In this mood I was forgotten, so I had plenty of time to contemplate my foolish jealousy as I trotted to keep up. Marie and Annette were harmless – I knew that – so why did I feel so envious seeing them treating my friends in their free, affectionate manner? I knew my feelings for Johnny coloured my reaction to anything that concerned him, but Frank? What was that about?

  Then the truth hit me, bringing me to a standstill as I saw myself for what I really was. The last few weeks seemed to have stripped me down to my essentials, revealing some unpleasant truths. I was afraid, mortally afraid, of being usurped. If other girls became special to Johnny and Frank, where did that leave me? Without my friends, as I had discovered since losing Drury Lane, I really had not a thing in my life that meant anything: no family, no home, no roots.

  Johnny noticed I was no longer following and came back to fetch me. ‘Are you all right, Cat?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ I gave him a false smile.

  Johnny wasn’t fooled. ‘No, you’re not. Something’s up. You’re jealous, aren’t you?’

  I coloured. What I felt was nothing as simple as jealousy. He wouldn’t understand how vulnerable I was feeling just at the moment.

  ‘Don’t be silly; I’m not jealous.’

  ‘Of course you are. I saw your face when Marie flirted with Frank. It’s nothing to be ashamed of – I can think of many worse people for you to be sweet on.’

  He thought I was in love with Frank! This was getting too much.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong . . .’

  ‘Aha!’ Johnny tapped the side of his nose. ‘You want to keep it a secret – I understand. But I think I should warn you that even with the Avons being so progressive, I imagine they’ll think twice about letting the next duke marry a . . . a . . .’

  ‘A what?’ I was feeling angry with him – both for his stupid guesses and for his inference that I was not good enough for Frank even if I’d wanted him. ‘A beggar? A base-born street child with no family? Don’t you think I know I’m rubbish without you telling me?’

  I pulled away from him and started to run up the street. I didn’t want to talk to him – or anyone else who had a peerage and a fortune as a cushion to protect them from the life I knew. To hell with the lot of them – dukes, kings, rich men all!

  I heard pounding footsteps and my arm was caught from behind. Johnny swung me round to look at him. He was furious.

  ‘Don’t you ever call yourself rubbish in my hearing, Cat Royal! I will not put up with you spitting on your own reputation like that!’

  ‘So I should just let others do it for me, should I?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, no one’s called you that!’

  ‘No? What about Mr Tweadle, the ballerinas, half of London – and you – you were about to say it in so many words – admit it!’

  ‘I was not.’

  We were beginning to attract a crowd with our raised voices but I didn’t care. Johnny pulled me down a side alley and out of sight.

  ‘So, tell me, what were you going to say then?’ I challenged him.

  ‘I was just going to say that they wouldn’t want him to marry a commoner.’

  ‘That’s it exactly. Common as muck, bred in the gutter – I’ve heard it all before, Johnny. I know what you mean – it’s all right, you don’t need to explain. It’s fine for aristocrats like Frank to play at being poor, even all right for you to pretend to be a man of the people with your simple Mr Johnny Fitzroy routine, but when it comes to someone like me rising above her station, then alarm bells begin to ring.’

  Johnny was lost for words. He didn’t know he’d just walked in on a very private battle I was having with myself as to my own worth. As ever though, my mouth continued to run on long after it should hav
e shut up.

  ‘You aristocratic revolutionaries can only bear so much change, can’t you? It’s just skin deep – literally! If it’s an African or Indian – or, heaven forbid, a woman who wants her equality, then you start to panic.’

  ‘That’s not true, Cat.’ He had gone pale; I had struck a nerve.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not with me.’ He seemed confused that I had leapt from my opinion of myself to politics. ‘What’s all this about, Cat?’

  ‘It’s about you telling me I’m worth something when I know that you and everyone else don’t really think so. I count for nothing – I have no property, no vote, no blue blood. I have nothing because what little I once had has been stolen and twisted to benefit someone else’s pocket. So don’t you go telling me I’m not rubbish! If I say I am, then I am.’

  I had argued myself into the absurd position of defending my right to put myself down. I can’t blame Johnny for being confused.

  ‘Stop it, Cat, stop it!’ he said, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. ‘Why are you saying all these terrible things about yourself?’

  ‘Because they’re true! If you hear it enough about yourself from everyone, then you start to believe them.’

  ‘But you mustn’t.’ Johnny grasped my shoulders, then gathered me into his arms and gave me a hug. ‘You’ve certainly had your confidence knocked out of you by that Tweadle fellow, haven’t you, Catkin?’

  I clung to him, like a castaway holding on to the last bit of flotsam that stood between me and drowning.

  ‘You mustn’t let rogues like that tell you what you’re worth. In fact, you shouldn’t even listen to me or your other friends.’

  ‘Who should I listen to then?’ I felt so lonely – I knew that at any moment he would let me go. I wished I could continue standing in his arms forever.

  ‘In the end, Cat, all of us have to listen to our inner self. The voice that tells you you’re worthless isn’t the real you – it’s from outside. Think – what does Cat really think of herself?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be pleased.’

  ‘No? Try me.’

  ‘I think that I can’t be worth much because my parents abandoned me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m nine parts stupidity to one part wit.’

  ‘That’s not bad – most of the population cannot claim even that much.’

  ‘And I suppose I’m loyal, a good friend and have my moments of bravery,’ I conceded.

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  I pushed him gently away, thinking it better that I broke willingly from his hug while I still could. ‘Sorry, Johnny.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘For shouting at you. It’s just that when I think about the future, I keep panicking. It’s like falling from the top of the stairs in the dark, not knowing where I’ll end up.’

  He put his arm around my shoulders. ‘I understand. Life is precarious for most of us, but more so for you. What you forget is what most of your friends see in you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The ability to beat the odds . . .’

  ‘And fall on my feet?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I just hope that lasts.’

  ‘It will, Catkin, it will. It wouldn’t dare fail you.’

  But for all Johnny’s optimism, my luck had just run out. We arrived at Madame Beaufort’s to find two members of the National Guard at the door. It was too late to make a run for it even if we had known which of us they were after. They leapt to their feet.

  ‘Mademoiselle Royal?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur?’ Johnny’s grip tightened on my arm.

  ‘Will you come with us, please. The mayor would like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘What about?’ I asked, my heart thumping.

  The guard shrugged. ‘No idea, mademoiselle. I am merely doing my job.’

  I looked up at Johnny, my expression asking, what should I do?

  ‘Don’t worry, Cat,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This isn’t an arrest – it’s just to help with their enquiry. They’re bound to release you after the interrogation.’

  ‘What do you think they want with me?’

  ‘I guess it’s about our friends. Be discreet and you’ve nothing to fear.’ He turned to the guard. ‘Monsieur, my companion is only young. May I come with her?’

  The guard raised his eyebrows. ‘And who are you, monsieur?’

  ‘Jonathan Fitzroy – an American citizen.’

  ‘So you are no relation?’

  ‘No, monsieur. A friend.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid not. We will take good care of her. If she is released, you can come and fetch her from the Town Hall later.’

  If!

  ‘Come along, mademoiselle. Quickly now: we mustn’t keep the mayor waiting.’

  For all his encouraging words, Johnny looked alarmed to see me frogmarched off by two tall members of the guard.

  ‘I’ll be fine!’ I called to him, knowing he had enough on his hands worrying about Lizzie. ‘Just tell the concierge where I am.’ And there was no harm letting the king of thieves know I had been taken. Who knew what connections he would have that might prove useful?

  SCENE 3 – THE BISHOP OF THE NOTRE DAME THIEVES

  It was a long walk from the Opera quarter to the Town Hall – a humiliation I had to go through before the eyes of all the people on the streets celebrating Corpus Christi. My escort said nothing to me, leaving me free to hear the suspicious whispers that followed our passage through the crowds. I was relieved when we arrived at our destination: a palatial building level with Notre Dame on the right bank of the Seine.

  ‘Voilà, mademoiselle,’ said my guard. ‘We are here.’

  ‘A moment please.’ I sat down on a stone bench outside and took off my shoe, ostensibly to remove a pebble, but really to see if anyone was watching. I would’ve been surprised if the thieves had not taken action by now. Sure enough, a familiar sharp face was watching us from a doorway across the square. J-F nodded when he saw that I had spotted him. Restoring my shoe after much shaking, I thanked the guard for waiting and let them lead me inside.

  It was reassuring that they had taken me into the public area of the building, an ornate space of polished floors and grand staircases. If I had been in worse trouble, surely I would have been put in a cell? I had enough experience of falling foul of the law to know that they didn’t waste carpet on suspects.

  I followed the guards upstairs, having to run to keep up with their strides. The place was buzzing with activity and few spared us a glance as they went about their business keeping the City of Paris ticking over during the crisis.

  My guard opened the door to an antechamber furnished with white and gilt chairs that stood against the walls like ladies in a ballroom waiting to be asked to dance.

  ‘Remain in here. The mayor will be with you as soon as possible.’

  This was to be expected. Questioning one English girl was doubtless at the bottom of the mayor’s ‘To Do’ list. I remembered Johnny had told me he hadn’t even been able to get an interview with Mayor Bailly. Perhaps I should look on this unwelcome interruption as an opportunity to learn more? The questions he asked me were bound to give a clue as to what connections the authorities thought the Avons had with the whole business of the king’s flight.

  Time passed. It was getting dark outside now and a servant came in to light the candles, giving me a friendly nod as he left. I kicked my heels and hummed the tune we had danced in the kitchen the night before. Still no one came. I took off my shoes and rubbed my tired toes. Perhaps they had forgotten me? Getting bored of sitting on the same chair, I stood up in my stockinged feet and began to go through the steps I had learned, turning and hopping as J-F had taught me.

  A door banged open just as I finished a pirouette. I sprang to attention to find myself under the gaze of five gentlemen. Thinking I might as well make the best of it, I swept them a low curtsey as instructed by Mad
ame Beaufort – hand curved elegantly to my breast.

  ‘Who’s this?’ barked a harassed-looking man standing at the front.

  ‘The English girl. The ballerina, Monsieur le Maire,’ said a young man clutching a sheaf of papers.

  Mayor Bailly directed a thin smile at his companions. ‘I can see the latter part for myself, Donville. Remind me why she’s here.’

  ‘The Duke of Avon, monsieur.’

  Mayor Bailly clicked his fingers. ‘But of course. It’s been a long day. Follow us, mademoiselle.’ He began striding down the corridor.

  Hopping into my shoes, I cursed all men who forgot that short girls do not possess the same long legs as them.

  Bailly marched into his office and threw himself into a chair behind a desk piled high with papers. I took my first good look at the man in charge of Paris, wondering what he would do with me. Johnny had said that Bailly was a distinguished astronomer before the revolution swept him to his current position and I thought that he still had the earnest look of a scholar: high cheekbones, a strong, slightly hooked nose and heavy lidded eyes that had probably spent far more time than was healthy staring through a telescope. Indeed, his gaze did seem as though his thoughts were fixed on something beyond the room rather than on those present. Was he merely thinking of the king coming back under escort from Varennes or the craters on the moon that he had been the first to spot?

  ‘Well, mademoiselle, what can you tell us about the whereabouts of the Duke of Avon’s son?’ he asked, his eyes losing their dreamy look and focusing on me as he dragged himself back to business.

  ‘Me, monsieur?’ I said with wide eyes, wondering how far injured innocence would take me.

  ‘Perhaps it would save us all a lot of time if I told you that we know that you arrived in Paris in the company of this young gentleman on the very night that the king and queen made their escape. A coincidence, perhaps, but I for one do not like coincidences.’

  So he knew rather too much for comfort. I would have to think up a plausible story – and quickly.

  ‘We went our separate ways shortly after arriving, monsieur. I believe the gentleman in question was intending to travel for his education, taking a year away from studies before he went to university. I think he may be heading for Italy.’