For what seemed an eternity to Hachette, Max said nothing. Then his lips curled into a slow, lazy smile. He stood up. "Do you want me to explain things to Louvois? Or shall you do it?"
Hachette cleared his throat. "No . . . you do it." He got to his feet, surprised he was able to support himself on legs that felt like jelled consomme, Hachette stopped Max when he was halfway out the door by softly calling out his name.
Max turned, and from the look of pain on his darkly handsome face Hachette thought that the younger man must know already what he was going to say. He said it anyway.
"You said the other night that this would be the last mission you would do for us . . ."
"It is," Max said. "And I'm sorry, Abel. Truly sorry." Then the sadness abruptly vanished from his eyes and the smile he gave Hachette was full of a strange, lilting happiness that almost had Hachette smiling with him. "It's time I grew up and quit playing at dangerous games, Abel. I've got responsibilities now. I got married yesterday."
Hachette felt the color drain from his face. "How . . . how wonderful for you. And your wife ... is she this mysterious girl with hair the color of a sunset?"
Max's face softened, and something glinted silver in his eyes. "Gabrielle," he said. "Her name is Gabrielle." And then the door shut behind him and he was gone.
Abel Hachette sat behind his desk in the library of his magnificent townhouse on the Rue Royal. Outside the rain had stopped and the afternoon grew warm. His servants, thinking he was working and knowing how he hated to be disturbed, left him alone. But he wasn't working, he was thinking. When the brass clock on the mantel struck six, he picked up paper and pen and began to write.
Although his fingers trembled so badly at the beginning that he had to rip the paper up twice and start afresh, by the time he finished his hand was as steady as the blade of the executioner's ax. As steady as his conviction that he had done the right thing.
For the cabal. And for France.
Chapter 13
"When I get married I'm going to wear a white dress trimmed with the sheerest Lyons lace," Agnes said to Gabrielle, who leaned over the fire to stir the negus— a spiced mixture of water, wine, and lemon juice—which warmed on a trivet by the flames.
"Uh-huh," Gabrielle answered, not really listening. A fat pullet roasted over the fire, hissing and dripping grease onto the coals, and she was debating whether to take it off the spit before it overcooked. Max had disappeared hours ago, to God alone knew where; if he didn't return soon he was going to be late for supper. The first supper she had prepared for him on this, their second day of marriage.
"—with a wreath of orange blossoms in my hair," Agnes was saying. "And I'm going to be a virgin."
Gabrielle did look up then. For a change, Agnes's wispy hair was hidden beneath a mobcap, and Gabrielle had to admit the girl's head did resemble a fat brioche. "A virgin!" she scoffed. "Even a man besotted with love would never be such a lackwit as to swallow that fishmonger's tale."
Agnes's eyes crinkled at the corners with her knowing smile. "Oh, there are ways. A certain poultice of vinegar and—" She stopped in mid-word, emitting a whistlelike shriek as a flurry of flapping wings thundered from the bedroom. The shadow of a giant flying creature streaked across the wall and she shrieked again, stiffening in her chair as if getting ready to bolt for the door.
"Jesu, Gabrielle, there's a bat in here!"
"That's only Socrates," Gabrielle said. She took the negus off the trivet and began to pour it into the waiting cups. "He was out getting dinner. He likes the pigeons that roost on the roofs of the Hotel de Ville."
Agnes cast nervous eyes into the bedroom where the flapping sound had died to a quiet rustle. "Socrates? You name your bats?"
Gabrieile laughed. "It's Max's owl."
"Owl? Gabrielle, I hope you will not be insulted, but I must tell you I think Monsieur Max is a little—"
"—mad," Gabrieile said. A secret smile transformed her face. "I know. It must be one of the reasons why I love him so much."
Agnes shrugged. "Chacune a son gout." Her stomach growled and she looked longingly at the pullet. "By the belly of Saint James, I'm starved. If you're waiting for Monsieur Max, I don't think he's coming. I just saw him, on my way back from the baker. I went to the one over by the Cafe" Monoury this time—"
"But that's clear over in the Place de l'Ecole."
"So? It was worth the walk. I refuse to patronize old Rosier© another day, not with that witch he's married to working behind the counter. She always tries to palm off the burned loaves on us, have you noticed? Anyway, I happened to look through the windows of the Cafe1 Monoury and there he was, Monsieur Max I mean, not old Rosiere. He'll be hours yet getting home. When a man gets to drinking with his cronies-even one who's a little mad—he loses all track of time, and his stomach. And while we're speaking of stomachs . . ."
Gabrielle laughed. "Really, Agnes, how can you possibly be hungry? After eating all that gingerbread barely ten minutes ago."
"Dominique ate most of it. It was a strange man, this friend of Monsieur Max's," Agnes went on without pausing for breath. "Dressed rather plainly, but he has money enough because he was wearing spectacles. He had the strangest eyes, big and round and smooth like pebbles, and a nasty scar on one ch— Gabrielle! Mort de ma vie, what's the matter? Do you have a pain?"
Gabrielle was half bent over, one hand clinging to the back of a chair, the other pressed against her stomach. Her eyes went immediately to Dominique, sitting on the floor beneath Max's telescope, as if to reassure herself he was still there. He was playing happily by himself with his new toy—thin, painted pieces of wood cut into odd shapes that made a picture when put together. Max had called it un puzzle, and he had given it to Dominique that morning.
Max. Her husband, her lover, her joy . . .
Her betrayer.
No! She couldn't believe that, not of Max. Not the man who had taught her the sweet ecstasy of love, who had said the words, those precious words, though surely they had not come easily to him. The man who had married her. My husband, she thought. . . And she felt a sick despair that almost made her gag. My husband, a man who brazenly admitted to being a thief and a liar. A man who had said to her once, I will do anything for money.
Agnes had started for the door, but Gabrielle seized her arm, holding her back. "Wait!" she hissed beneath her breath, not wanting to alarm her son.
Agnes struggled to pull free. "Oh, mon Dieu, Gabrielle, you're ill. I'm going to run over to the shop and get Monsieur Simon."
"No! There's not—" She drew in a tight, deep breath. "Agnes, you must do what I say without an argument."
"But—"
"Please."
Agnes gulped and nodded.
"You must take Dominique and leave here at once, but nonchalantly, as if nothing has happened."
"Oh, Gabrielle . . . what has happened?"
"Later. I haven't time to explain. You'll take Dominique to ... to the Port Royale," she decided, naming one of the city's southern gates. "And tell no one. Not even Simon."
Tears ran down Agnes's face in two shining streams, but her head bobbed convulsively in compliance.
Gabrielle gave her a swift, hard hug, then kissed her wet cheek. "Wait for me at the gate, but if I'm not there by nightfall—" She stopped. She would be there. She would risk a lot for love, but she wouldn't risk losing her son. She squeezed Agnes's shoulders. "There's bound to be a cafe-near the gate. Buy Dominique some chocolate while you wait for me. Agnes . . . you're the only one I can trust."
Agnes bit her lip to stifle a sob and produced a watery smile. "Of course you can trust me. Wasn't it me who saved your miserable life in the first place?"
Gabrielle tried to smile back, but she couldn't. She doubted she would ever be able to smile again.
❧
Twenty minutes before, in the Cafe Monoury, a liveried servant had entered through the elegant, etched-glass double doors, inquiring after the lawyer Louvois. The waiter poi
nted him out willingly, for Louvois was a regular customer at the cafe, never failing to eat his supper there—a black pudding followed by a plate of sausages, followed by a beetroot salad, and accompanied by two glasses of Beaune wine—whenever he was in Paris. The waiter allowed this disturbance of his customer's meal, for the lawyer Louvois was often interrupted by minions coming and going with messages; it was understood he was a busy and important man.
The waiter, keeping a discreet eye on his customer, had watched the servant deliver his message and leave. Whatever it was, it must have been startling news, for the lawyer had almost leaped right out of his chair after reading it. Then he had tucked it into his waistcoat pocket and, shoving the half-eaten salad aside, had gulped down the last of his wine in two swallows (a sacrilege, the waiter had thought with a sniff, but understandable in a peasant). Louvois had tossed five livres on the table (two too many) to cover the bill, and the waiter, trained to anticipate a patron's desires, had already started forward to help the lawyer out of his chair when a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped between them. Louvois hissed something beneath his breath and then slowly sat back down, and the waiter discreetly retired.
Louvois's eyes had blinked with confusion as he looked up into a darkly handsome face with sooty gray eyes and a mocking smile. The face looked familiar, but he couldn't remember . . . and then he did. It was the face of the dim-witted gypsy he had last seen driving a tumbrel filled with smuggled salt.
He stood half out of his chair and his protruding eyes bulged with sudden anger. "Are you mad? What are you doing approaching me here?"
"A minute or two of your time, if I may, monsieur. To discuss a matter that concerns us both."
Louvois sank slowly into his chair, for the man had spoken with the drawling, dulcet accents of the courtier, and the granite-gray eyes that bored into him now were not those of a fool. "What matter?" he asked warily.
"Why, smuggling of course."
"Ah," Louvois said on an expulsion of breath. He thought he ought to be frightened, but the letter . . . the letter made all other things, even this, seem unimportant. He thought he could actually feel it smoldering inside the pocket of his waistcoat, like the slow match of an old-fashioned pistol.
Behind him a waiter leaned over to light the candles in the brass sconces that lined the wall, throwing light on the other man's face and making it seem less harsh. The discordant drone of other conversations passed over their heads, sounding like an orchestra tuning up before the performance. The remains of his half-eaten meal lay scattered on the table between them, and the smell of the vinegared dressing on the salad made Louvois suddenly nauseous.
Louvois always ate supper here, at the Cafe Monoury. Not only was it near his apartment, but he liked the ambiance of the black and white tiled floor reflected over and over in the mirrored walls. He always sat at the same table, in the corner by the circular blue and white porcelain stove. His predictability, he thought, his mind whirling in disjointed circles, had made it easy for the servant bearing the letter to find him. And easy for this man, who spoke of smuggling, and who knew . . . who had to know everything.
"You've cost your master the duc—not to mention your sovereign king—a lot of money these last few months," the stranger was saying. "I don't expect either one will be too gentle or forgiving." He was twisting the empty wineglass around and around in his long, slender fingers. As the sense of what the man was saying penetrated Louvois's befuddled brain, he felt as if the words were twisting his guts.
Louvois looked longingly toward the door, but his chair was backed up against the wall. He couldn't leave now until the stranger let him. "Have you been sent to arrest me?"
"Sent by whom, the duc?" The stranger smiled and Louvois couldn't repress a shudder. "No, no, I fear you misunderstand, monsieur. We don't want the smuggling stopped. We like the idea of someone stealing from our poor king's already bankrupted treasury. It further weakens an already weak and corrupt government."
And who is "we"? Louvois wondered. The gypsies? Surely not. "You are revolutionaries?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
The stranger smiled again. "I have a business proposition to put to you, monsieur. One that will allow the smuggling to go on, with only . . . minor adjustments."
Louvois began to breathe easier. Blackmail, of course. Well, he could handle that. He Would let the fellow spew his empty threats, and then he would fob him off with a purse full of louis and a threat or two of his own. No matter his own republican sympathies, Louvois certainly wouldn't allow a band of fanatical rebels to horn in on a profitable smuggling operation.
His mind wandered back to the letter. He wanted to take it out and study the words again, although they had been seared onto his brain with only one reading. The woman you seek has been seen entering and leaving an apartment above the Cafe de Foy in the Palais Royal. Nothing else, no signature, not even an initial. But he had no doubt of the message's origin.
The woman you seek . . . The Palais Royal.
Gabrielle, he thought. Gabrielle. I have you at last.
❧
Her breath burning raw in her throat, Gabrielle peered through the tall arched window of the Cafe" Monoury. At first she saw only the reflection of her own tortured face. Then slowly her eyes focused on the interior of the brightly lit room.
The tables were packed with patrons, a few having supper but most enjoying a game of chess or arguing politics while lingering over a carafe of wine. Even the tiled bench that circled the cafe's porcelain stove was jammed with the cotton-covered posteriors of a group of students who were having some sort of drinking contest.
And there, at a table pushed against the far wall, was a small, black-garbed man wearing spectacles. He was nodding his head, and one slender, pale hand drifted up to touch the puckered scar on his cheek.
Louvois.
The muscles in Gabrielle's legs began to twitch like those of a rabbit that has just gotten scent of the fox. Every nerve screamed at her to run, but her heart held her fast. A waiter stood before the table, a tray of brandy snifters balanced on the outstretched fingers of one hand, and the waiter's fat back blocked Gabrielle's view of the other man who sat across from Louvois. She had to know . . .
And then she did, for the waiter stepped back and turned aside, and Gabrielle saw who the other man was.
Perhaps he sensed her eyes on him, for he lifted his head sharply around, the way a stag, feeding in a glen, will suddenly glance up at the snap of a twig. For an eternity she stared at the profile of his beloved face, the high cheekbone, the haughty nose, the hard lips that had not been hard at all but soft and tender beneath her kisses. She swayed forward, making a throaty, moaning sound like a woman in the throes of passion, and her hand came up as if beseeching mercy, or forgiveness.
He turned his head around again and said something to Louvois, and though she couldn't see his face, she knew he smiled. Her hand fell to her side and she started to stumble away, and then, like Lot's wife, she turned back again for one last look at the destruction of her world.
She saw Louvois smile and shrug and reach into his coat pocket. He brought out a heavy purse—she knew it was heavy for he hefted it in his hand, showing off its weight. He held it out, balanced on his palm, across the table the way a servant would present a missive on a gilt tray.
And Max—her lover, her husband, her joy—stretched his hand across the table and took it.
"No." She stumbled backward, shaking her head wildly. "No."
Darkness, thick and black, fell like a blanket over her eyes, blinding her. She whirled around, slamming into a lamppost, and fell to her knees. Wrenching spasms racked her stomach and she doubled over, vomiting into the street.
A pair of carriage wheels clicked dizzily past her face, splattering mud into her eyes, but she didn't notice. There was a strange moaning sound in her ears, like the distant wail of a thousand mourners, and through the moans she heard voices speaking above her head, and someone leaned over an
d touched her arm.
"She's drunk."
"No, she's ill. Help her."
It was her instinct for survival—as much a part of her as her golden-red hair and violet eyes—that propelled Gabrielle to her feet. She pulled away from the solicitous hands that helped her and took several tottering, blind steps, swaying out into the street. An enormous gray dog snarled and snapped at her, straining at a leash held by a man in silver and blue livery.
The man knocked her roughly aside. "Out of the way, you fool. Do you want to get run over? Make way for Monsieur le Comte."
An emblazoned barouche, its path cleared by the runners and dogs, careened around the corner, clattering over the cobblestones at breakneck speed. The whirling spokes of its high-set wheels missed clipping Gabrielle by inches. Reflextively she jerked aside, and in that moment the darkness around her eyes receded and the moaning wail in her ears died, and only then did she fully understand what Max had done to her. And why.
She ran, weaving blindly through the streets, driven by panic and heartbreak, until her heaving lungs and trembling legs could carry her no further. She stopped in the middle of the Pont Neuf and, leaning over the balustrade, looked down on the oily flat surface of the river while tears streamed down her face to fall into the water below.
Max, Max, Max. His name was a dirge in her heart. She loved him, loved him, loved him. And he ... he had said he loved her, he had made love to her body, he had married her and then he had destroyed it all for a few dirty coins. He had sold her. And Dominique, her son, who had already come to love and trust his new papa . . .
"Max!" she screamed, her voice echoing over the river. "How could you do this to us!"
People stopped to stare; she didn't see them. She saw only the dark depths of the water so far below, the beckoning, peaceful water where there was no love and no betrayal and no pain, and she almost jumped.
But she had the blood of Sebastien de Servien in her veins, and the house of Servien always survived. Galley masters, dunning shopkeepers, even lovers who betrayed—all those and more could be endured. Only death defeated a Servien, and Gabrielle was not ready to die.
Hearts Beguiled Page 24
