“The question, Mademoiselle, is whether you are serious about managing what happens to you on the stage. And dare I say, off stage as well? I have seen you wandering with the tale of your struggles to maintain your sense of self and sanity written on your face as your feet take you where the role does.”
Marie crossed her arms against the shiver his words brought. That was what had happened before she saw him the first time. “Keep talking.” As she listened, she tried to pay careful attention to his voice so she could figure out why it sounded so familiar. She also tried to trace his accent—American, but from which part?
How does he know so much? Yes, he’s observant, but we actors are an eccentric lot.
“Great talent comes with a price. I can help you minimize the cost, but I require compensation.”
“Trust an American to put it in terms of money.” Marie couldn’t help the twist at the corner of her mouth—now he reminded her of Cobb. “But I prefer that to you attempting to control what I do and who I see.”
Another chuckle. “That is your soul’s price, not mine. How are you to learn to control the role erupting from inside you if you allow other impulses to drive you? No, Mademoiselle, discipline in all things first.”
Merde, he’s right. If I indulge my desires, how can I possibly contain this talent, which is its own urge? No, I must practice discipline, as he said.
She sighed her frustration and allowed her arms and shoulders to relax. “Fine. Where do we start?”
“There is an alkaloid in the smoke I use that helps control the part of the brain from whence these impulses arise. First we use that so your mind knows what it feels like to drive your talent.”
“But it also loosens my tongue and brings up vivid memories I would rather not relive.”
“And that, Mademoiselle, is my price. Shall we begin today’s treatment?”
Marie opened her mouth, but she couldn’t agree right away. Yes, she wanted to control her acting talent to keep the roles from overtaking her and eating away at her soul, but she didn’t want to reveal too much of the past, and she disliked not being the one to drive her words.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why help me? What do you want?”
“Because I know you are the greatest actress of this era, and I want this theatre to thrive. Otherwise, this poor old spirit will be without a home.”
She didn’t believe him, but he had made one slip with his comment about her mother. If she cooperated, he would make others, and she could find out who he was and what he truly wanted. Then she could finally make up to her mother her mistakes of two years previously and not have to bring up old wounds to do so. She didn’t know exactly how she would accomplish that, but she knew it was all connected somehow. She would only need to cooperate to a point to get the information she needed.
I’m thinking like a spy.
She sniffed and caught the smell of the smoke, but without Cobb’s tobacco in it. She strolled to the fainting couch and reclined on it, making sure her head and neck were in a comfortable position.
“Now tell me about Inspector Davidson.”
* * * * *
Hotel Auberge, 17 May 1868
Marie alighted from the carriage, still shaken from her encounter with the man who had pulled a knife on her.
Focus on getting your traveling papers back. Obtaining them had cost her most of the francs she’d managed to squirrel away and hide from her mother’s ever watchful gaze, not to mention the trouble of managing the meetings and appointments with government officials to receive them. She wondered again how they’d ended up on top of the dressing table and not in the secret drawer. Sometimes her talent made her do things she didn’t remember, which was one more reason she needed to get away from this place and figure out who she really was. Then maybe she could balance everything and keep from losing her mind.
She walked into the hotel lobby and noted immediately the difference between it and that of the theatre. Whereas the theatre was red-carpeted and dark wood-paneled, the hotel lobby was like being inside a golden egg. A crystal chandelier shimmered above gray-streaked marble floors. All the wood was light, and the accents brass. The people there, mostly foreigners, generally ignored her. Marie straightened her shoulders and allowed herself to take the first deep breath since leaving the theatre.
“Mademoiselle St. Jean?”
Marie’s breath ended in a hitch as she turned to see who had spoken her name. The man didn’t look like a servant, and although his accent was good, she picked up that he was not a Parisian.
“Oui?”
“A word before your meeting?” he asked in English, and she picked up he was himself British.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I’m already late.”
“I will only take a moment of your time, and it is an urgent matter.”
“You and everyone else.” But she followed him to the restaurant, where he led her to a table in the corner.
He held up two fingers to the waiter.
“I don’t feel I should have alcohol this evening, Monsieur.”
“Not to worry. They know me here. I’ve ordered us some tea. You’ll need the extra alertness when dealing with Cobb.”
Marie raised her eyebrows. “How do you know?” It then occurred to her she shouldn’t have confirmed her errand.
He shrugged and waited to answer until after the waiter brought the tea service with scones. Marie’s stomach growled—she hadn’t eaten since that afternoon.
“Please.” He gestured to the pastries. “I’ve had dinner and am not hungry, so help yourself.”
She buttered a scone. “While I appreciate this hospitality, Monsieur, I must ask you to state your business. I cannot afford to miss this appointment.”
“I don’t want to alarm you, Mademoiselle, but I do feel it necessary to warn you that with Parnaby Cobb, things are not what they seem.”
Now she gave him a look she’d often seen on her mother’s face. “Don’t take me for a fool. I had already gathered that for myself.”
“Then you know you are being drawn into a dangerous game.”
“Yes, that has been made quite clear.” Although I do prefer tea and scones to a knife at my throat. “What, specifically, do you want me to look out for?”
“I appreciate your directness, but I don’t want to put you in additional danger by revealing why I am interested in Cobb and his affairs. Just trust your instincts and make note of anything that seems unusual.”
Marie finished her scone and stood. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. I won’t give you my name, but if you are in any sort of danger, I can be reached at the Hotel LaVue down the street. Ask for the Englishman. They’ll know who to look for.”
Marie nodded and walked out of the restaurant. Now she had two men interested in using her to get at Cobb. What had the man done to deserve such attention?
That matters not. I just need to get my papers and not worry about the rest of it. I’m not interested in these games, even if Marguerite the Spy would be.
But as she crossed the lobby, she felt the role coming over her again and smiled with the confidence of a femme fatale.
* * * * *
Marie awoke on the chaise lounge but waited before opening her eyes. She listened to determine whether anyone was in there with her, but her ears picked up only the scrabbling of something behind the mirror.
Wait, something behind the mirror?
Marie moved as quietly as she could, but whatever it was heard her and skittered off. Had it been any day but Sunday with the theatre being as quiet as it was, she wouldn’t have noticed it among the various other sounds, but the quality of the noise confirmed her certainty there must be a space back there large enough to lead from a secret passage.
But which one?
If she could fi
gure that out, she could possibly entrap her spirit and find out what he really wanted and why he insisted on digging up uncomfortable memories.
And then I wouldn’t have to involve Maman.
She turned from the mirror to see the script lying on the desk. She’d memorized the first few scenes but knew she had a lot more lines to learn. Doing that was more difficult this time around too.
I’m out of practice.
She shoved aside the thought that there could be a price to not using her strange talent equal to the trouble of allowing it to take over. Previously, the lines sprang to mind when she needed them with a minimum of prior effort on her part. Now they slipped away almost as soon as she memorized them, or thought she did.
With a sigh, she placed the newspaper clippings in a drawer and turned up the lamp. She’d just gotten settled on the chaise when a knock on the door interrupted her.
“Entrée,” she called.
The door opened to reveal Frederic. He carried his violin case, and he glanced around the room. His shoulders dipped before he assumed his typical assertive stance.
“You are alone?” he asked.
As far as I know… Marie gestured to the empty room. “I don’t see anyone here, do you?”
“Monsieur Bledsoe—” Frederic shook his head, and the little she could see of his neck below his ears turned pink. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to impugn your reputation.”
Marie wanted to box his ears but kept her hands balled in her lap. “You implied enough. And if you were truly concerned for my reputation, you wouldn’t stand here in my dressing room without a chaperon. And what are you doing here? Maman gives everyone Sundays off.”
Marie thought she heard the low rumble of laughter. Frederic seemed not to notice.
“Mademoiselle, please believe me, I only have your best interests at heart.” The desperate edge to his tone kept her from making the sharp retort that wanted to fly from her tongue.
“Then what do you want? You shouldn’t be here.”
“But I had to catch you alone, and I remembered from before how you like to be alone in the theatre when you are learning your parts.”
Marie allowed a sigh to escape her in a huff. Again, she felt pulled in two different directions—away from her past and toward a true career on the stage.
“Please believe me,” Frederic continued, his eyes wide and desperate. “There is something you must know.”
She lowered her voice. “I don’t know if I’m truly alone.”
Now he looked at her like he wasn’t sure she had full command of her sanity. “What do you mean? You just said…”
“The walls have ears. Come, let’s go outside.”
This is insane, going into the alley with him, but he seems serious.
Once outside, she drew her cloak around her and looked at Frederic. “What did you need to tell me?”
“It’s about Maestro Bledsoe.”
Marie held up a hand. “I know you dislike him because of his apparent interest in me, but I can assure you, there is no understanding or arrangement between us.”
Especially not after last night and what he implied.
“Non, Mademoiselle, if he were merely a rival for your affections, I would not feel the need to warn you thus.”
Remembering Bledsoe’s comment and now faced with Frederic’s statement made her snap, “Oh? Are my affections worth so little that they can be handed back and forth like a mere trifle?”
Frederic rubbed his temple with the hand that wasn’t carrying his violin. “That wasn’t what I meant. If I were only competing for your heart, I would have no trouble with him.”
“That’s not much better.” Marie crossed her arms and rubbed them. It really was beastly cold outside, and of course the alley concentrated the wind. She only hoped the uncomfortable conditions kept others from listening to them, and she glanced up to where a gap in the snow on the roof showed nothing watched from there. She almost wished something would dump some snow on Frederic to cool his ardor.
“Please listen. Your beauty has me so flustered, I’m not speaking with my customary eloquence.”
Marie decided not to interrupt him again, not because of his attempt at charm, but so she could return to the relative warmth of inside. She nodded for him to continue.
“Maestro Bledsoe puts all of us in danger. He has gotten mixed up in a most dangerous situation. He owes money to some ruthless men, and they will stop at nothing to see him pay or punished.”
“Is that all?” The words escaped Marie. I can’t let on that I know Bledsoe’s secret. But how does Frederic know?
“All?” He gripped her arm and put his face so close to hers she had to try not to breathe in the steam he exhaled. “Do you not understand—he doesn’t care for the rest of you, not your mother or Professor Bailey or Mademoiselle McTavish or the dark doctor or his friend. He is only concerned with himself. With movement at the front, there is no telling what will happen once regular commerce resumes.”
“My mother has the situation well under control.”
“Or does she? Please heed my warning, Mademoiselle. Your mother needs to make him leave once the siege lifts and regular transportation resumes, for as long as he is here in the city, you are in danger. We are in danger. I should not even be telling you this.”
Frederic looked over his shoulder, but Marie didn’t see anything.
“I will see you tomorrow. Please, just keep your distance from him. And if anyone asks, you did not hear about his disgrace from me.”
“Very well, I didn’t.”
Which is the truth since I already knew.
He pecked her on the cheek before she could duck and stalked off too quickly for it to be a regular walk but not fast enough for it to be an undignified run. Marie watched him go, and she couldn’t help but frown.
What did he mean? And how does he know the maestro’s secret?
Chapter Eighteen
Louvre, 4 December 1870
Iris left early to go to the museum in spite of a dull ache at the base of her skull and feeling like she’d drunk too much wine the night before. Which she hadn’t, but she recognized she stretched her talents to their limits. If the Louvre was as deserted as it had been on Saturday, it should be truly empty on Sunday, and hopefully she would be able to concentrate enough to finish sorting the potsherds. When she arrived at the Classics storage gallery, she found Firmin waiting for her, and he wasn’t alone.
“I believe you remember Inspector Davidson,” he said. “He was here last summer after Anctil—”
“Mademoiselle.” The inspector tipped his hat with one hand. He held a briefcase in the other.
Firmin cleared his throat and glanced sideways at the inspector. “Have you been involved somehow in another tragedy?”
Bollocks, not now. Not when I need him to think of me as a competent student, not a troublemaker.
“I have not,” Iris said and turned to face Davidson. “What is the nature of your visit, Inspector?”
“I have a few questions for you about the murder two days ago in front of the Théâtre Bohème.”
Firmin raised both his eyebrows. “I thought so.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Iris replied as sweetly as she could around the tension in her jaw from trying not to clench her teeth.
“May we borrow an office?” Davidson asked Firmin. “It’s beastly cold in here.”
As previously, something about the way Davidson spoke made Iris wonder if he might be English, not French, even beyond his very Anglo last name.
“Well, we are trying to conserve coal like everyone else. Surely the Prussians will be driven off by this weather.”
“According to the report from the emperor’s high command, their supply lines have been harried by your countrymen outside Paris, so they are
getting restless. He expects something to happen soon, so be ready.”
“So it will either be riots over coal and food or an invasion,” Iris said. Both men looked at her like they were surprised she entered the conversation.
Davidson spoke first. “Yes, Mademoiselle. You should be careful not to be out after dark and to not walk unescorted.”
Piqued that he hadn’t considered her statement, Iris walked ahead of them.
They arrived at Monsieur Firmin’s office, and he unlocked it. “I arrived early due to a bit of insomnia and had a fire going earlier. It should still be warm, at least more so than the galleries.”
The sight of the old manuscript on Firmin’s desk made Iris’s fingers itch to touch it, but she contained her excitement.
“I have some business to attend to in the Renaissance wing,” Firmin told them. “If I have not returned by the time you finish, just close the door behind you.”
Iris almost protested that it wasn’t proper to leave her, a young woman, alone with a young man like Inspector Davidson, but if Firmin left, she would have the opportunity to touch-read the manuscript, so she just nodded.
Davidson poked at the smoldering coals. “This is certainly more comfortable than that gallery. How do you work in there all day? By the way, do you mind if we switch to English? As much as I speak French, I find it exhausting before I’ve had my morning tea, and I wanted to catch you before you started your work.”
“That’s fine. How did you know I would be here?”
“I had one of my men follow you yesterday.”
Heat bloomed in Iris’s cheeks. She hadn’t noticed someone following her, but then, she’d also been caught up in her own thoughts.
I really do need to pay more attention.
“That’s why I warned you to be careful,” he added. “I know you’re an intelligent and capable young woman, but scholars tend to be more aware of their internal world than what’s going on around them.”
Like Edward. Think of Edward, not how much I enjoy how Inspector Davidson speaks to me like an equal, at least when he’s not with Firmin.
He smiled and removed his hat. Without the stern expression, he was actually somewhat good-looking in a wholesome English way.
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