That method had drawbacks as well as advantages. Roger lost himself quite thoroughly in the mountains and traveled nearly as far as Vesoul on a miserable rainy day, without even a light spot in the sky to show the sun’s position, before he realized he was going in exactly the wrong direction. All in all, the two days this cost him did not turn out to be a total loss. When he deplored his mistake in going east instead of west, a fellow guest at the inn told him of a road a few kilometers south of Langres that would take him due west as far as Châtillon. There he took the chance of inquiring for Saulieu and found to his relief that he could get there without even entering Dijon.
Up until this time Roger had had no need to use the cover he had devised. The guns and gun parts he had brought with him rested quietly in the boxes in which they had been packed. No one had seemed interested or curious about why he was traveling. Those who recognized him specifically as an Englishman dismissed him as another of the lunatics who seemed to rush all over Europe with no aim beyond the actual traveling. Those who just realized he was a foreigner, without guessing from where, assumed he was intent on getting back to his native land before the war grew more intense and closed the borders. In Saulieu, however, Roger needed a reason to stay, at least until he could discover what had happened to de Conyers.
Having taken up residence in a modest but decent inn frequented by middle- to lower-class artisans, Roger broached his purpose to the group assembled in the main room the evening after his arrival. He liked Saulieu, he stated, and he saw there was no gunsmith in town. Was there a place where he could set up a temporary shop to buy, sell and mend until the town’s needs were satisfied?
He was not really surprised at the surreptitious glances the other men in the room cast at each other. He had guessed that the town administration must be in a turmoil and tyrannical to boot if a member of the National Assembly had been arrested.
The silence in response to Roger’s question was growing noticeable, and he had begun to raise his expressive eyes in simulated surprise when the innkeeper cleared his throat uneasily and agreed that Saulieu was a good place to live. It was so near the mountains, he said, and yet sheltered so that the climate was excellent. There was good fishing and good hunting, now that the forest laws were repealed.
“Ah well,” Roger laughed, “if you go on, you will make me wish to settle here, but I do not seem to be able to stay long in one place, even when there is sufficient business. However, one thing at a time. I must find a place to work if I am to stay at all, for a man like me has little in reserve, only enough for a few days’ food and lodging until I can begin to ply my trade.”
There were uneasy glances again, but one of the men by the bar said, “You should see Maître Foucalt, numéro trois, rue Gambetta. He will know better than we.”
Again eyes met briefly or were lowered. Roger noticed here and there a brief angry frown, but he remained deliberately blind, as if he were too intent on his own business to care about anything else. “And is it necessary for me to get permission from the Hôtel de Ville to set up shop?” he asked, seeming to pursue his purpose single-mindedly.
“Maître Foucalt will know best about that. We are all residents here and would not be affected by such a rule,” was the reply given by one of those who had initially frowned at the naming of Maître Foucalt.
Roger let the subject drop, asking next about whether there would be a good market for guns in the town and listening to the responses with half an ear. He had no way of knowing whether he had been directed to a spy of the town rulers or to a man opposed to them, but he was not much concerned about that. He knew himself to be an acute judge of men and did not doubt that his story would deceive a spy while he would be able to obtain some notion of what to do next.
Accordingly, bright and early he took himself to the address and requested a few moments of Maître Foucalt’s time. He was received promptly, almost with relief, as if a once-busy man now had not quite enough to do. After Roger had stated his problem, there were a few moments of cautious fencing. Then, suddenly, Maître Foucalt asked whether Roger was an Englishman. Roger was a little surprised. In this relatively small town buried in a mountainous region, it was unlikely that the people would have much contact with English travelers. However, Roger allowed that he had been born in England and asked blandly how Maître Foucalt had guessed his origin. The elderly man looked at him for a few seconds in silence.
“It is the way you say certain words,” he replied slowly at last, his eyes fixed intently on Roger’s face. Then his lips tightened, as If he had decided to take a chance on something. “It is the way Monsieur de Conyers spoke.”
The mention of de Conyers’ name was obviously an invitation. If Roger was what he claimed to be, he would show no more interest than a polite remark on the fact that there was another Englishman in the district. On the other hand if he had come to look for de Conyers—and that would not be so farfetched an idea to someone who knew Henry, knew he was the son of a nobleman, and knew that Henry could not have communicated with his family for nearly five month—that was a deliberate opening for questions.
It was an opening that required an instant response. To hesitate was as revealing as to display outright an interest in de Conyers. Roger was almost certain that Maître Foucalt was no agent of the town tyrant. The eager way the young clerk had welcomed “business” implied a recent diminishment Also, even before Roger’s accent was recognized, Foucalt had implied that Saulieu was not a healthy place to set up in business. He had not said anything that could be taken as a criticism of the governing body of the town, but he had suggested subtly that there might be problems for an honest businessman. Still, after ten years of practicing law, Roger was innately cautious.
“Ah,” he said at once, “you have an English resident in the town. Englishmen are often interested in guns. Perhaps I could do a little business even if, as you suggest, this would not be a profitable place to stay.”
That gave Roger his answer. There was such a look of disappointment, of a last hope lost on the suddenly lined and sorrowful face of the advocate, that Roger could no longer doubt him.
“No,” Maître Foucalt sighed, “he is no longer resident. Ah well, I am sorry—”
“Is Henry de Conyers still alive?” Roger asked, interrupting what was obviously going to be a polite farewell.
Maître Foucalt’s face grew sharp. “Henry de Conyers,” he breathed.
Foucalt had not given the first name. Then this man, whoever he was, must have come to look for de Conyers. There was no question that he was a stranger to the town and even to the district. Thus, almost certainly, he was not a henchman of Jean-Paul Marot. Besides, Maître Foucalt thought bitterly, since he himself was the only one who could be implicated by this conversation, it did not matter. His life was over anyway.
“I do not know whether he is still alive,” Maître Foucalt said quickly, his voice lowered. “The last time anyone saw him was early in July.” He related quickly the events that had taken place. The take-over of the town by Marot, the imprisonment of de Conyers and his family—although Foucalt was unaware of the horrors that had accompanied the imprisonment—and the periodic display of Henry. “But,” he concluded, “no one has seen him for about six weeks. It may be…”
“No,” Roger replied briskly, “there is no sense in killing him secretly after all this time, if that is what you fear. It is possible that some or all of them are dead,” he added more slowly. “Perhaps they fell ill. Prisoners tend to lose heart and are victims to disease.”
“There is only one physician,” Maître Foucalt remarked. “Do you not think…”
“Perhaps the physician was told to keep the matter quiet,” Roger began. He saw from the fleeting expression on the advocate’s face that if the physician had been summoned to attend de Conyers, he would have mentioned it, whatever he had been told. “It is also possible,” he continued, “that the conditions under which Monsieur de Conyers is kept do not accord with
the appearance given when he was displayed. From what you told me, it seems as if the man Marot had some personal grudge against—”
“That is so,” Foucalt interrupted, “but at first he had such power—we were all so…so… If he wanted monsieur dead, why did he not have him executed? No one could have opposed him then.”
“Then!” Roger picked that up. “And now it is different?” Maître Foucalt’s face closed and suspicion flashed in his eyes. Roger shook his head and raised a hand defensively. “No, I am not asking you to tell me anything that could harm anyone or betray any plan. I do not wish to know anything beyond what any man in the street would know. Remember, I am a stranger in the town. I know nothing at all.”
Such information Maître Foucalt was willing to give. He described the disagreements within the ranks of Marot’s followers with considerable relish. Roger noticed the man said nothing of the attitude of the upper bourgeoisie, but he did not ask about it. It was clear without being told that they would be opposed to the rule of such creatures as Marot’s followers Roger also guessed that they might be organizing a counter take-over from Foucalt’s expression when the doctor was mentioned, but a moment’s thought made him realize that such an action would be of no use to him.
The trouble with actions planned by responsible members of society was that they planned, and planned, and planned. It was all too likely that no action would ever be taken or that, through so much discussion, news of what they intended would come to the ears of their enemies. Even if they managed to keep their secret and actually brought themselves to act, the coup might fail. Then, Roger thought, he would be far worse off. Doubtless a torrent of blood would flow in revenge, and Henry’s—if he were still alive—would be among the first to be spilled.
The best hope, Roger decided as he listened to Maître Foucalt, was to find a weak link in Marot’s own chain of command. Perhaps a jailer could be bribed… Roger interrupted the flow of Foucalt’s narrative to ask where the prison was and whether the jailers were as venal as the usual run of such men. If so, Roger added, he might have the means to bribe one of them.
“De Conyers is not in jail. He is in the Hôtel de Ville,” Foucalt replied. “I am not sure whether Marot did that to depress criticism—you must understand that Monsieur de Conyers was greatly loved and respected by many—or whether he did it for greater security. All we have discovered is that there are special guards, men who are, we believe, particularly devoted to Marot. You understand it is very dangerous to seem to be interested in Monsieur de Conyers, but I will try to find out which men guard him.”
“That would be a great help,” Roger agreed, but he felt dissatisfied.
It was not that he doubted Maître Foucalt’s sincerity, he simply felt the need to be doing something himself rather than sit in a mock gunsmith’s shop and wait for information. For years Roger had done just that—sit in his chambers reading about the actions of other people. He had worked hard, driven on through boredom and fatigue by the knowledge that each fee he received would prevent one argument with Solange. Now the Old Man of the Mountain was off his back, he felt light as a feather, as eager for action as a boy. With an effort Roger kept his face sober. It would not do to make Maître Foucalt think he was a lunatic by suddenly laughing for no reason. Still, Roger felt like laughing. Pierre was right after all, Roger admitted to himself. He did wish to “raise the devil” instead of only hearing about others doing it.
“This hatred Marot has for de Conyers,” Roger said, having been struck by an idea, “does this carry over to all Englishmen?”
“Not at all,” Foucalt replied readily. “In fact, it is just the opposite.”
He then mentioned Marot’s devotion to the ideas of Jean-Paul Marat and said that Marot often molded his actions and policies on the arguments in the L’Ami du Peuple. Roger whistled softly. He had seen some copies of that incendiary paper recently, and the passionate diatribes against the representatives of the National Assembly and against the landed aristocracy of France boded no good for Henry and his family. However, Marat had been an admirer of the English form of constitutional monarchy, and he had been treated with courtesy both times he fled to England to escape imprisonment. Marat was all for friendship with the English and was—one of his sensible attitudes—opposed to war altogether. The local tyrant, Foucalt said, followed faithfully his Parisian mentor’s ideas on those subjects.
“Very good,” Roger remarked with enthusiasm. “Then it would not be unsafe for me to go to the Hôtel de Ville and ask permission to set up a shop here? I would like to see the building with my own eyes and talk with some of Marot’s men.”
Foucalt again examined his guest closely, suspicion reawakened. However, a short reflection pointed out that there would have been nothing to stop Roger from going to see Marot secretly. There was no need for him to say he was going. Besides, a mental review of what had been said convinced Foucalt that no one but himself could be endangered, even if Roger was in league with Marot.
“I think it would be safe enough for you. The worst danger would be that Marot’s henchmen might seize your stock of guns without informing him. It is not likely that Marot himself would do such a thing. He is not a greedy man, you know, only bitter and warped. That is the worst of what the ancien régime has done to us—turned such men, men with good ideas and what might have been noble purposes—into bloodthirsty monsters.”
* * * * *
The high hopes that Leonie and Henry had for escaping had dimmed steadily throughout the week following their discussion. No opportunity was granted them to put either plan into action. Louis did not take Leonie to his bed and far worse, she had not even been able to induce him to enter the cell when he brought food. The first time he simply thrust the soup and bread into her hands through the narrowest opening possible, Leonie thought little of it. Louis had done it many times before. She suspected he had more than one set of irons in the fire.
She had made no protest and no attempt to draw him into the cell. Although her father was behind the door ready to act if Louis should come in. Leonie was not at all eager to try so dangerous an expedient. She had not told Henry of her own plan. She hoped to be able to convince him that Louis had given her the keys or she had stolen them without confessing openly that she was the thief’s mistress. To avoid raising this issue she had pointed out to her father that he was weak from long inactivity. A few days of exercise could not cure that completely, but it would be of some help.
Henry agreed and began to try to strengthen himself. Leonie was well satisfied. Her father would feel he was doing something—and actually he was, because he would need strength to escape—while she would get him out in her own way in a day or two. But two days passed then three, and still Louis did not come for her at night. On the fourth day, when he handed in the food, Leonie spoke his name softly.
“Are you angry for some—” she began.
But he did not let her finish, merely shook his head sharply and closed and relocked the door. Fear leaped up and tightened Leonie’s throat. Had they been condemned already? Could someone have overheard her father and herself planning? No, they had always spoken in English, but that in itself could betray that they were planning something. Leonie strained to remember whether the cell had ever been dimmer than usual, indicating that someone was listening at the half-window and blocking the light, but she could not recall anything like that. Perhaps she had somehow betrayed her thoughts to Louis? But he never paid enough attention to her to notice even what she wanted him to notice. Leonie bit her lip. It was far more likely, really, that Louis had outsmarted himself and suspected he might be in trouble. If so, his first move would be to show marked severity toward the prisoners.
Immediate panic subsided as Leonie squatted down beside her father and broke the bread in half. The bread was fresh! She bent to sniff the soup, an act she normally avoided as much as possible. Not only was the aroma appetizing but what was in the bowl was thick, more like stew than soup. For an ins
tant, panic returned. Was this the last meal? In the next instant, Leonie nearly laughed. That Marot should order such a kindness was impossible. But that Louis should think of so considerate a gesture was equally impossible. Louis would be far more likely to omit giving them any meal at all the night before they were going to die on the principle that feeding them at such a time would be wasteful.
“How good this is, Papa,” Leonie remarked. She wanted her father’s opinion but did not wish to infect him with her fears and doubts.
“Yes. So was yesterday’s food. Didn’t you notice?”
“No,” Leonie said, much surprised. How could she have failed to notice something like that?
“I mentioned it to you, and you agreed. You must have forgotten.” Henry sounded troubled.
Leonie laughed. “I do remember now. I was thinking of something else yesterday.”
Of course, yesterday had been the day she was sure Louis would take her to his bed. Leonie had been so tense and excited, planning and replanning every move that she would need to make that she could have eaten stones without noticing. She did remember her father talking to her during supper, but her replies had been automatic. But if the food had been good last night also…
“I wonder why?” Leonie breathed.
“I am sure the poor man does his best to get us a decent meal whenever he can,” Henry answered, obviously surprised by Leonie’s reaction.
Leonie did not contest her father’s statement, although she knew he was mistaken. “Perhaps he does,” she said mendaciously, “but why is it suddenly possible for him to give us a really excellent stew two days in a row? That was never possible before.”
The English Heiress (Heiress, Book One) Page 6
