Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  On the other side of the room long periwigs and neat curled queues hung from a row of pegs, while towering monstrosities a la Marie-Antoinette, perched on faceless wooden stands, stared at her from a deep shelf. Fans—lace and plumes—hung on hooks from a wooden batten above a dressing table. Laughing before the mirror, Fleur discarded her hat and reached up for a wig.

  "No, leave it," exclaimed her aunt, catching her arm. "Think of the lice. It is bound to be infested."

  Fleur shrugged and instead gleefully unscrewed one of the multitude of jars crowding the table surface. "Greasepaint." She breathed in the aroma with as much delight as if it was a perfumed rose.

  "Your mama always reckoned that Great-Grandmother had a dissolute past. Now I am certain of it!" Tante Estelle glowered at Fleur's ecstatic reflection. "Put that down. We shall have no more actresses in the family! Come along, I daresay we should see the rest of this dubious establishment. I have no doubt there are gaming boards stashed away somewhere."

  Fleur reluctantly followed her aunt back into the dining area and through into a kitchen that would have thrown her father's head cook into an apoplexy. Clearly the café had served few meals, for although space existed for storage and preparation, there was no potager to heat food and a dearth of any utensils, pans or chopping boards. If only Thomas were here. She had written to him before she left Caen, advising him of her address in Paris, but she would write again tonight. Oh, if she were not so short of time; Thomas's advice would have been worth a king's banquet, but she must use her own judgment.

  "What is through here? Try the keys, child!"

  Armed with a candlestick, her aunt stalwartly led the way down wooden stairs into the surprisingly modest cellar. Onions were birthing long thin shoots on a pile of sacking, and judging from the scattering of neat oval turds, a family of rats and their smaller cousins had feasted royally on a forgotten pumpkin. Wooden racks covered two walls but the wine stocks they held were not plentiful. Fleur opened the furthermost door.

  "Just coal. Oh!" A rash mouse shot out across the floor and disappeared beneath the lowest shelf of bottles.

  "Disgusting." Tante Estelle seized a discarded broom handle and swung it vigorously beneath the rack.

  How long had this place been neglected? Only a few weeks, perhaps.

  "I really need to come here by night," Fleur mused aloud, locking the cellar door behind her, and turning to stare up speculatively at the fruit and laurel wreath motifs decorating the dark green ceiling.

  "At night! Over my dead body!"

  "Do not say so," whispered Fleur with a shudder. She was suddenly aware of the chill of the place and the lengthening shadows. "We had better lock up. I must fetch my hat from the costume chamber."

  Now that the light was fading in the outer room, the wigs on the stands had taken on a sinister mien, like severed heads. For an instant, Fleur wondered where they had come from, for some were of the most expensive quality. Then she heard a ghostly whisper and a woman's soft laugh.

  Snatching up her hat, she rushed out, locking the door swiftly.

  "What is the matter, Fleur?"

  "N-nothing, Tante. It is later than I thought. We should go." Yes, she thought, darting a glance about her as they walked down the street back the way the coach had brought them, this might be an avenue des souers after nightfall. She began to feel vulnerable. Was it her imagination that the passers-by seemed more furtive than when they had arrived? It was hard to progress swiftly for the street was badly furrowed and, like everywhere else, there was no pavement and the gutters were soupy with dirt and refuse. It had started to drizzle, a light, feathery rain which was little more than an inconvenience. Fleur glanced about her and froze as she caught sight of a man who looked very like the fellow who had been lurking in the Rue des Bonnes Soeurs. Could he have followed them? Surely not. But he wore the same surliness and brown jacket. No, her imagination was playing tricks just as it had in the theatre-café. She would not remark on it but she was uneasy as they looked up the street in either direction to summon another fiacre. Only a large private coach lumbered into view, but to their astonishment the driver drew rein beside them. The badly scratched insignia on the door should have alerted them to danger.

  "You wish to be taken somewhere, citizeness?" If this was democracy at work, then perhaps there were advantages in a republic.

  "Oh yes," said her aunt with relief. "Rue des Bonnes Soeurs."

  "You pay before you get in these days." The driver named a figure that seemed even more outrageous than the fare they had paid earlier, but Fleur, still shaken from her imagining in the costume room, did not haggle and helped her aunt aboard.

  "I shall be glad when we reach the house, Fleur. This district will be dangerous once night falls, and to think it was so respectable. I remember when—"

  Fleur's hand tightened warningly over the older woman's arm. "It seems dangerous now, Tante," she said grimly, "and I am sure there was a cutpurse following us as we left the café." She changed seats, lowered the window and glanced back. "Heavens! He is chasing after the coach. We are in a hurry, if you please, citizen," she called out, rapping to the driver. "Well, at least the thief will be exhausted before we get anywhere near Rue des Bonnes Soeurs."

  "Mercy!" Jolted, Tante Estelle grabbed at the leather handle as the carriage bowled down the narrow street at a neck-breaking pace.

  The press of carts, fiacres and one-horse cabriolets across the Place desVictoires slowed the vehicle.

  "Have we lost him?"

  Fleur lowered the window again. "I think he's been left behind but there are too many people around to be sure. You know, this is extremely luxurious for a hire vehicle." She wriggled against the cushions, which reminded her of Papa's best sprung coach. It was excellent to feel such softness again. They proceeded in fits and starts through the traffic but as they reached the Rue de Crenelle something hit the side of the coach.

  "Loose stone," muttered Tante Estelle. "The roads were bad enough when we had a monarchy. I doubt this so-called Convention will do any better. Instead of one useless king, we have hundreds."

  A loose stone when they going no faster than a walking pace? Then another stone bombarded the framework, and another. The two women stared at one another in growing consternation, jerking away from the doors as a scatter of pebbles hit the window glass, followed by the softer plop of mud. The coachman swore loudly.

  "Make haste!" Fleur rapped upon the front of the coach with the flat of her hand.

  The vehicle speeded up. Fleur caught the leather hand strap as the vehicle lurched but the shouting was all around them, and it was as if a giant had seized the coach and was tossing it from hand to hand. Fleur was thrown headfirst against the facing seat. Tante Estelle fared worse and Fleur dragged her ashen aunt up from the floor, her heart fearful.

  "I do not want to die, not like this. Not like—" Panicked fingers scrabbled at her, trying to grip hold, a breath away from screaming.

  "No, you don't!" growled Fleur, shaking her. "Be quiet!" Tante Estelle shuddered, her eyes bulging with fear. "Listen to me! They cannot hurt us. We have done nothing." Even as Fleur rationalised, her courage was fraying fast, but one of them had to keep a cool head. There was no mysterious masked thief to save her this time.

  A man was shouting: "Stop the coach, I say! Over here, patriots! I need your help." The bawling came from above them and the scrabble of heavy boots thudded upon the roof.

  "Sweet Mary protect us, Fleur!" Tante Estelle crossed herself as the vehicle came to a halt; her fingers fumbled for her rosary.

  "What is death but a few minutes of pain and then oblivion?" Fleur whispered. "Courage."

  As the door was wrenched open, the older woman shrank back in terror from the fierce faces peering in.

  "Haul 'em out!" bawled a harridan from the crowd. "See what we've snared."

  "What in hell do you want?" snarled Fleur. The dialect of a Caen peasant was the safest she could manage as she squeezed Tante Estelle's
trembling hand, but it was like facing a Medusa's head of hissing snakes. A burly fellow in the pantalons of the working class reached out to grab her right wrist and jerked her from the refuge of the coach.

  "Salaud!" she hissed, jabbing two fingers into his eyes—it had worked with the young ruffians in Caen. The man swore, jerking back, but other vicious hands hauled Fleur down onto the street. The crowd about her was deep and growing, its mood rumbling and volatile.

  "Take your hands off me!" exclaimed her aunt, slapping at her assailants as she too was dragged out onto the filthy, puddled ground.

  "Why pick on us?" exclaimed Fleur, gasping and squirming to free herself as the beast holding her groped at her breast. "This-is-not-our-carriage!"

  "Citizens, don't be deceived by this little tart!" exclaimed a scathing voice from above and the cutpurse who had been stalking them sprang down from beside the driver. His grin was malevolent. With one leering look at the terrified women, he directed a glob of spit onto the stony road. "Oh, how I like to see 'em cowering. See, what did I tell you! Aristo scum! Afraid to face us, eh?" He planted himself in front of them, scrawny, bare arms akimbo, his gaze running over them like a whetting knife.

  Words came unbidden to her mind; the dreadful words of a letter sent to Charlotte last autumn by an acquaintance in Paris: "They hanged a nobleman from a lamppost and then they hacked off his head and set it on a pike so they might parade it through the streets."

  Fleur's jaw trembled but she forced herself to mock him. "Bah, you need spectacles, you fool, or else a brain bigger than a walnut. I'm an actress not an aristo." Pulling herself away from the slackening hold upon her, she rearranged her bodice with an aggrieved air and tried to maintain the provincial accent. "The coach was for hire, ask him!" She directed a plea towards the coachman but the utter coward, refusing to meet her eyes, suddenly took his chance and whipped his horses into a violent plunge forward. The crowd sprang aside, not bothering to give chase.

  "Still the lady, isn't she?" The burly man allied himself with the thief. "You know how you tell an actress from an aristo, citizens? You string her up and see if she gives a better performance." The laughter gurgled around the two women like quicksand. "Never seen her act before, have we, citizens?"

  Fleur rolled her eyes as if exasperated by his stupidity and someone guffawed, but her larger enemy exchanged an evil glance with the man who had stalked them.

  "An actress, eh, so why is she in black then, and what about this old crow?" He jabbed a savage finger into Tante Estelle's shoulder. "Scared of us, isn't she! Why's that?" He seized her aunt's fichu and jerked her up onto her toes. "Why isn't she wearing a cockade?"

  Oh God! It must have fallen off unnoticed at the café.

  "Pick on someone else, you dolts," Fleur snarled through clenched teeth. "You'd be in b-b-black if your s-sister had just died of scarlet fever! I'm... I'm an actress playing at the Chat Rouge." She had never felt so afraid in all her life, not even when the mob had invaded the chateau. Had Papa and Marguerite been as terrified as this when they were hauled out onto the street? "The Chat Rouge," she repeated, trying to distract their attention from her aunt, "in the Marais." Tante Estelle gazed at Fleur in absolute horror.

  "It's closed down, "jeered the thief. His hand swooped up from behind her, grabbing the high neck of her gown, half choking her.

  "Not any more, bête!" spluttered Fleur, trying to kick backwards at him. Words were now an effort but they were her only weapons. "They ha... ve a new entertainment starting on Friday. Now... let-me-go! You followed me from there, you bastard!" She squirmed, trying to turn round to confront her accuser.

  "Such a pretty liar." The foul stench of her captor's breath filled her nostrils. "Well, citizens, maybe this little putain should entertain us in a private room at the Lion d'Argent before we string her up." His hand slid meaningfully down the front of her skirt and fumbled inwards. Fleur shrieked her fury, struggling with all her might. Better to inflame them further and die a swift cruel death than be raped and tormented shamefully.

  "Citizens!" A voice of authority sliced through the uproar. Two newcomers were forcing their way through the rabble.

  The cutpurse wrenched his victim's arm behind her back. "Another word, whore, and you're already dead," he snarled and a knife blade pricked between her shoulderblades. He took her answering shudder for acquiescence and loosened his hold only to cruelly enmesh his fingers in her hair and compel her to her knees. Fleur's head was forced viciously down like a victim's awaiting the blade of the guillotine. She heard him curse crudely beneath his breath as black knee boots strode briskly into the range of her vision. A pair of buckled green leather shoes followed and portly calves stockinged in sable silk stopped a puddle away from where she knelt. There was a snag in one. Help me, she prayed to the strangers, wincing as her captor's grip grew even tighter.

  "Come now, citizens," drawled a second, more languid voice, "if you have captured enemies of the state, they must be dealt with under the law." The green toecaps turned slightly as if their owner must be exchanging glances with his companion. Tense silence. Fleur dared not breathe and then an old man voice's exclaimed from the back of the crowd: "You are right, Citizen Hérault."

  "Yes," said another in a deferential tone. "We'll take 'em to the Commune and denounce 'em there." The rabble muttered agreement.

  "On what charge, my friends?" The voice of the man who had spoilt their entertainment was disturbingly familiar. The boots of glossy, expensive leatherwork halted less than a pace in front of Fleur and swivelled slowly as if their owner was scrutinising the crowd. The hush deepened to fearful respect. No longer a mob, there was a shuffling back of feet, as if the newcomer was slowly committing the individual faces to memory. In front of Fleur, the greatcoat swung to stillness at the man's shining heels. "Who does the woman say she is?" rapped out that voice above her head.

  "An actress," someone called out helpfully.

  "No, I know her. She's a traitor's widow," shouted the man holding Fleur. "Can't any of you fools tell the difference?" He yanked at her hair, jerking her head up so hard that tears started. "Tell them you are a liar."

  "I have done nothing wrong," she gasped out to the man looming over her. She was aware of loosened dark hair curling wildly over the white stock, but the face beneath the high-crowned hat was behind her blur of tears.

  "Oh, she can act," sneered the stranger. "I have seen her do so. Release her, citizen, if you please. I shall report this matter to the Committee for General Security. We shall be keeping her and her companion under surveillance. Not all actors are patriots."

  A violent hand thrust Fleur forward. She ended up sprawled ignominiously, her gloved hands splayed in the mud at the bootcaps of her rescuer. With a careful hand, he tilted his high-crowned hat, and Fleur stared up with astonishment into the sardonic eyes of the arrogant deputy she had encountered in Caen. He made no move to help her to her feet; instead he gazed down upon her like some eastern king assessing a newly purchased slave. If he was silently waiting for her to embrace his leathered calves in loving gratitude, he could whistle for that. Fleur was grateful but not that grateful.

  The green shoes moved in. "Attention!" murmured the one called Hérault in warning.

  Fleur swiftly lowered her head, afraid the second man would order her to be taken for questioning.

  "Not all deputies are patriots either!" snarled her former captor. He drove a savage boot into Fleur, slamming her forward. Her arms bore the brunt and she crouched, bruised and shaken, cradling her breast like a terrified child, lest his fist come at her as well. She heard the spittle leave his mouth but she jerked sideways. It landed upon her rescuer's boot. Tension seethed in the air above her head as though two male beasts were eyeing each other off, and then the thief gave way, shouldering his way angrily through the crowd.

  Was it over? She let her breath out slowly in case anyone else in the crowd accused her, but the entertainment was finished and the outer edge began to fray; b
arrows wove back into the traffic and the passers-by continued on their way. Neither the deputy nor his more debonair companion made any effort to assist her. In fact, her rescuer deliberately folded his arms. What wondrous manners the Revolution bred. Trying not to cry, muddy, bedraggled and dishonoured, Fleur clambered to her feet unaided.

  Tante Estelle must have read her mind for she narrowed her brow admonishingly and Fleur bit back an angry comment. Although the people closest were dispersing, it was not without backward glances, and the burly man and the old harridan hung around, a distance off but watching still. By the saints, it would not take much to have those wretches crying for their blood again. No wonder their two rescuers did not wish to be contaminated by so much as touching her. They had taken a risk in helping her, she realised, feeling a little guilty now. Perhaps they were even genuinely suspicious of her. Except that the heavier-built man with the powdered blond hair had turned his expensively coated back on the spectators and was blatantly admiring her through his quizzing glass.

  And this Committee for General Security! What in God's name was that? The last thing she and Tante Estelle needed was to be dragged before some half-literate investigation committee! Under surveillance? Her hostile acquaintance from Caen was calmly studying her as though she had become an infernal nuisance to him. Fleur's chin rose defiantly.

  "You are missing your sash and epaulette, monsieur."

  Cynical amusement flared briefly at her spirit. "Thank you for your help, Hérault," he said pointedly over his shoulder, his cold golden gaze holding hers, and she knew his tone chided her for her lack of gratitude.