Nor was the next day spent idling. Thomas, almost as round as he was high, made a formidable bodyguard for Fleur and the slight M. Mansart when they visited the tenements occupied by M. Bosanquet's lace-makers. Fleur's exuberance might have been a trifle optimistic but she promised her employees that if she could make the Chat Rouge a prosperous concern, she would give them not only work but bonuses. Meantime, if they would be prepared to leave the bobbined blonde silk at home, they might come and help Thomas prepare the café in exchange for a hearty meal and provisions to take back to their families. Paris, it seemed, was one great rumbling stomach. One day, if she had the means, Fleur vowed, she would ladle out broth to the hungry mothers of the Marais. She knew what it was like always to be ravenous.
After these negotiations she hastened to attend the late afternoon session of the Jacobin Club. This time she sat in the gallery, close to the rostrum, and paid meticulous attention to the speakers, who included the popular deputy from Arras, Robespierre. He was as neat as he had been at the Convention. The revers of his slate-blue summer coat leafed a white organdie stock, and his hair was scrolled and powdered. The heavy lidded eyes behind the spectacles noticed everything. Such thick lenses did not compliment him (without them, some would have accounted him handsome) but were in service as his weapon and his shield. He hid behind his spectacles yet punctuated statements by removing them, staring intently at his listeners and then putting the glasses back on to continue. Interesting. Maybe, thought Fleur, she should seek out a lunetier and order some spectacles to make her new persona seem older and more bourgeois.
Deputy de Villaret was missing from the throng, thank goodness, for she was too tired to engage in any fire across his bows. At least, not yet—but her idea was growing like warm yeast.
* * *
M. Beugneux was still up on her return and together they sat with Thomas drinking the last of the chocolate at the kitchen table. Her gentleman boarder was brimful with gossipy anecdotes about many of the deputies and encouraged Fleur when she mimicked Robespierre. Tante Estelle would have been quite horrified but Fleur was growing more elated by the moment. This was indeed freedom.
"Well, I never," Thomas exclaimed eventually, mopping tears of laughter from the fans of creases around his eyes, and departed for his bedchamber.
Fleur lit her candle for the stairs and then remembered her manners. "I have not had a chance to thank you properly for my aunt's pass, Monsieur Beugneux." Tiptoes were required to reach his altitude and bestow a kiss on his cheek.
"Self-interest, madame." The face, crinkled like an ageing mushroom, smiled wickedly. "Either she w-went or I did. Besides, I think it was t-time you slid free of your nursery reins, little one. The Chat Rouge will miaow again, hmm?"
It would have been respectable to digest such sentiments with disapproval, shock even, but Fleur was too honest for that. "I shall not ask you how you acquired the pass then," she said sensibly and took up the candlestick.
"A moment, if you p-please. You have been kinder than I could deserve or expect. I-I would b-be highly honoured if you were to consider me family, Madame Bosanquet. I feel sure poor Matthieu would have approved."
Why not? She was free to do so without Tante Estelle to huff and complain. Having lost so many relatives, it was refreshing to acquire one. "Of course," she beamed.
"And I may call you Fleur?"
She held out her free hand. "Consider it agreed." He raised her fingers to his lips.
"Madame, I shall do all in my power to be your liegeman." How quaint. She was smiling as she climbed the stairs. "Fleur..." She turned. "Now I understand why Matthieu did what he did. Pardon my frankness, but permit me to say that although you may look like a mademoiselle from the provinces, you think like a true Parisian."
* * *
The muse is a temperamental caller. Sometimes she leaves a visiting card and does not return for days. Searching for the elusive creature, Fleur spent all next day at the Convention and blunted several quills that evening at the secretaire with Machiavelli curled about her chair-back.
"Monsieur Beugneux?" She rearranged the python and sighed with the weariness of self-doubt. "The café needs to offer an entertainment that will set tongues wagging. What do you think of this?"
The day's broadsheets were set aside as he leaned over and accepted her notes. He read swiftly and then, setting his pince-nez aside, ran a finger inside the neck of his needle-point jabot as if it were choking him. An unusual gesture for a man of his sensibility.
"My dear," he said gently, "if you are intent on pulling these tails—which I suspect you are—have a care. Is not excellent food enough?"
"Omelettes and eggs," replied Fleur, receiving back her fistful of notes.
"Breaking eggs, yes, I understand, but people are touchy, little one. They may prefer to break us instead."
* * *
Next day, the actors were in turn amazed, enthused and incapable. Fleur was not sure whether it was keeping their liberty that concerned them or whether they all found her inspiration for the opening night beyond their collective abilities.
"No, no, I really meant like this," exclaimed Fleur, joining Juanita—Waterspout—on the little stage. It was easier to show than explain all over again since most of what she was suggesting lay in silent mimicry. The audience of M. Beugneux and the other thespians made no effort to interrupt. They applauded with old-fashioned handclapping when she was done and glanced from one to the other.
"Well?" pleaded the new proprietress, searching their expressions for the real verdict.
"Dear madame," began Whiskers and then he looked to where M. Beugneux sat, one hand resting elegantly upon his walking cane. In fact, they were all looking at him.
The white face crumpled in surrender and he cleared his throat. Curiously, in this company M. Beugneux's stammer was almost gone. "W-what you have just done, my dear Madame Bosanquet, was remarkable, quite remarkable. You demonstrate a keen and, dare I say, somewhat cruel eye for the foibles of those who seek to rule our destinies. The performance you are suggesting will bring Paris flocking. It may also bring about the café's closure and your incarceration. If, however, you can avoid this for several performances and then return your patrons to entertainment somewhat blander by comparison, you will have made sufficient money to keep the café going for a further week and—"
"And by then everyone will know of the excellence of my terrines and lobsters." Thomas joined them, wiping his hands on the cloth aproning his huge stomach.
"A star danced when you were born, madame." Beanpole kissed his fingers to Fleur.
"Was that consent then?" She rather thought it was but restrained herself; employers were not supposed to bounce with excitement. "Bien! Which of you will play the part?"
Why were they all staring at her with that mixture of compassion and indulgence?
"Oh, my dear," M. Beugneux told her with pity, "nobody can—except you!"
* * *
"But it is Saturday night, de Villaret."
Raoul moved the Palais de Justice ink pot, that was still rebelliously flaunting a royal fleur-de-lis, out of the way of Hérault's breeches. His visitor had annoyingly made himself comfortable on the edge of the desk, which having belonged previously to a ci-devant economist, creaked in despair.
"Saturday night," repeated Hérault, fiddling with the writing quills, "but I daresay that fact has escaped you. Leave this. Have some amusement. Paris is full of music and laughter tonight. You need a woman and I have found just the one for you."
Shifting his attention from the dispatch from M. Esnault, Raoul raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "My dear Hérault, I can find my own women." Like the intriguing widow, if only she would let him close enough to snare her tailfeathers instead of scurrying away whenever he so much as glanced in her direction.
His attention returned to Esnault's letter; the abbéwho had officiated at Bosanquet's funeral was a nonjuring priest who had been on the run for the last few months. Not only w
as this exceedingly curious, but Esnault stated that there been no other reports of robbery along the stretch of road where Bosanquet had been attacked—at least not in recent months. Nor, it seemed, had M. Bosanquet made any mention to his acquaintances in Caen of an approaching marriage the previous year when he had visited his mother's grave.
"De Villaret!"
"All right, Hérault, what's this one's name?"
"La Coquette. Incroyable! Piquante!" He blew on his fingers meaningfully. "No, do not make a face. I saw her perform at the Chat Rouge last night. It is under new management, and they are really most innovative."
"Don't tell me—the Dance of the Seven Tricolores?" Raoul muttered, pelting a loose rosette at Hérault, who held it against his chest and wriggled like a full-breasted Salome.
"Ha, very patriotic, de Villaret." He cast it back against Raoul's unshaven chin. "You should suggest it to Madame Roland. She can wear them for Buzot. I admit..." He stretched his noble frame and yawned. "I admit there is the usual pink tights and spangles fare provided afterwards—as tepid as bathing at Nice in July—but it is the main performance that had me riveted. This new actress, La Coquette, is an amazing mimic. One of the best acts I have ever seen, and I insist you come along tonight. I doubt they will run the show for more than a few evenings, it is so damnably risqué. Tell you what, if La Coquette does not astound you, we will both get disgustingly drunk at my expense. I've reserved a table." He picked up a copying trellis and stretched it into a straight line.
"I don't like that playful expression of yours, Hérault. You remind me of a Frans Hals portrait." The smirky cavalier came to mind. "And there is more to interest me here, believe me." He slapped a hand upon Esnault's report. "No, I leave La Coquette to you, my dear fellow."
Hérault lifted his hands in questionable generosity. "Oh, I have another little chicken to pursue. La Coquette is unquestionably yours."
Chapter 8
"Is anyone going to tell her?" Columbine asked Juanita, who was wreaking havoc on Fleur's rib cage as she drew tight the laces that secured the whalebones. Wearing a panniered dress on stage required fortitude.
"Tell me what?" gasped Fleur, losing hold of the dressing table and nearly sending all three of them toppling against the rack of the dressing-room. The candles around the greasepots danced with the breeze of the girls' muffled shrieks. "Tell me," echoed the image in the mirror.
Columbine, unfeathered for once, looked far too secretive. "Just that Citizen Hérault declared to half the Convention yesterday that Thomas was a chef extraordinaire."
"And we have run out of seats and sauce a la Calvados, I suppose," finished Fleur. "That was not what you were going to say at all, Columbine."
"No," giggled Columbine, "but I will tell you... later."
* * *
Across from Raoul, Hérault freed the multiple flounces of his cravat from the protection of the napkin and wiped his fingers. "Were those not the best coquilles Saint-Jacques you have ever tasted?"
It was necessary to shout the reply above the noise of the other patrons of the Chat Rouge since every bench and stool was occupied. Even the fleas would soon be reduced to standing room.
"Indeed, Hérault, I am sure they would taste even better if you had the lovely Adéle lined up as a dessert."
"Ah, but I have a change of menu in mind." Hérault stared about the restaurant as if seeking someone, and with a shrug of resignation returned his attention to Raoul with a laconic smile. "It is your just dessert I was considering when I brought you here, mon ami. This is where the night becomes truly interesting."
"Really?" Raoul had found the entertainment so far pleasant but unremarkable, yet he had to admit that the mood of the evening was already beginning to change. Perhaps there was some truth to électricité, the substance the farmer-general Lavoisier claimed lurked invisibly in the air, for he could sense the growing excitement emanating around him. The well-fed, excellently wined audience—and Hérault seemed to be acquainted with half of them, judging by the nods and grins—was thrumming with anticipation. Around them, the waiters were snuffing out most of the table candelabra. Along the little stage, Argentan lamps flickered into obedience for the second act of the evening.
A drum roll hushed the entire café and then a woman swept out from behind the screen.
"La Coquette," whispered Hérault.
Creamy breasts rose from the actress's tight corsage in beauteous sufficiency to provoke every male into lip-moisturing silence. A black velvet ribbon enhanced the beauty of her throat, but the rest of her appearance was little to Raoul's taste. He disliked the fussiness of the former Versailles fashions: the gross panniers upholding creamy skirts of some sort of silky fabric threaded with gold, the lead-white complexion, the rouged cheeks, the unnecessary beauty spots and the powdered, ridiculously towering hairstyle made famous by Marie-Antoinette.
What followed was a satire on the ancien régime. The girl aped the mannerisms of the defunct aristocracy like one born to it. Although Raoul grinned like everyone else, the performance was predictable pap for an audience that would be wise to snigger.
Warming to her spectators, La Coquette grew more personal. Her victim was not the imprisoned Marie-Antoinette but the new uncrowned queen, Manon Roland. Raoul drew a breath. The audience tensed at her antics and then guffawed heartily.
"By God," muttered Raoul, laughing. He himself had visited the Rolands' house and seen the dame des Girondins sewing or writing letters, not saying a word but eavesdropping intently on what was being said. "Manon will not be amused when she hears of this. This creature has her pilloried."
"I told you the girl was remarkable. I hope she repeats last night's performance."
The actress disappeared behind a screen painted with pretty nymphs. "Encore!" roared her audience, thumping the tables, splattering the dripping wax. The whiskered drummer stood beside the proscenium, drawing emotions from the taut skin of his drum. Surprise, shock, laughter beat out from his sticks and shone on his greasy, lugubrious cheeks as out towards him fluttered a silken stocking. Its partner followed. Ribbons slunk and garters crawled like pretty insects over the top of the screen. The powdered headdress, reanimated, fought with the quarrelsome fan above the heads of the naked nymphs. Petticoats, tossed over the top, were gathered up by a stooping, rebellious, blonde maidservant who found herself attacked in the rear by naked panniers that had suddenly taken on an aggressive masculinity.
The drumming subsided to a waiting beat as the harassed maid carried in a hat stand laden with garments, and then the rhythm gathered new momentum. From behind the screen to a crescendo of sound came La Coquette—or at least Raoul assumed it must be her—this time in breeches, shirt and jacket. White paint still disguised her face in garish fashion and her short hair was so sleeked and dark with pomade that it was impossible to guess at her true colouring. Despite her slight form, she moved so like a man that Raoul began to suppose her of ambiguous gender and wondered if he had imagined the pretty cleavage and that was why Hérault had dragged him here—to play a jest. A Le Coquet, perhaps? Or were there two of them? A brother and sister?
First of all, the young actress exchanged the jacket for a striped waistcoat, queued wig and spectacles, peering at the audience warily from behind heavy round frames and thick lenses. Max Robespierre, the fastidious luminary of the Jacobins and champion of the people! First Manon, now Max! Raoul's interest quickened. This was dangerous entertainment.
On stage, the false Max yawned and closed an imaginary door behind him, turned the invisible key and then slid a top bolt in, turned, hesitated, turned back and slid the bottom bolt too. Then he stepped away, paused, and swung back, testing the latch. Next he began miming the practising of a speech, using the spectacles in perfect mimicry. The audience loved it. La Coquette was good, very good.
Then it was Danton's turn. This time the actress tied on a wax mask—a wonderful replica of Danton's pockmarked cheeks and bullish expression—Mile Grosholz's handiwork fr
om the waxworks on the Boulevard du Temple, perhaps? Oh, very resourceful! And the tousled wig looked just like Danton's tangled, unruly hair. Pretending she was at the lectern of the Convention, La Coquette thundered out in mime a rousing speech, pausing occasionally to ogle the gallery.
Then this character, too, was discarded with the mask. Who next? Raoul waited in anticipation, enjoying himself hugely. This was better than the milk-and-water melodrama the other theatres put on. The performer slid her arms into a dark blue coat and exchanged her unkempt hairpiece for a dark, unpowdered wig and turned to sternly peruse the audience. Another deputy, but who? Her arm slid along the edge of the invisible lectern and a silent speech began. Now and then she raised her other hand to thrust back the lock of hair that had been deliberately loosened from the velvet bow. This deputy paused in his speech to take formidable note of his listeners' faces. The patrons around the café were awed, too, by the power of the actress's gaze and then suddenly they began to chuckle. At the laughter La Coquette gave a broad, open-mouthed smile at the imaginary gallery and a lift of eyebrows. Why was everyone finding it so amusing? Raoul had not worked out who... Hérault was doubled with laughter. And then the performer raised two hands behind her head and flapped them. Some sort of rabbit?
"Who is she supposed to—?"
"You, you ass." Hérault clouted him in the chest.
In disbelief, Raoul glanced about him and saw the spluttering audience at the nearest tables were watching for his reaction. Nonplussed, he looked back to the tiny stage. The laughter was no longer directed there. As if she suddenly realised one of her victims was present, a brief expression of panic furrowed La Coquette's white forehead. For an instance, she seemed to lose control.
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