Serve her right, thought Raoul, but now she was looking to where he sat and suddenly, brilliantly, she was back in the saddle and reining the audience in. Is he there? her expression asked them and they roared out: "Oui!"
She bit her lip, then the red slash of a mouth became sickle-shaped with exaggerated embarrassment and she made a cravat of her hands against her throat, glancing from side to side. You can take a joke, her eyes told him, sparkling with mischief, then she appeared agitated again, as if by his reaction. For an instant she began to walk away, then came back to centre stage. White-gloved hands gestured to her bosom. Who, me? No, it wasn't me. The red mouth squashed into a rosette, pouting once more in his direction, the eyes sheepish and then provocative.
Then she forgot him, disappeared round the screen, and re-emerged with a thunderous expression and a red band around her forehead and a copy of the gutter L'Ami du Peuple in her hand—Marat. Christ! Was she crazy!
Raoul missed the subtleties of the performance that followed. He was still reeling. Was that how he looked when he spoke in public? So formidable?
His friend leaned close. "Brilliant, eh? Has you in a pickle jar, hein?"
"It's seditious."
"Absolutely!"
"Who owns this place?" The sharp whisper had made rich men tremble.
"Why, none other than the little widow we rescued from the mob." Hérault's glass lingered near his lips as though he was savouring more than the wine. Raoul set his down swiftly before he spilt it. "Don't trespass there, mon ami," his companion was saying. "La Veuve Bosanquet is in debt to me up to her pretty neck and I intend to enjoy each delicious reimbursement."
"Dangerous pickings." Raoul's voice was cruel. "Marat could mince her and her actress to bloody pieces for this." But Hérault could not hear him; La Coquette had finished her act. It was no longer acceptable for Parisians to clap. Instead, shouts of "Bravo!" filled the restaurant. Her admirers slapped the tables. They emptied the juddering vases. Dripping flowers hurtled at her feet. Who was she/he?
Raoul suddenly felt used, sullied, as though some hidden voyeur had been watching him all week. Aware he was still observed by those around him, he leaned back nonchalantly, resting his chin on clasped fingers. "I could have the woman in prison for this," he repeated, his smile barely skin-deep.
"Or you could have her in your bed," chuckled Hérault, leaning closer. "A most exquisite and highly preferable revenge."
"I suppose now you will tell me that La Coquette is a boy?"
"Seduce her and find out!"The flat of Hérault's hand shook the glasses."Encore! Encore!"
* * *
Behind the screen, Fleur was shaking as Columbine put an arm round her and ushered her quickly out to where Juanita was waiting with her mourning clothes. She was glad of their busy fingers tugging off her shirt and unwinding the bands, for she was incapable of managing for herself.
"Encore!" The shouts had not subsided and she darted a panicked look towards the outer door.
"Always leave 'em wanting more," giggled Columbine.
"Is she decent?" Whiskers—Albert—made his entrance, his face in rapture. "Incroyable!"
"Fabuloso yet again!" Raymond, the taller of her two actors, plastered Fleur's hand with a kiss, while Juanita hastily wiped the white disguise away and Columbine slid a curled brown wig clothed with a black bonnet and mantilla over La Coquette's oiled-smooth hair.
"Citizen de Villaret is out there!" Fleur blurted to M. Beugneux, who had just come in. Fear was smashing about inside her like a panicked bird, but he seemed quite unruffled by the announcement; in fact, the deep lines around his mouth twitched into a thin smile.
"Yes, I am afraid Citizen Hérault is responsible, my dear. We neglected to tell you he admired your performance last night."
Fleur suppressed an unladylike expletive. Admired her performance? And brought his friend along so he might gloat and whisper: "There goes the widow mouse. I only have to reach out my paw for her." De Villaret, of all people! Did he have a sense of humour? She doubted it. Nom d'un chien! What would he do to her and the café?
"May I say you were unquestionably magnifique, madame." M. Beugneux bowed over her hand with all the charm of a Versailles courtier. "Do not show fear, petite," he muttered beneath his breath. The blue eyes flicked sideways to Juanita and Columbine. He was right. It would not do for patrons to hear hysterics from behind the stage.
"I had a good teacher, monsieur," Fleur said cheerfully with a deep curtsy, keeping her wits. "Merci, a thousandfold."
Beneath the veneer of stammers and almost melodramatic emotion, M. Beugneux was proving a man of surprises. It was to his tutoring she owed the polish of her mimicry of Mme Roland, Max Robespierre and Jean-Paul Marat.
The sudden rattle of the outside door handle startled her. For an instant she was terrified that an angry Raoul de Villaret would force his way in, but the booming voice belonged to Thomas.
"You have done it, ma belle!" her chef exclaimed, manoeuvring his bulk through the door, his fist encircling a bottle of the sparkling vin de Champagne. "We have had to turn people away. The place is as crammed as a miser's cellar."
"Ah, you should have seen de Villaret's expression, patronne," threw in Albert. "That gorgeously fierce jaw nearly hit the floor." He mimicked de Villaret's astonished expression and had Fleur close to hysteria.
"Oh, was that de Villaret?" exclaimed Thomas, his expression sobering and he regarded his patronne with a brief, sudden sobriety before the dimpled smile resurfaced. Then he kissed her on both cheeks and lifted her into the air.
* * *
The rented room, stifled all day, took a breath as Raoul flung open the windows. The impertinent night breeze, pleasured by the warble of a nightingale from a neighbouring courtyard, shouldered the curtains apart and riffled thoughtlessly through the letters on his bureau. For a moment Raoul stood on the tiny iron balcony above the Rue Saint-Antoine, staring unseeing at the veiled moon, and then he closed out the noises of the world. There was enough light from the street oil lamps to assist his undressing but Raoul struck a flint to the entire candelabra that presided over his quills and ink pots. Too lazy to climb the stairs to his studio, he tipped out his pen tray and found the stick of charcoal. Humming, he drew out the sketch of the Widow Bosanquet from his writing desk drawer and, selecting a fresh page in his sketchbook, made a drawing of La Coquette. Then, with a soft laugh, he ripped it out and placed the two side by side.
* * *
Had M. Bosanquet engaged in receiving goods that had, well, shall one say, avoided the tolls and fees of the farmers-general under the monarchy, or the taxes of the new regime? Goods that had conveniently fallen off the back of carts? Such thoughts had briefly flittered through Fleur's mind as she had been hastened, euphoric with champagne and cheap triumph, through the cellar of the café to surface magically among some derelict looms in the basement of a tenement in the next street.
The purpose of the journey, which she scarcely remembered, was to circumnavigate the attentions of a certain pair of deputies, one drunk, the other broodingly sober. This was explained to her calmly by M. Beugneux over breakfast next morning as he poured her a third cup of coffee before M. Mansart arrived. She was on no account to reveal the cellar's concealed exit to anyone. Fleur, her temples throbbing, concurred.
A half-hour later a jubilant M. Mansart was despatched to the Convention to pay off an instalment of the debt owed to Hérault de Séchelles, and the new proprietress of the Chat Rouge, her colour less pasty now, set out with M. Beugneux for her new El Dorado.
The news that one of the small panes of the café window had been broken and a crumpled newspaper thrust through accompanied by a firebrand, cleared any remaining haziness from Fleur's mind. It was fortunate one of the kitchenhands who was now sleeping on the premises had still been awake and had swiftly tugged down the flaming curtain and beaten out the fire. Well, if they now had patrons, they certainly had enemies. She brazened out the news before her kit
chen staff of former lace-makers with an optimism that was becoming more fragile by the minute. Finally, Thomas made her a small, steel-strength coffee and urged M. Beugneux to escort her home.
Was Felix Quettehou behind the fire? she wondered silently as they began their walk back. A rival proprietor, perhaps? De Villaret? Surely not. She doubted spitefulness was one of his vices.
"Mon Dieu!" hissed M. Beugneux, and Fleur started in panic as a coach braked beside them and two national guard sprang down from the running board.
"Inside, if you please, citizeness. Not you, old man! Just the woman!"
* * *
Oh, dear God! Well, it had been a calculated risk and now she must pay for her sedition. But it was too soon, just when she had begun to taste some sweetness again in life. Which of the deputies lacked a sense of humour? Or was it Mme Roland, the bourgeois eminence grise behind the current government? What penalty would be exacted? The carriage ride today and the scaffold within a week? Or would she be thrust into some prison cell to languish for her audacity?
Poker-backed, she closed her eyes and tried to think clearly how she must defend herself. However, the vehicle halted just before the end of the Rue de Sévigné. Fleur's eyes flashed wide as the door opened and a man stepped lightly in and rapped for the driver to proceed.
"I thought you might prefer this to being questioned at my office adjoining the tribunal," Raoul de Villaret murmured coolly as he removed his high-crowned hat, tossed it onto the seat beside him and leaned back against the leather cushions opposite her. It was easier to stare at the long fingers clasped around the metal top of his swordstick than to dare read his face.
Inwardly Fleur loaded the powder and readied the guns. Outwardly, she regarded him with dislike. "I have no idea what this is about, citizen," she answered serenely, and took an unreasonable interest in a passing cart.
"I trust your affairs in Caen are well in hand?"
That startled her into looking across at her inquisitor. "Citizen?"
"I understood inquiries were being made in order to apprehend the brigands who attacked your husband. I received a report yesterday afternoon." So it was not about last night. Oh my God, but yes, it was—he had sent the carriage to collect her at the Chat Rouge. He had known she would be there. So he now had a two-pronged fork to jab her with! Pray heaven, he did not know she was La Coquette!
"There was certainly no need for Citizen Fournay to bother himself with the matter, Citizen de Villaret. My husband was quite coherent before he died and guessed who was responsible, and I assure you he did not blame anyone in Caen."
"Oh, it is not Fournay who is concerning himself. It is Citizen Esnault."
Damn Esnault! And damn this man! He had noticed her hands tighten in her lap. "I have only met the gentleman once," she said calmly, forcing herself to appear at ease. "He was an old school-friend of my husband."
"I understand he witnessed Matthieu Bosanquet's will?"
"I am not sure of the purpose of this conversation, Citizen de Villaret, but if Citizen Esnault—or you, for that matter—are implying that I somehow compelled Matthieu into leaving me his worldly goods, the answer is no. I find myself in debt to here." She tapped her high black collar."My late husband enjoyed a gamble, not at the gaming tables but in business. Of late, because times are so changeable, he did not do well. Ask Citizen Hérault. He is my husband's major debtor."
The clever eyes regarding her conceded nothing. Indeed his jaw hardened. Did he believe her?
"Were you and Monsieur Bosanquet acquainted for long before your marriage?"
"That is none of your business, citizen."
"I could make it so." Oh, he was playing with her, the sudden velvet of his voice contrary to his words. Did a doe in the forest recognise the intent gleam of a different hunt in a stag's eyes? Fleur did now, looking into the face of the man opposite her. The sudden smile as he leaned forward held infinitely more danger than an unbuttoned rapier. "You provoke interest, citizeness."
"Maybe, but I certainly do not seek it." Not from you, her glance told him but something deep inside her was opening. "And let me return this." Her fingers fumbled through her skirt to her pocket and drew out the catapult. "I have no idea what you meant by presenting it to me. Perhaps I am missing out on some peculiar form of Parisian humour."
He took it from her and sat back, testing the leather thongs that tethered the sling, but his gaze did not leave her face. "Not a pocket mirror nor needle case for you, madame, but a lethal toy."
In other circumstances, she might have found the implication amusing, even flattering. "Why should you imagine it is mine?" He was silent, watching her. "I am not a murderess."
"Money can commission villainy." He allowed that to sink in, and, unnerved by his silence, she abruptly turned her head to the half-open window and leaned her chin upon her glove.
"How old are you? Not twenty-three, I suspect."
"What difference does it make?" she retorted. "You want some sort of confession. Very well, I shoot cats like the guillotined king once did and I strangled the rest of the nursery when I was three."
"You must have had phenomenal strength." His eyes examined her with appreciation. "Wouldn't it have been easier to nudge them out of the cribs like cuckoos do?" The humour was brief. He was back to playing Torquemada. "I asked, how old are you?"
"A hundred and four! Will that acquit me?"
"Citizeness!" His tone turned staccato."How old are you?"
Fleur glared at him. "Nearly twenty. Why?"
"Nineteen, then," the cool voice corrected, replete. "Thank you."
Refusing to turn her head, she paid his tardy politeness with an icy nod.
"I understand you are the new owner of the Chat Rouge."
In the street, the buildings ran by swiftly like sand through a minute glass.
"You are going to close me down."
"Oh yes, I could do that." There was a serrated tone beneath the refusal to commit. So he intended to make her pay for last night's mockery.
"Is it money you require, Monsieur de Villaret, like your friend Hérault? Or is it to be something less obvious to placate your Jacobin morality." With a lift of chin, she pretended to note the upper windows of the passing tenements.
"What do you take me for, widow?"
Well, that certainly hit, but the silence which followed maddened her. "Then what is it you want—oh!"
The window shutter slammed down beside her.
"I want your full attention, citizeness." DeVillaret withdrew his hand slowly and sat back with languid ease, clearly gratified he had sent her pulses racing. "What do you suppose would please me?" The white teeth were almost clenched.
"A-a sense of humour?" she suggested courageously.
"Very good, but not the right answer."
Fleur's breath refused to grow even.
He leaned forward. "La Coquette." Ah, so he was only after the actress. Relief should have flooded through her aristocratic veins but instead she felt thrown aside. How could he prefer a painted houri to the ci-devant Mile de Montbulliou? Astonished at her own feelings, she could only blink at him.
"L-La Coquette?" she echoed bleakly.
"A meeting with La Coquette—tonight. Those are my terms."
"W-what if she refuses?" Show the dogs you are not afraid. "As-as her employer, I have the duty to protect her."
He burst out laughing. "Nineteen and an abbess already! No, do not bridle so. I do not mean to insult you." The brown eyes sparkled roguishly. "Of course, I merely wish to impress upon your actress that she is playing with fire. So are you!" Steel rasped through his voice again. "As I say, arrange a rendezvous for me, or," he lifted the top of his cane and poised it to knock the driver's panel, "it will be so easy to incarcerate you in the nearest prison and send your theatre troupe to join you." He smiled at her panic. "No? Not yet?" The cane was lowered. "In that case, I should be very careful which deputies you permit La Coquette to mock in future. Word spreads like fire
in this hayloft of a city. Danton will be amused, I'm sure—I know him well enough to make that forecast—but Marat could destroy you in a paragraph, even send the rabble to find you... or perhaps he has already? I believe you had a fire."
The fire! Yes, she had recklessly challenged half of Paris. Later she would deal with that. Now she was alone in a coach with Raoul de Villaret and out of her depth. So La Coquette had embarrassed him. Well, that was something. Out loud she asked: "And you? Were you amused, Citizen de Villaret?"
The well-clad shoulders shrugged. "I thought la Coq—" He broke off and gave her a sharp look. "You were there, were you?"
Damnation! "N-no, but I'm told that—"
"You were there, citizeness," he declared emphatically, "counting the takings, I expect."
She sprang to her feet and rapped against the coach with her palm. But he caught her wrist and thrust her down.
"Since this is an unofficial meeting, I have no need to listen to any more of your insults," she seethed.
"Who said it was unofficial?" She struggled but his grip was strong. "I seem to remember rescuing you several times, you ungrateful girl. Perhaps you would like to face the mob again. Crowds are very easily arranged and lampposts are plentiful. Ouuch!"
Having kicked him hard, Fleur collapsed fuming on the seat, curling her toes with the pain. Raoul de Villaret was gazing at her with what looked suspiciously like a desire to put her across his knee.
"V-very well," she exclaimed, before he could acquire a fondness for the notion. "I will speak with La Coquette. I shall tell him to expect you at the café before tonight's performance."
"Him! A nice try, citizeness." Smiling, he pulled open the flap and ordered the coachman to let him down. "Until this evening, then," he murmured, lifting his hat mockingly. "Take her back to Rue de Sévigné. The exercise will do her good."
"Adieu, you salaud," she muttered angrily, subsiding against the seat-back, forgetting the driver's flap was still open.
"Congratulations, citizeness."A lone eye peered in at her and a rumble of a chuckle reached her. "Most passengers only go one way."
Fleur-de-Lis Page 15
