"Thank you." Hard to smile instead of run.
"Take her along, Morel, and no lingering!"
Sick to her stomach, Fleur forced herself to follow the whistling young soldier up a small flight of stairs whose masonry was charred from a recent fire.
"Ever been here before, citizeness?" The straw the soldier was chewing waggled.
"No." And I never want to come here again. Her voice sounded overloud in the corridor. He nodded acquaintance as they passed a soldier escorting a woman with hands tied behind her back.
"Going to the tribunal," explained Fleur's escort cheerfully. "See down there, that's the women's court." The small square courtyard seemed pathetic, dwarfed on all sides by louring walls. Only a smidgin of grass had endured the winter and a lonely tree struggled to lend some gentleness. Several ladies were crammed into a tiny patch of sunlight and a small child played in the dirt at their feet; on the other side of the yard, watched by more guards, a young man and a girl were holding each other's hands. "Saying au revoir," quipped Fleur's young escort, pulling the straw from his mouth and flicking it out the casement. "Entertaining, eh?"
Fleur stared, unable to answer as the young man was dragged back by the arms, a soldier either side of him. The girl's loud scream of protest battered the walls of the courtyard. "Better than the theatre any day, don't you agree, citizeness?"
Words were impossible. She no longer noticed now which way they went. Behind her, through the open window, the girl's sobs were turning to despair. Another corridor, another guard barring her way with a pike, her papers examined, another corridor, more questions, and then an antechamber.
"What's her business?" demanded a sans-culotte with a pistol stuck in his belt.
"She's here to see Deputy de Villaret!" A pinch through her skirts punctuated the declaration.
"Company, citizen," the man announced to someone inside as he opened the door a crack. "Another seamstress touting for night work." A moustached face grinned down at her. "What's your price, darling?"
"You can dream!" muttered Fleur, squeezing past before he could grab her. Her derriere must be as blue as the royal flag with so much pinching. Behind her the door closed.
De Villaret did not look up at his visitor. His jacket and stock were hung on the back of his chair, and he was engrossed at his writing table. A leather-clad volume, heavy with authority, lay at his elbow. He appeared to be making notes, not signing warrants and other fearsome documents as she expected, but her imagination was racing as she absorbed the bare walls and floor devoid of welcome. Had wretched prisoners stood here trembling, jabbed forward at the short point of a pike? What madness was this, to force a confrontation with a man she should avoid? She had gone too far in her anger, trading on his attraction to La Coquette. Besides, it was the imaginary woman he admired, not her.
"Yes, citizeness?" He slowly looked up from his notes, wearing the officious expression he had worn in Caen. "Yes, what is the matter?"
The matter, the immediate matter was that... Nom de Diable! She blinked at de Villaret, uncertain how to proceed, for the controlled interest in his golden eyes was somehow depriving the room of air. His study of her missed nothing: the clutched gowns, her heated complexion and the hair escaping so disorderly from her small hat.
"What did you want to say to me?" The question offered no emotional guide.
"I make no apology for disturbing you, citizen. I am exceedingly angry. Your men..." The words tumbled out tepid when they should be scalding.
"Yes, citizeness? What about my men?"
"They—well, they damaged these costumes when they—I mean you—searched my premises."The injustice of it rallied her. "I insist on reparation."
"Show me." The chair scraped back. The man's shirtsleeves fell gracefully into place as he came round the desk to her. Damn him, did he have to come so close? It was he who eased the gowns from her grasp, laid them across his desk and examined the rents."Yes, I agree with you." Striding to the door, he jammed it open with his heel. "Mauger!" The surly sans-culotte looked astonished at the burden suddenly thrust into his arms. "Take these to the former duchess. Tell her the mending must be done straightaway." He closed the door, the mocking lift of his brow questioning whether his visitor was satisfied.
Fleur recoiled. "You-you are making a duchess mend them."
"Equality, citizeness." His expression was devoid of sympathy. "Besides, she is good at sewing and has nothing better to do. I will send the soldiers who were responsible for the damage to your restaurant to return the dresses tomorrow morning. They will apologise. Why are you still looking so angry? Did you expect me to be unreasonable?"
"Of course," snapped Fleur," and... and I have been disgracefully fumbled by half the revolutionary army of France trying to reach you and achieve..."
"Recompense? Poor citizeness, I should have thought you were used to that." With this ambiguous remark he stood back, freeing her path to the door as if he assumed she wished to leave immediately and then when she made no move, regarded her with curiosity: "Is there something else you wish to discuss with me?"
"Indeed, yes," she spluttered. "Yes, there is! Marat... Marat! has informed me that you are conducting a liaison with my employee."
For an infinitesimal moment his face froze, but perhaps it was her imagination. "Which one?" The edges of the man's mouth lifted slowly, teasingly. He returned to his desk and leaned back against it, surveying her with lazy amusement.
"Which one?" she retorted, trying not to sound sour, but this was beyond endurance "Good God, citizen, you can't mean—?"
He had pity on her."Ah, you mean La Coquette."The long fingers stroked across his chin as if the matter required perusal."Yes, I believe I am."
"But that is not possible," she exclaimed.
A dark eyebrow arched insolently and he spread his hands, glancing down over his shirt and breeches before he raised his head. "I find no problem, citizeness."
"Well... well, I do!" She retreated as he took a step towards her "And you may close me down if my sentiments annoy you. I expressly forbade such a liaison."
"Did you? Oh yes, I recall. Well, these things happen. But I doubt you would be pleased to see your café close unless you wish to pay your debts to Hérault de Séchelles in a different coin. Now, delightful as this interruption is, I have a great deal of work to do. Permit me to see you to the gate."
The door was being held open. She had no choice but to brush past him, her skirts snatched in as though his libertine habits might infect her clothing. Except the wind was not quite blown out of her sails.
"You may mock me, citizen, but I absolutely forbid you to carry on this... this affaire, otherwise I shall be forced to dismiss the woman!" Oh, this was ridiculous, she thought, briskly walking ahead of him through the gallery. How could she possibly be envious of a creature made of nothing but greasepaint? Columbine, it had to be Columbine or—She glared round at the man behind her with fresh suspicion. Had this damnable scoundrel been boasting?
"Ah, be fair. You know as well as I, citizeness," he remarked cheerfully as he followed her down the stairs, "that La Coquette is a law unto herself, and I clearly remember it was you who advised me to approach her privately." That brought her up short as she reached the lower floor.
"Yes, I did, citizen," she admitted, glaring up at him, wishing she did not like the way his dark hair curled with a republican liberty of its own. "But are you sure you have the right actress, citizen? After all, she was in costume when you met her at the café, and I employ several."
His forehead creased in surprise but she could sense the suppressed laughter. "Of course, not the blonde girl nor the southerner but the brunette." He gestured to her to precede him and she felt his gaze licking like flames at her back. "Your height, actually," he murmured, "same colouring too." Then he was level with her, covering the distance with an easy stride. Fleur, unable to think of a cutting answer, was fuming. A strong hand caught her gloved wrist and compelled her to stop. "Be
honest, my dear Citizeness Bosanquet, as a woman of the world, you surely cannot object to my liaison with La Coquette unless the late nights are affecting her performances on stage. Are they?"
Fleur gazed at him open-mouthed. Goodness, she must look like a waterspout on the roof of Notre Dame. Wiping the entertained look off de Villaret's damnable face would have assuaged her temper. "But La Coquette has not been performing," she replied through clenched teeth.
"Hasn't she?" Polite surprise was laced with chagrin. "Indeed? Maybe I am wearing her out. I try to organise interesting diversions to entertain her." His appraising gaze rose lazily up her skirts, over her bosom and waited, alert now, testing."Indeed, I am planning to escort her to a balloon ascent in the Bois de Boulogne on Saturday if the weather is sympathetic." He saw Fleur through the wicket gate.
"A b-balloon!" Curse it, she was beginning to sound like M. Beugneux at his most agitated.
"Have you never seen a balloon?" he asked charitably.
Oh, he was playing games with her. Holding out a rattle for her unworldly hands to snatch at. Fleur swept ahead of him across the courtyard, buckling her temper down, then turned, trying to behave with sophistication. "A balloon? No, I have not." Outwardly she stayed serene; inwardly she felt like a little girl who was missing out on presents. "A republican balloon, I assume?" she added provocatively."I am sure the Convention has sufficient hot air to send one as far as London."
The deputy's eyes gleamed with the love of battle. Sympathy with the exact blend of sarcasm was weighed out to a nicety."No balloons, and a widow too!" he purred with fake pity. "Incroyable! But why do you not come on Saturday if the weather is fine? I am going to arrange a breakfast hamper. Do you drink champagne, citizeness, or is it yet another vice you do not permit yourself?"
"Oh, I permit myself all manner of vices," Fleur murmured silkily, aiming for nonchalance, and then recognising that the hook was dangling, handsomely baited, added swiftly, "It is the company I am fastidious about. I daresay it could be very amusing. However..." Oh God, she must not sound so enticed. It was necessary to frown down meaningfully at her widow's skirts.
"I am sure your late husband would not disapprove of your participation as a spectator, citizeness."
"He... Matthieu was a great believer in public entertainment, sir. Yes, why not, I shall attend." Oh, she should have turned on her heel by now. To be seduced so easily and by a balloon!
"Then permit me to send the details to your house tomorrow." She inclined her head and then saw the official in him take over. "A warning, citizeness. Aristos have been escaping from La Force, which is why we have been searching all the premises in your section. I assume you and your employees—as good patriots—will inform me at once if you see or hear anything unusual. And, citizeness, be careful. It is no game these traitors are playing."
With a stern inclination of her head, Fleur withdrew, feeling like a duelling opponent who had just been pinked—twice. The Devil! The low-down, unspeakable, insufferable—It was a mistake to glance back over her shoulder. The rogue was watching her with the smiling complacence of a fisherman who had just hauled in his supper.
At least he had not been searching the Chat Rouge because of her, she reasoned, remembering his warning. As for knowing about her debts, his friend, Hérault, must have divulged that morsel. But the matter of La Coquette... She was going to wring the truth out of Columbine. It had to be Columbine, she decided. Juanita was too tall and none of the other women would have the gall. By the time she arrived back at the café, she was ravenous for food and an explanation from the jaunty blonde, but the actors had not yet returned for the evening's performance. She collapsed onto a chair at her special table beside the wall and toed off her shoes. Half-concealed by a wicker screen, the table afforded her some privacy as well as an opportunity to observe the interplay of staff and customers.
"Did you receive justice, patronne?" asked Thomas, setting a bowl of divinely smelling pottage in front of her.
"The trouble with that man," declared Fleur, waving her spoon fiercely in a nonaristocratic fashion, "is that he is a rake first and a revolutionary second. This is delicious. Why are you making faces?" She wriggled round in her chair. "Oh!"
Behind her in the gap between the painted flowers on the wall and the screen stood Felix Quettehou wearing his workman's breeches and Madras bandanna.
"Bonsoir, Tante Bosanquet," he exclaimed. "May I?" and slid into the chair opposite. "I have come to apologise."
"It must be the weather affecting everyone," she murmured, exchanging glances with Thomas, and gestured to the soup. "Will you have some?"
Quettehou nodded. "That is exceedingly generous considering my rudeness at my uncle's funeral." He half turned in his chair. "This is quite incredible. I never believed that anyone could turn this hole into a success. Félicitations!" He accepted a glass of sauterne from one of the waiters and raised it to Fleur. "You are quite a businesswoman."
"And you are a printer and section representative at the Commune, citizen?"
"I move with the times and I am prospering. Paris devours broadsheets like a desperate fledgling and, like you, I have acquired powerful friends. Hérault is quite a feather in your hat." The probing came again. "Is that how you met my uncle—through him?"
"No. Ah, here is your soup," she said, hiding her relief. "Tell me what you think of it."
He grinned at Thomas and tried some. "A little too rich for me, mon brave, but yes, still good, not that I am an expert."
Thomas waggled an insulting finger behind Quettehou's head and disappeared.
"How do you distribute your broadsheets?" asked Fleur, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
"I have regulars but I listen out for large gatherings, opportunities when my men can distribute the pages easily to a large number. I ask around. Do you know of anything this coming week?"
"There is some sort of balloon ascent on Saturday if the weather is clement."
"Ah, that's it exactly. Thank you, aunt. Are you interested in balloons?"
"This will be the first time I have seen one. Yes, I am tempted to attend." She took a sip of her Bourbonne water. "So, Monsieur Quettehou, is it easy combining your work and your duty as a patriot? Your work with the section must take much of your time."
He nodded." There is a great deal to be done if we are to consolidate the changes since the Bastille fell. The Church's filthy grip on so much land and wealth has to be broken, and I want to see Marie-Antoinette and all the other aristocratic houris who lived off the rest of us guillotined."
"But you believe in owning property and making a profit?"
"Of course, how else can progress be achieved? It's not drunken peasants who are going to lead France into the next century but people like us, people who can harness money with hard work, ingenuity with opportunity." He glanced about meaningfully. "People who can make others work efficiently."
"You flatter me."
"And I am mortified that last week I insulted you." His fingers stretched towards her apologetically before withdrawing to the edge of the table. "Some time I should like to hear the circumstances of how you met my uncle." Like this very instant, his expression suggested.
Fleur stood up, shaking out her skirts. "Another time. You must forgive me if I attend to my duties. No, please, finish your soup. We have just installed a billiard table if you wish to play and there will be some entertainment in an hour."
Already standing, he shook his head. "I, too, have business that needs attending. Am I forgiven for my previous insults, Tante Bosanquet? You must understand that the shock of my uncle's death..." Had deprived him of manners, when most likely he had arranged his uncle's murder?
Compelled to shake his hand, she shuddered inwardly at the damp slide of his flesh beneath her palm and watched with relief as he left the café.
"It must be our day for unwelcome visitors," she declared to Thomas, as she cleared the table.
"There's more, I'm afraid, patronne. Columbine i
s indisposed and cannot play tonight. Juanita will do her solos instead and said not to worry you."
"Indisposed?" The word rose to a surprising crescendo.
Thomas's brow creased in puzzlement. "You think it is a lie, patronne?"
"I-I heard a rumour that she was having an affaire de coeur."
"Ah!" It was a Gallic "ah" redolent with understanding.
Fleur bit her lip, half in mind to charge round to Columbine's lodgings and see for herself. No, that was foolish."Thomas, I know this will sound frivolous but I think you and I have earned ourselves a free morning. The café can manage without us for a few hours. Would you be my escort on Saturday to a balloon ascent?"
"Patronne!" His eyes were spherical. "My pleasure!"
"Bon! Now, is there anything I can help with?"
"If you can see what else needs putting to rights in the cellar, petite, that would be excellent. I haven't had time to scratch myself."
Anxious to be busy, Fleur lit a candle and went downstairs. No one had swept up the flutter of onion and garlic skins displaced by the search.
Where was it the prisoners were escaping from? La Force? The old Hotel de Caumont de La Force, scarce a street away. These old mansions must all have warrens of cellars and passages beneath them. She set down the broom and took up the candlestick. The walls seemed solid. No concealed doors, no trapdoors either.
For an instant she remembered the day her world at Clerville had ended, recalled the little she knew of the thief who had helped her. To her fifteen-year-old self, he had been old, but now it did not seem so. Slender shouldered, he must have been only in his early twenties which would make him, why, not even thirty. That was if he was not rotting in some gibbet by now or lying headless in an unmarked grave. The Revolution had at least been efficient in emptying the world of cutpurses. It was no longer acceptable to thieve from one's equals, and thieving from anyone with a title was a privilege reserved for the government.
Fleur-de-Lis Page 18
