Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  "Citizeness, Chef said to tell you that there are two soldiers here with the gowns." Already? De Villaret must have commandeered a battalion of duchesses.

  "Tell Thomas to offer them a free meal if they are decent men just doing their duty."

  She returned upstairs but there was no sign of any military save for a pair of officers happy at the billiard table. The returned gowns were draped over the screen by her table.

  "I hope you do not mind that I did not delay the soldiers," muttered Thomas as she inspected the wonderful mending. "Louts like them do not like apologising. They might have noted your face for the future. Better to be careful, hein?"

  Fleur carried the dresses back to their racks, lit the candles in the dressing-room and sat down before the mirror. One of La Coquette's several wigs sat blankly on its stand but the others were not in evidence. That was no surprise. There was still a pile of crumpled garments waiting to be pressed before they were hung back up. Or perhaps Columbine had treacherously sequestered one of them.

  Saturday, she thought wearily; should she resurrect La Coquette and sail into the Bois de Boulogne with all flags aloft? Or should the Widow Bosanquet make a subdued, stately appearance? Perhaps she should call at Columbine's lodging off the Vielle Rue de Temple and ascertain the truth, but tonight she did not want any answers. What should I do? she asked her reflection. The tired Fleur in the mirror, nineteen and unwed, stared back, wide-eyed. The candles flamed like altar lights either side of a painting.

  She could remember one girl in the convent confiding naughtily that if you took off all your clothes and sat naked before a mirror at midnight on New Year's Eve, the face of your true love would be revealed. Well, New Year was months away and she was not about to sit naked for anyone, and especially not de Villaret.

  The eyes in the mirror grew wistful. There was only one man she yearned to meet again, the masked thief who had led her to safety down the secret passageway he should not have known of. Her mysterious thief! A hero in her daydreams but no doubt some boring artisan or a dismissed footman of Papa's—there had been plenty of those; except there had been a curious authority about the man. Not a servant's sneering hauteur or the swaggering tyranny of the newly moneyed but the calm ease of a man who knew himself and liked the fellow he saw in his shaving glass.

  Yes, her fantasy. So many moments wasted in wondering; webs spun by night to catch a fantasy and in the morning broken by reality. Fleur buried her face in the shelter of her trembling fingers. Take each day as it comes! Just as she had in the forest. After all, the future might be brutish and short.

  Chapter 10

  The Bois de Boulogne might have too many trees—after all, it had been the hunting park of the kings since the days of Henri of Navarre—but there were a few broad swards where a balloon might be launched on a calm morning, and it was far enough from the heart of Paris not to attract a huge crowd. In any case, it was not as if the balloon was going to be cast off. No, it would be safely anchored by ropes. They were just going to experiment with how long it would stay in the air with three men on board. A process completely and utterly manageable. Or so Raoul thought as Deputy Boissy d'Anglas's coach, carrying Boissy, Armand and himself, traversed the cobbles of Saint-Honore and headed towards the Porte Maillot.

  "Oh, you haven't brought a book with you, Armand," he exclaimed in disgust. "Nom d'un chien, it's a balloon ascent."

  His friend shrugged."It could get boring."

  "You are sure this Robinet fellow is trustworthy, Raoul?" Boissy, the son of Raoul's godfather, asked again, searching his pockets for his snuffbox. As it was mostly his money paying for the balloon, he had some justification for concern.

  "Yes, Boissy, there were eight there last night to guard the apparatus—I made sure they had cudgels with them—and I've arranged for some national guard to be there this morning just in case."

  Armand whistled. "Friends in high places, eh, Raoul." He offered his snuff to Boissy.

  "Low, by the sound of it," snapped Boissy. He tapped a sprinkling of powder onto the back of his hand and took a snort.

  "Well, none of them will be as high as you in a few hours' time. You will be able to write a new treatise on transportation en ballon," chuckled Raoul. Unless, of course, the weather changed, but the great watchmaker in the sky could not have given them a sweeter morning after last night's showers. Today would be a respite from the endless bickering in the Convention, and since there had been no escapes from La Force prison during the week, Raoul intended to enjoy himself; besides, he had seduction on his mind if the day went well.

  A quarter of an hour later he eased down the window shutter and checked his watch dial in the light of the lantern that swung on the outside of the vehicle. Perhaps they should have left earlier; the early morning traffic in the city had been heavier than he had anticipated. "Are you sure you will not join the ascent, Armand? You can take my place."

  "Diable, no! I will stick to criticising Marat. It is just as dangerous but I can still keep my feet on terra firma."

  "To each his own!" Raoul shrugged. The horses were slowing. "Merde," he exclaimed in astonishment. "Damn it, I thought we understood this was to be a private business."

  The common ground around the ascent site looked as though a horde of gypsies, without their caravans, had moved in. Dark rolls and crescents on the ground beside dead fires stirred, stretching out pale limbs as the carriage wheels bowled past.

  "By the look of them, it's the rabble from the homeless camp on the other side of the park," muttered Boissy. "Mon Dieu, Raoul, I never intended this."

  "Nor I."

  Even with his liberal principles pinned on his chest, Boissy, ci-devant major domo to Artois, the dead King's brother, was an aristocratic bird ripe for plucking. Merde! Every hack writer in Paris would be loading their verbal pistols to shoot him down. But with Artois baring his teeth at the Revolution from his safe kennel in Coblenz, who could blame anyone for being suspicious? Even Raoul wondered whether a healthy bribe from across the border might have tempted a continuation of his friend's discreet services. After all, if the Revolution failed, Boissy's old master might one day become a king.

  Boissy's hand tightened on his walking cane, tense, but he did not voice his fear. "Let us get on with it, then, but if anything has been pilfered..."

  Raoul did not answer. He sprang from the coach and marched towards the huddle of carts and bricks in the centre of the field.

  "Drink, citizen?" A lemonade-seller, bent under the weight of her pack, hobbled towards him. A gaggle of others materialised beside her, honking:

  "Rosettes, citizen?"

  "Beer, Deputy?"

  "Broadsheets? Latest news?"

  "Show me that!" Raoul could just about make out the glimmer of capitals announcing a balloon ascent. Damn!

  "Ere, citizen!" Half-a-dozen urchins plucked at his coat-tails. "When is this balloon thing gonna go up then?"

  Checking that his watch and wallet were still in his possession, Raoul swung round and shook his head helplessly at his travelling companions before he caught sight of Robinet lounging beside the brick wall they had built the day before. He headed over to him with a merciless expression.

  Lifted an inch from the ground by his coat revers and pressed up against the wooden frame holding the balloon membrane, the sans-culotte vigorously shook his head, protesting he had not organised the circus that surrounded them. The moment he was lowered he grabbed a shovel and dashed across to fuel the glowing brazier with an alacrity that was rarely glimpsed.

  "Well?" Dewlaps quivering, Boissy stomped up wearing an expression like a keg of gunpowder with its lit fuse at kissing point. "Well?"

  "I do not know who damn well spread the information—I'll geld the bastard later—but it will be worse before it gets better."

  "Worse?" echoed Armand.

  "Much worse. Someone's printed a broadsheet. It looks like we'll be getting half of Paris."

  * * *

  Fleur, a
nd no doubt her neighbours, was woken at a most ungodly hour by an urgent rapping on the front door. A cheerful member of the national guard saluted her, presented two passes, informed her the weather had cleared and she was to expect a fiacre at five o'clock. Fleur blinked blearily at the cloudless sky, closed the front door and swore loudly about revolutionaries and one in particular. Later she was grateful for de Villaret's planning; the narrow artery into the Bois de Boulogne was already clogged with carts and coaches by the time the fiacre reached the park gates.

  "The only consolation," she told Thomas, sleepily stifling a yawn, "is that Columbine will detest having to get up so early. I wonder if he sent a hired vehicle for her too."

  Thomas chuckled. "Well, if he is planning to seduce the pair of you at a champagne piquenique, he's going to have an audience of thousands. Don't frown, mignonne, at the rate we're progressing, you'll be lucky if you get there in time to enjoy the crumbs."

  Finally, it was easier to walk, and with her burly, devoted chef for protection, it had seemed a good idea to Fleur at first. However, as they explored the frayed edges of the crowd cramming into the balloon site, she was far too aware of hungry eyes calculating what valuables she might carry. Pushing through to the front seemed impolitic.

  "Not at all what I expected," chortled Thomas, craning his neck to see their goal. "You are looking pale, patronne,". He pinched her cheek. "You need some breakfast. Let's hope they have saved you some."

  Fleur had never seen so many people in one place. Even the branches of the nearby oaks were laden with human rooks. "I think we should leave, Thomas. I-I do not care for this at all."

  "Ha, it won't take long to find him. Let's make for the balloon." Her chef flipped up his brown coat-tails."Just hold onto my belt."With a sigh, she shuffled on obediently in his giant wake.

  She had not told Thomas of her experience with the mob that first week in Paris. That must be what was making her edgy, she rationalised, but deep down she sensed danger. In the woods she would have noticed a sudden stillness or been warned by a startled bird, but here... No, she must stay calm. After all, there were plenty of bourgeois spectators like her tangled in the crowd. How stupid to be anxious; this was no restless rabble but a mixture of people in Sunday humour on a calm and sunny morning. There was a balloon ascent to watch and even if she did not discover Citizen de Villaret and Columbine in this press, at least Thomas would enjoy some well-earned leisure.

  "Ouuuch!" A hand sliced down painfully on her arm. She instantly lost her grip on Thomas's belt. A rough youth had elbowed his way in front of her, cutting her off, and another man was pushing into her from the back. Something hard and curved hooked around her right ankle. She jabbed her parasol down to free herself.

  "Thomas!" she screamed as her assailant yanked hard; some cutpurse was bent on pitching her headfirst beneath the crowd's feet. "Thomas!" Then the youth swivelled swiftly, a small knife ready in his fist. "Thomas!"

  The chef's muscular arm swiped the youth aside as though he were some flimsy cranefly and curled round Fleur's waist. Protecting her with his body, Thomas half-carried her the rest of the way.

  Righted like a toppled black chesspiece safely behind the cordon of national guard protecting the ascent site, Fleur repinned her hat with a shaking hand. She had never thought she would be so glad to see a blue and white uniform.

  "C-can you observe Columbine anywhere, Thomas?" she asked, trying to sound sensible and ignore the fact that she desperately wanted to run away. But where? Behind her was a sea of faces concealing her attackers in secure anonymity; ahead was de Villaret.

  "No, no sign of Columbine in any guise," Thomas chuckled, scanning the figures moving around in the smoke," but there's the deputy, patronne, and he certainly hasn't an actress on his arm." He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. "He's waving us through."

  "A moment." She fumbled for a handkerchief. The acrid smell was strong enough to bring tears to her eyes, and God knows what they were burning, but it was the after-shock that rendered her fragile.

  Thomas waited patiently, clearly enjoying himself. "Cheer up, little one. At least the stink will keep the hordes at bay." He was right. Like wolves lurking around a traveller's night campfire, the spectators were being cautious. "Feeling better now?"

  Better? Walking the plank off a pirate ship into a shark-filled ocean might be more appealing. Her shoes were sodden from the dew on the ankle-high grass, and she wished herself at the café with a heartening mug of coffee to warm her hands on, not standing in some foggy clearing with the lousy and the murderous. Mind, she had to admit the risen sun was splashing dabs of colour into this grey world and insinuating its gentle warmth between her shoulderblades. Tucking her arm into Thomas's, she let him draw her around the covered carts.

  The ingenuity of the enterprise astonished her. A low iron brazier was burning within a circle of bricks. At least four feet high and two feet thick, the wall looked to be a hasty, unmortared construction. It was broken in three places: to allow access to the brazier, to keep the large wicker basket that would ride beneath the balloon clear of the heat, and to accommodate the huge bulk of the green and red striped balloon skin which flowed out across the grass like an immense semiflaccid tent enclosed in mesh. Four men stood outside the wall holding long beams of wood. They were lifting the vast wooden hoop, which equatored the balloon skin, above the brazier. The fire must have been wafting heat into the membrane for some hours, for the lower half of the balloon was already billowing.

  "The worst is over, patronne," remarked Thomas. "I suppose they'll unhook the hoop once it is full enough to stand on its own."

  Fleur mopped her eyes with her knuckle. The stink was hard to escape. All manner of rubbish—rags, worn-out shoes, logs and slivered furniture—was piled high outside the first break in the wall, and two workmen with neckerchiefs protecting their mouths and nostrils were leaning on their shovels watching the brazier. The procedure still looked hazardous. If the brazier burned too fiercely, it might well set fire to the balloon skin and a lot of republican money would go up in smoke. Who was paying for this frivolity? The government? Out of confiscated Church property, no doubt!

  The balloon's keepers moved about the grass twitching the balloon fabric like fussy tailors. One of them was Raoul de Villaret in summer breeches of white nankeen. No plumes today—a true revolutionary now with his wide shirtsleeves unleashed from the discipline of his coat. He raised his hand gracefully in greeting and stepped over the cat's cradle of ropes to join them.

  "I commend you for punctuality, citizeness." The unblemished teeth gleamed in a holiday smile. "You want some?" He indicated a brunette lemonade-seller rattling her cups at them hopefully on the edge of the crowd.

  "No, thank you." It was necessary for Fleur to drag her gaze away diffidently from his speculative grin and stare coolly about her.

  "I thought you might have brought Hérault with you, citizeness."

  "Why should I do that?" she asked with genuine surprise, wondering why his grin instantly broadened. "And..." She cleared her throat, "...and is La Coquette here?"

  "I suspect she would not miss this for all the world." The man's dark lashes fell and rose on a gaze practised at conceding nothing. Instead, he took her elbow with the ease of a beau. "Come, permit me to introduce you to the man behind this enterprise."

  Fleur had little choice, but she faltered as she recognised the shorter of the two gentlemen who rose from checking the rope knots. His name escaped her but she had met him before the Revolution, when King Louis's younger brother, the Comte d'Artois, had visited Clerville. He came from a Protestant noble family and, yes, she would swear he had been one of the Comte's close circle, but what was he now? It would be a euphemism to call him a survivor; traitor might be more apt. He might have given away a title, but not his wealth. The cut of his coat, pristine stock and expensive shoe leather pronounced his hypocrisy.

  "May I present Deputy Boissy d'Anglas, the reckless instigator of all thi
s."

  Reckless? Indifferent, certainly. The former courtier was too preoccupied with the balloon to waste his breath on any conversation with the likes of her, but Fleur was taking no chance that he might recognise a fellow aristocrat. Behaving like a milkmaid invited into a ballroom, she rubbed her palm nervously on her skirt before she held it out, and declared in an overloud Calvados dialect, "An honour to meet you."

  But she had overplayed. Beside her de Villaret froze; his recovery, however, was exemplary.

  "And this is Deputy Armand Gensonné, known for flights of eloquence. I have no doubt he will shortly be adding balloon hyperbole to his speeches. Citizens, La Veuve Bosanquet and Thomas, chef of Le Chat Rouge."

  She had supposed him in his late twenties, but face to face Armand Gensonné looked older than he had at the Convention, although there were no grey strands in his ebullient light brown hair. Emilie was right. He did have rather beautiful eyes, translucent with marvellously long lashes, but his prissy mouth and dimpled chin lacked the male strength of de Villaret's jawline. Ha! Emilie would go green as emerald when she heard that her new friend had been in kissing distance of this idol.

  "Is something amusing you, madame?" Gensonné's smile was thinning.

  Fleur shook her head, demurer now. "No, citizen, I daresay I am feeling rather bemused by the occasion." An understatement! Aware that the conversation was stumbling miserably, she raised a gloved hand to her eyes in search of inspiration and peered through the smoke at the brazier. "Cow pats?" she exclaimed, astonished to see open barrels of dry dung being lugged off a cart and carried across to the stokers.

  "It's a form of greeting in Normandy, Armand," de Villaret said dryly. "We shall get her used to Parisian ways eventually." He placed his hand in the small of her back and steered her away from the others. Thomas did not follow. The lemonade-seller had found a customer.

  The custodian touch sent a flurry of panic through Fleur's insides. What on earth did he expect from her? Heavens! It had been idiocy to come this morning. He was too dangerous, too suspicious, and the sideways glance he was giving her this instant was not appreciative. Well, if her excessive display of peasant manners had made him lose interest in her company, so much the better. Maybe now he would swallow the lie that her mother had been lady's maid to the nobility.