Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  "I'm afraid we're returning to the city tonight, Fleur." Quelle surprise! Raoul's hands, light and placatory upon her shoulders, were no comfort.

  "May I ask why?" She did not forget to include Hérault in her arched stare but it was Raoul who answered.

  "We cannot stay here forever, mon coeur."

  No, of course not. The trouble with leaving Paradise was that Eve would never forget what she had lost, when in fact she should have renegotiated the lease with the Almighty and stayed put!

  * * *

  "It's Paris, not the Arctic Pole," muttered Raoul across the carriage. Hérault had descended to relieve himself against a hawthorn hedge. "I wasn't elected to make love to you. It's my duty to go back. Besides, it changes nothing," he added warily and quirked an uncertain eyebrow at her. Why did women need to shake everything out into the open? Some matters resolved themselves without a three-day debate.

  "But our future, Raoul?" Fleur hissed. The darling minx was furious that they had not spent another week together. Now she was hurling all the ammunition she could think of: huffs, scowls and silences. He wished Hérault would get back in. When a woman asked a leading question, a man needed time to garnish the answer.

  "Ah, my love, so we're not talking about the Convention but convention."

  "And if we are?"

  He had warned her that jingling matrimonial bells would irritate him. Anyone would think his terms had been reasonable. Fidelity with a capital "F"! Which was more than Hérault could ever manage, leaping from bed to bed like a blasted alpine billy-goat. Why didn't the disobliging fellow come back this instant instead of hobnobbing with the driver?

  Fleur frowned. Why couldn't Raoul understand? It was true the Revolution had jettisoned hypocrisy in matters of the heart, but bourgeois virtue and respectability were still the measuring stick of polite society. One only had to look at Manon Roland as an example of conjugal stoicism. Despite the efforts of the adoring Deputy Buzot and her other admirers, Madame's affaires had been kept at a platonic level.

  She kicked sullenly at her black skirt, wishing she was free to wear what she liked, and received a consoling handclasp. He still hadn't answered her question. She dragged her fingers free. "If we have children, Raoul, then—"

  "Children are out of the question, my darling," he interrupted. "My livelihood is too uncertain."

  She darted a cautious gaze out the window before dispatching a bitter retort: "And I am an aristocrat and it's the hunting season."

  "That has nothing to do with it." His voice sank to a fierce whisper. "You must understand, Fleur, that much as I adore you, I will give my life to defend the Revolution. If the Emperor of Austria and his allies win through to Paris, I will take my place on the barricades, and if I'm killed, you won't have to suffer the ignominy of being a regicide's widow. You'll thank me for that mercy, believe me."

  "Not if you are dead, I won't, you simpleton."

  The smile he gave her was weary, as though these arguments had been rehearsed a dozen times in his mind. "Don't make it difficult."

  "I do not understand."

  "Let me quote the English philosopher, Francis Bacon: 'He that has wife and children has given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises.'"

  Determined to be perverse, Fleur stared at him blankly and wished she might give this Bacon, if he was still alive, an earful. "As long as I am single," Raoul continued, "I can fight and die for the Revolution. But if I have a family, I should be torn between my love for them and my loyalty to the Revolution. Don't make me choose, Fleur."

  "But you've already chosen and I'll have to accept it," she replied. "Oh, I'm not surprised. Marat warned me."

  "Marat!"

  "Oh yes, sweet-smelling Marat. He says that the likes of him and you always put the Revolution first."

  Raoul turned his face from her, leaning his cheek uncomfortably against the leather seat back. "It's how causes are won, how history is changed," he said finally. "Why do you think Max Robespierre won't marry Elinore Duplay? For the same damn reason."

  "Rubbish, the man's a hypocrite. He gave his blessing to one of his friends just the other day. I saw the wedding party returning. And Georges Danton has just got married again."

  "Pah, to his children's nursemaid. He's only doing it because he needs someone to look after them on a permanent basis."

  "No, he's in love with Louise. Emilie said so." Mention of poor Emilie chilled the air further.

  "Yes, all that may be true," he replied after a moment's consideration, "but—oh, damn it all, my love," he grabbed hold of her reluctant hand, "please understand—if France can kill its king, it can kill its deputies. Georges can marry young Louise but she's just an ordinary chit. If anyone ever arrests him, they might possibly fling her into prison for a few weeks but I doubt they'd give her a death sentence; but you, my chat rouge, are a different matter." He directed a look that was calculated to disarm her. It failed. Not yet thrown, he carried her fingertips to his lips and added, "You run your café and I will return to politics and we shall be discreet, hein. Times will change. When the war is won and our enemies accept that the Republic is here to stay, I will marry you."

  When the Seine finally runs dry!

  "I'm not making an excuse. The law doesn't permit girls under twenty-one to marry unless they have the consent of their guardians. There would be questions and you would need to produce the proper papers."

  "I'm sure I could. There must be a few republican forgers left at liberty," she added scathingly.

  "Fleur! I'm supposed to uphold the laws."

  "Stuff your precious rhetoric, Deputy! I know the real message. If you tire of me as your mistress, I can be swiftly set aside, but if I'm your wife, that's a different game."

  Had they been alone, he might have seduced her to silence but for now he was impatient to end the argument. "Since divorce is easy now, no, it's not a consideration," he proclaimed icily, and added in a tone that might have frozen lesser company, "This is France not England."

  The rattle of the door latch stifled further argument.

  Hérault climbed back on board and rapped the roof with his cane. "Cool in here," he observed.

  "Yes," said Fleur sweetly. "Absolutely Arctic."

  * * *

  Since it was Hérault's coach, Fleur was set down alone in the familiar courtyard of the Rue des Bonnes Soeurs. Raoul sprang down and saw her to her door.

  "Let's not pursue this quarrel further," he whispered, brushing his lips across hers. "It changes nothing as far as I'm concerned, so expect me tomorrow tonight."

  "Of course, Citizen Deputy," she answered demurely. "I'll air the divan and plump the cushions. Would you like the scarlet slippers with the curly toes or the green ones with the spangles?"

  "I'd like the houri with the gauzy pantaloons. I'm sure your dressing-room will oblige."

  "To hear is to obey." His pat on her derriere speeded her towards her door.

  He should have known from the dangerous tone that she was not going to dress Citizen Beugneux up as a vizier and serve up camels' humps in rosewater. The next evening she not only let him into her boudoir but encouraged him to divest himself of his entire clothing before she disappeared behind the screen and reappeared in a tiny spangled blue chemise that barely covered her breasts. Matching silken pantaloons were gathered in at her naked ankles. Enough to make a fellow harden instantly.

  "Sit down. On that chair! No, the armchair. Put your hands behind you!"

  He stretched his arms behind the satin chair back. It was a low bedroom chair without arms. She moved behind him and he found his wrists suddenly looped together.

  "What are you planning?" he asked, fantasising already where this game would lead. If she was going to play Salome, this could be sublime torture, and then when she cut him free, he would be so aroused, so... Oh, having an imaginative woman for a mistress had its advantages.

  "Now one thing more," she purred.

  He never expe
cted her to emerge from behind the screen wearing the blasted python round her neck like a pagan garland. Nor was he expecting her to swiftly drape Machiavelli around his neck.

  "Fleur? What the—?" Fear froze his tongue as he felt the coils settle against his flesh.

  "Machiavelli, etrangi ek baha kani. He will bite you if you move, citizen."

  Raoul swallowed and ground out painfully, "Rubbish, there's no such language, Fleur. You have just made that up." As if a grown man couldn't cope with a python! After all, he'd overcome his fear of being closed in. But he wasn't going to beg.

  "You think so?" She bent forward and teased a finger down his profile. Her half-covered breasts in their sheaths of tight satin almost made him forget the serpent writhing along the nape of his neck. "Machiavelli, attention vite, monsieur magnifico mouso, istafan quilla mobile! I have just told him you are a giant rat. Move if you dare!"

  "Fleur, for God's sake. At least, at least put something across me, woman," he exclaimed. "This is indecent."

  She adjusted the python's coils closer to his cheek. "Yes, it is."

  "What in hell are you... Diable! You're not going to leave me here with this monster?"The silk of her pantalons slid sensually against his thigh as she swung slowly round to face him. It was torture to suffer that caressing evaluation. It honed his desire even more.

  "I warn you." Her lovely mouth puckered in amusement. "Nothing must move. Nothing. Machiavelli might not behave."

  "Damn you!" His voice rose. The game was over as far as he was concerned. She'd had her fun.

  "Hussh, if he gets startled or panicky, Machiavelli will tighten his coils around the nearest object. Sleep well, mon brave." She blew the candle out and slid out the door.

  Raoul was left alone; the moonlight slashing through the curtain parting showed him the bed. He hoped the damn snake had noticed and would head for the familiar cushions, but Machiavelli showed no signs of moving premises. Raoul gritted his teeth. Adam should have killed the damn serpent before it taught him to fancy Eve. In fact, Adam had been a blasted fool, being seduced by an apple in the first place. And he, Raoul deVillaret, shouldn't have expected any better of a Montbulliou.

  Was this because he wouldn't marry her? Jezebel! He'd turn celibate except there wasn't a monastery left in France. He'd strangle her. Put the python round her damn throat and panic it. Make it more panicked than any python had ever been!

  * * *

  At the foot of the stairs, M. Beugneux observed her costume through his quizzing glass. "Dressing for dinner, are we?" He received an unhappy look and added, "You do realise that your lover could be slowly strangled."

  "It's all right, I've left some scissors and a knife on the dressing table. It will take him a few minutes to work it out and hell need to cut himself free rather carefully but I am sure he will manage."

  "Hmm, I still think you and I should eat our supper in silence on the landing just to be sure. Otherwise they really will be burying him in the Panthéon. The only revolutionary martyr strangled by a python."

  * * *

  Raoul stirred as Fleur set aside the curtains and let the early morning peer greyly in. The mirrors showed her slumbering prisoner from all angles as though he were some convoluted, exotic sculpture. The python was curled up contentedly on the bed beside him. In fact, Machiavelli's head was actually resting upon his shoulder with a babe-like trust. Very touching.

  She gathered the snoozing python up into her arms. Machiavelli opened his eyes dozily. His tongue flicked out exploratively.

  "He kept me warm and never once asked when we're likely to have children," Raoul murmured reproachfully.

  "Well, I am glad of that. I did look in regularly to make sure he hadn't strangled you but you were fast asleep." She unloaded the creature onto its stand with a sigh.

  "Do you serve breakfast in this establishment, madame? Coffee, perhaps? I tried ringing your friend's tail for service earlier. Brioche would be good and raspberry confiture if—" He watched her pick up the knife from the floor. "Lord, truth is a fancy thing. Is that a weapon for slitting throats or buttering?"

  It was spoken evenly but retribution was due. She watched him warily as he rose to his feet—like a fine Grecian statue come to life—flexing his stiff arms and stretching. Pygmalion might have understood her trepidation. "So how much did you hear, Fleur?"

  Her lips parted in confusion and then she understood. The clever, exasperating devil! So he had known all along that she had eavesdropped at Le Nid. Well, at least the matter would not fester any longer.

  "Enough. I gather I'm to be jettisoned like ballast. It seems whenever Captain Hérault gives the order, it's, 'Aye, aye, captain. Three huzzahs for the jolly Revolution!'" She checked to see if he was listening, but the unfeeling man was casting round for his clothes. "If I have been unfair, Raoul, well, I am sorry. But at least you will remember the final act if nothing else." Why did he have to look so divinely wonderful even if he was doing nothing more than hunting for his underdrawers? But she would not let the familiar moistening between her thighs weaken her resolve. Her chin lifted defiantly. "You've thieved my honour. I'm questioning yours." Fencing with rapiers, one was supposed to watch the opponent's eyes. Raoul's told her nothing. He matter-of-factly tugged on his shirt and shook the sleeves into obedience so he could button his cuffs.

  "It seems to me," and his voice was disgustingly unruffled, "that what we are dealing with is a drama written for two, and all I'm hearing is a monologue." He looked up to see her reaction. "Now I am going to the Convention and whether I come back is up to you. I intend to survive all that life can hurl at me, including pythons and vengeful mistresses. If you want to keep me company, it'll be on my terms not yours, citizeness." Then he pulled her face to his and kissed her astonished lips. "Now, you adorable hussy, get me some breakfast."

  But Fleur, loving him, had her mind less on food and more on honesty. "I thought you wouldn't understand."

  "Then you misjudged me," he said simply and waited. With a gasp of relief interbred with deep contrition, she stepped through the breach. His arms closed about her. "Idiot," he said affectionately.

  "I was angry, but I thought it was the best way to let you go."

  "What, me departing with an exit line of hate?" he laughed. "Lord, my darling girl, you made a whip for your own back by the look of you." His thumb scuffed the soft crescent of care beneath her lower lashes. "I think you must have had a worse night than I did. Wherever did you curl up? In Machiavelli's box?" Fleur did not answer; happiness did not have a price.

  He kissed her forehead and then the tip of her nose. As though she feared she held a dream, she slid her palms along and up his sleeves, reassured to feel the warm substantial meld of flesh and muscle through the fine weave.

  "I'm frightened, Raoul. When I came to Paris, I didn't care. Nothing could have been worse than another winter in the forest at Grimbosq. I really believed I was... well, impervious to anything that life could do to me, but now..." Her eyes shone with love.

  It was, he hoped with all his heart, because Fleur had invested at last in life, and not just in life but in him, and in seeing her predicament, he recognised his own.

  "I know, my love," he whispered comfortingly. "But the final curtain hasn't come down."

  Not yet.

  Chapter 22

  The Constitution is ready to be presented for ratification

  Machiavelli was difficult to pack that morning, despite the fact that he was sluggish and digesting. As fast as Fleur and Columbine curled his tail end into the blanketed hamper, his head or some other coil overflowed, but eventually the two of them wound him in, loaded the hamper onto a barrow and trundled it towards the Marais.

  The python had settled in at the Chat Rouge on a permanent basis. He kept the night guard company and by day he slumbered happily in a box in Thomas's kitchen or rehearsed with Columbine for the evening's performance.

  In short he was proving a great attraction, Fleur noted later that mo
rning as she balanced the last two weeks' ledger at her table behind the screen. The café was doing remarkably well. Regular supplies were still a problem but she had kept in touch with the farmer who had helped them with the hot-air balloon and met others through him at Les Halles market, and now the Chat Rouge had its own small grain source, sufficient to let their customers have bread with their soup, much to their competitors' disgust.

  "This place is more packed than the Vatican square when a blessing's due." Raoul tugged down the high collar of Fleur's gown and kissed her nape, and she whirled delighted into his arms.

  "You're supposed to be at the Convention."

  "And so I have been, but I want you to accompany me to a military parade later this afternoon."

  He could have sent a message but it was well known in female circles that men at certain times or circumstances displayed behaviour that defied understanding. "I'm not alone. I've brought some of my colleagues, including David. Talked them into abandoning their usual jaunt. Can you manage? I did not realise you had such a crowd here at—"

  "David! Is that wise?"

  "Maybe not, but you'll have to come out and greet them."

  Accommodating their distinguished customers required surrendering her own table and some deft manoeuvring but they managed, and Thomas beamed like a glow-worm with two tails when the famous master complimented him on the artistic presentation of the repast.

  "Well, that was a success," Raoul exclaimed later, after Fleur and Thomas had farewelled six replete Jacobins including not only David but Saint-André, the naval expert on the Committee of Public Safety. "It's very useful having a—" he eyed her warily, "a friend who runs such a brilliant restaurant."

  If one had to be skating on the thin ice of politics, Fleur supposed it was.

  "I've received two more threatening letters, Raoul," she told him, drawing on her gloves. "They were pushed under the door—one yesterday and another this morning. Whoever it was didn't bother while I was away from the city."

  "Show me them tonight. It's time we put an end to this." He arranged her light shawl round her shoulders and ushered her out the door. "Pah, not a coach in sight when we need it. Let's pick up a fiacre in the Rue Saint-Antoine." He drew her arm through his and they strolled along in comfortable silence. The parasol twirled on her shoulder, its fringe brushing the froth of net and satin that served for a hat.