Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  "And what is the g-gossip from Caen?" asked M. Beugneux, coming down from the salon. "Is something wrong?"

  "I think my friend Charlotte may be having an affaire and yet she always swore she preferred her books to men. You see, according to this letter from her aunt in Caen, my friend has given away all her possessions and escaped to England but I've just met her by chance this morning. In Paris!"

  His lower lip jugged forward. "Evasive?"

  "Very. Edgy too. She definitely implied there was a particular gentleman who aroused her passions."

  Yet her friend had always shown scant regard for romantic notions. Indeed, Fleur had no doubt that if the authorities had permitted the Abbaye aux Dames to continue, Charlotte would have remained there assisting with the administration. But people were unpredictable. Joined in matrimony with the right gentleman, it was possible her clever friend could become another Madame Roland. Except, where was Mme Roland? In fear of arrest! Fleur subsided on the armchair in her salon, kicked off her shoes and then she smiled. If Charlotte had lost her heart at last, good luck to her.

  * * *

  Raoul leaned out of his window, his bare forearms pressing into the sill. There was no session of the Convention today, the eve of Bastille Day, and he had shut himself into his studio. The paint was turgid, the colour was wrong, the brush hairs refused all discipline, the canvas surface was flawed; in short, his skill had deserted him. He could go carousing, drown his cares in an alcoholic cloud but—

  "Hey, citizen! Look what Papa bought me."

  A plum little arm waggled a wooden horse out of the window across the street.

  Raoul waved back. "Excellent, Jean-Bastille, watch yourself, mon petit."

  Born almost four years to the day, the little citizen chortled and was suddenly sucked inside by the vigilant arms of his maman.

  "Not at the Convention today, citizen?" she called, stooping to send him a dimpled smile. "Want to come and share dinner with us?"

  "Not today, Gabrielle."

  The window closed. Raoul turned his back to the ledge and let out his breath. What the hell was the matter with him? He was missing Fleur, all of him was. It was not the convenient delight of having a regular woman. Merde, no. He just felt, yes felt, that without her, part of his life was missing. He wanted—Gabrielle's laugh reached him—children. Life was not just surviving but the passing on of what he believed in, hopes and dreams, to another generation. He poured himself a brandy and then realised that a distant bell was tolling, and then another and another.

  He strode back to the window just as Gabrielle put her head out too. The old man sitting on the doorstep down below straightened. Other windows opened and a great pigeon loft of faces looked out at one another.

  "Deputy?" Robinet's wife was in the street, calling up to him. The edge of panic was starting.

  "I don't know," he shouted back and hastened down the stairs at full pelt to join his neighbours on the street.

  "Is it the Austrians, do you think?" Someone's hand plucked at his sleeve.

  "A royalist rising. We'll be murdered," shrieked the next-door housewife.

  "No, at least—" Diable! What was going on? It couldn't be an invasion, surely. "It's all right, everyone, don't be alarmed," he shouted, trying to keep this Pandora's box firmly shut. Oh Christ, keep the city calm.

  He reached the Place de Grève before he heard the story from one of the Commune officers at the Hotel deVille. Story, yes, it couldn't possibly be true.

  Someone had murdered Marat.

  Chapter 24

  "Where's the d-deputy? How many more d-damn stairs and c-corridors? In there, is he? What do you mean I cannot see him now?"

  Hearing that stammer next morning, Raoul faltered in his interrogation of the dentist, Citizen Delafonde, Marat's neighbour from the Rue de l'École de Medécine. "Excuse me," he muttered and strode to the door of his office at the Palais de Justice. A line of gloomy people, summoned up for questioning, carpeted the stairs; but astonishingly it was M. Beugneux, pink round the gills and more aggrieved than a bucketed trout, who was causing the quarrel with the guards.

  "This 'ere powder puff insists on seeing you, Deputy."

  "Come to give yourself up?" Raoul quipped.

  "Oh, very droll," fluffed Fleur's boarder, tugging his lapels straight. "I require one minute of your time, de Villaret. In p-private." He looked round at his escort. "Well go, d-dear boy, I don't need a chaperone."

  "But he might," muttered the guard and waited for official instructions."Oh, very well," Raoul conceded, gesturing him in.

  Despite his aggrieved state, Beugneux scowled with distaste at the sweat-marked seat vacated by the dentist before collapsing onto it and fanning himself. By the sweat dribbling down his forehead, it seemed the exertion and stress were genuine, but the faded eyes were sharp. "M-Marat, Deputy, is it true?"

  "Stabbed in his bath, yes. We've arrested the assassin. A woman from Caen. She's been sent to L'Abbaye. The trial's tomorrow. Bastille Day." Very ironic. "Are you here to offer condolences?" His jibe was ignored.

  "F-Fleur. I need to get her out of Paris."

  Raoul stared at him in total bewilderment. "Why?"

  "I-I think the woman who m-murd..."

  It was an effort for Raoul to keep his voice down. "Charlotte Corday's her name, yes, so?"

  "F-Fleur's f-friend from Caen, Charlotte, was in Paris yesterday when she was supposed to have left for England. Fleur ran into her by chance at the Palais-Royal."

  "So?"

  Beugneux leaned forward. "Charlotte Corday."

  "Christ!"The implications were lethal. The Corday creature's likeness was on every placard. Raoul pushed back his chair, trying to crack his thoughts into order. Charlotte might be Charlotte's sister or no relation at all, but it was not worth taking chances. He pulled open his drawer and took out a headed sheet. "I can give you a pass to take Fleur out of the city." He swiftly filled it in and signed it. "There. What else do you need? Money?" Searching his pockets, he drew out all the coin he had. "Take this. Where is she now?"

  "At the café still. I came here the moment I realised." Beugneux rose and quickly gathered the money up.

  "I'm coming with you, Beugneux." He started to push his chair back but the older man grabbed his wrist.

  "No, there isn't time, leave things to me. Distance yourself, Deputy." The message sunk in like a dagger.

  "And if Fleur won't leave?"

  "No, Deputy, it's over."

  "Wait, Beugneux, are we being hasty?" Oh God, he needed time to think. "If she runs away, it implies guilt. Who saw them together—anyone?"

  "The man who's taken over Louvet's bookshop." You think I am a fool? raised eyebrows asked.

  "But—" Raoul clawed a hand through his hair. If only there wasn't a day's queue of people outside the door.

  "Exactly." The hobbling speech was gone. "Imagine the worst and keep your head, Deputy. I have no admiration for your politics, but the Convention needs you."

  Raoul let him go and leaned back against the door in anguish. The old man was right but he could not let—The knocked door vibrated impatiently behind his shoulders.

  "What did the old pedé want?" the guard inquired amicably before he marched the dentist back in to have the cavities in his memory investigated.

  "He thought he had seen the Corday woman, but..." Raoul stared at the sketch David had made of her. A very ordinary face. "God help us, I think half of Paris is willing to testify."

  "Who wouldn't, citizen? Marat was the true Apostle of Liberty. The family and I are going to view him tomorrow night to salute his greatness."

  "See him?" Raoul echoed distractedly.

  "Yes, citizen, he's to lie in state, all embalmed like, at the Club de Cordeliers. We're going early. There'll be queues back to the Pont Saint-Michel, I shouldn't wonder."

  "I expect they will." Raoul's voice was grim. Imagine the worst. What did the old man mean? His brain was reeling. The worst? The worst was that Fleur
was guilty. "Give me a few minutes before you show the next witness in."

  Oh God, first Armand, now Fleur!

  Alone, Raoul sat back against his desk, his face buried in his hands. Was Fleur an accessory to Marat's murder? The suspicions that had run like jagged faults beneath Raoul's faith in her began to crack wide open. Had he been deceived, played like a fish, when all along a conspiracy to murder had been brewing right beneath his nose? Oh God, he needed to talk with Fleur. He would shake out the truth. A murdered husband, a royalist brother, the attempt on his life, and now this. Could these be weighed against mere instinct? He wanted to believe in Fleur just as he had wanted to believe in a benevolent king. But Louis had betrayed France. And Fleur was a clever little actress. Had he seen only what he wanted to see? A woman in love.

  "Deputy." The dentist fidgeted for attention."I'm offering you a free consultation if we can get this over with."

  "My apologies." It was a machine named Raoul de Villaret who asked the questions and noted down the answers. He was halfway through the next interrogation when an urgent knocking disturbed him yet again. Had Fleur been arrested? He rose to his feet, hiding his consternation.

  The officer held out an order.

  "You are summoned to appear before the Committee of Public Safety. Now!"

  * * *

  Random searches of the Chat Rouge by the military were nothing new. Often it was an excuse to scrounge a free meal and flirt with the actresses, but today it was the Commune soldiers hammering at the door.

  "We're closed in reverence to Marat," bellowed Thomas, and then crossed himself as the door was smashed open and half-a-dozen soldiers with bayonets charged in. Behind them, his heels crunching on the shattered wood, was Quettehou.

  Fleur, busy behind the serving counter, brazenly hid her fear. "Oh, not again, Felix Quettehou!" she exclaimed crossly, marching out, hands on her aproned hips. "This is the second time this week." She included the soldiers in her scathing stare. "What are you expecting? Rat pies? Slug paté? Harassment, that's what this is. Just because your uncle left the café to me. Well, I'm going to complain. What's that?" Bosanquet's horrid nephew was holding out two papers.

  "Two warrants for your arrest, citizeness."

  "What, for annoying you?"

  Soldiers grabbed her arms and her mockery fled.

  "Françoise-Antoinette de Montbulliou styling yourself Fleur Bosanquet, I hereby arrest you for the murder of Matthieu Bosanquet and as an accessory in the murder of Deputy Marat."

  * * *

  Had someone denounced Fleur? Raoul paused on the threshold of the committee chamber wondering whether he would walk out again a free man. He was not daunted by personal danger but he would be damnably angry if they accused him of anti-revolutionary activities after all his dedication to the cause of liberty!

  The July members—only nine at the moment—were ranged apostle-like around two tables, shoved together beneath overlapping baize cloths. Robespierre's disciples, the crippled Couthon and young Saint-Just; the war deputies, Lindet and Saint-André, the lawyer Prieur de la Marne, Gasparin, Thuriot, the orator Barère and, of course, Hérault. They did not look as though they were about to interrogate him on his mistress's political inclinations. No, Raoul realised with relief, their attention was centred on what Robert Lindet, the deputy newly responsible for food supplies for the army, was saying.

  "So is everyone in agreement about this?" Lindet wound up.

  The entire room assented. The order was swiftly passed round for all their signatures. At last France seemed to have men at the helm prepared to make decisions.

  Saint-Just, in the far corner, was the last to sign. He passed the order back to Lindet and, ignoring Raoul, murmured, "Next item."

  "Citizens."Without waiting to be invited, Raoul confidently took the guest seat next to Hérault, his smile deferential and stern in consideration of the recent tragedy.

  Saint-Just lifted his perfect face to quell the assertive visitor with a smug look as though to say: We are the new masters. You've missed the boat.

  Time will tell. Raoul threw back an equally confident stare.

  "Ah, our Lazarus," chortled Saint-André. "Good to see you, young fellow."

  "Quite, can we continue?" asked Saint-Just coldly and raised his eyebrows at Hérault to begin.

  "Well, de Villaret, since you have served the Republic on previous missions to Caen—"

  "Never made it last time, did he?" chuckled Prieur. "Have you heard the news, deVillaret? Our forces have vanquished the Federalist rebels."

  "As I was saying," persisted Hérault, "the committee would like you to leave straightaway for Caen to investigate the background of the assassin Corday. We require you to take everyone associated with the woman in for questioning. Deputy Carrier will be joining you in a few days' time to give you some assistance."

  Work with Carrier! A hard-nosed prosecutor from the Auvergne. Not a man he wanted to be associated with, but it was a chance to get out of Paris. For an instant he was tempted. Dis-association by distance. Certainly Beugneux would take care of Fleur if she was implicated, and by the time he came back from Normandy the storm of revenge would have passed. He might weather it easily, emerge whiter than snow, his integrity intact. But, no, how could he possibly leave Paris unless he knew that Fleur was safe? What if Beugneux could smuggle her to Caen? That had possibilities.

  Aloud he said: "I'm perfectly willing to carry out your wishes, gentlemen, as long as the Committee for General Security concurs, but would it not be better to wind up all the questioning here first? Corday is to be tried tomorrow. She asserts she was acting alone but maybe she will change her story by the morning. It would be useful to have all the information before I depart." Two-thirds of the table was in agreement with him.

  "Hang on a minute!" Couthon's wheelchair rattled. "The silly cow was caught red-handed and she's pleading guilty, so why dillydally? We need to come down on her associates immediately. Sure as the Pope's a Catholic, Buzot and those other Girondin bastards skulking in Caen put her up to this. If we'd arrested them back in June, Marat would be still alive."

  "Certainly, Citizen Couthon," agreed Raoul, wondering where Armand was hiding. Not in Caen, he prayed.

  "Calvados must immediately be made an example to the rest of France if we are to crush the risings in La Vendée and elsewhere," declared Lindet. "We can no longer sit on our hands." Several members glanced at Hérault, whose hands were now clearly visible. "We have to be more united now than ever before, de Villaret. The Republic will not endure if we let factional disputes, self-interest and procrastination come before love of our country."

  Procrastination! Saint-Just was smirking. Procrastination! Had he just been accused of being a Girondin, a Dantonist or of meandering as a free spirit? On his right, Hérault suddenly found a snag in the tablecloth worthy of study.

  Couthon's expression warned Raoul that there was no refusal possible. He was being thrown a rope by these new mariners and he could either climb aboard or thrash around until he found a plank. Plank, indeed. Walk it, or be tied to it and shoved through the little window. Climb aboard? He could already hear his knuckles breaking on the iron rungs beneath Saint-Just's boots. They were making him wield the lash of death. "The butcher of Caen"? What a wondrous name to leave to history! But better him than another. He needed to be there to temper Carrier's bullish approach. Justice, yes, but no innocent people would be martyred to appease Marat's restless ghost. Not by Raoul de Villaret.

  "Citizens, on behalf of France, I accept the commission."

  What choice did he have?

  * * *

  Monsieur Mansart looked as edgy as a rabbit in a burrow with a ferret. It was a wonder he was not standing on his tiptoes lest the dank flagstones of the La Force cell contaminate his soles. Clearly the good citizen did not wish to be associated with anyone who had breathed the same air as Charlotte Charlotte Corday.

  "I cannot stay long." For emphasis, he pulled out his watch and
read its dial by the candleflame. Fleur could not blame him for wanting to return to the sunlit streets. The smell of a sewer was sweeter than the air in this medieval cell. "I will see about finding you a lawyer but," he shrugged, "I can offer little hope."

  "Thank you." Paris had more lawyers than a dog has fleas. Hérault, for example, but she doubted he would come within a league of her. "And if you could arrange something better than this."The luxury of Emilie's cell came to mind.

  "Comfort costs money, citizeness, and you no longer have the means to pay."

  "But that's ridiculous."

  "Must we go through this again? I haven't all day."

  "Please." She tried hard to concentrate as he reiterated:"Citizen Quettehou is claiming that you were not married to Matthieu Bosanquet when the will was signed."

  "But—"

  "Let me finish, citizeness. As I said before, I have examined your marriage certificate again and I can only say that if the priest who heard your marriage vows was the same Abbé Gombault as the outlaw who was executed a month later for being a nonjuring priest and a counter-revolutionary, then he had no authority to marry you and consequently your marriage to my client was unlawful. Citizen Quettehou is entitled to all his uncle's inheritance. Consequently, you are now without funds."

  "I made over the restaurant to Thomas and the house to Monsieur Beugneux."

  "Neither was yours to dispense with. And as to the second charge, there are a score of witnesses ready to testify that you were seen talking at length with the self-proclaimed murderess."

  "Yes, I was, but I had no inkling... Oh, please stay longer, Citizen Mansart."

  "Pardon me, Citizeness de Montbulliou, at the moment I cannot be of any further assistance to you. Turnkey!" He rapped on the door with his stick.