Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  Fleur leaned back miserably against the wall. She had not been sent to the Abbaye Prison to be with Charlotte but to the women's section of La Force. Close enough to her restaurant to smell Thomas's cooking, save that the stale vomit of the cell's previous occupant still clung to the walls and congealed between the paving. The cold seeping in at her shoulderblades was nothing to the ice slowly crusting her soul. Physical comfort had been denied her. There was no mattress, no stool, only a bucket and no privacy. A guard stared through the door grille every five minutes. At least it had been raining that morning so she had been wearing her new boots and she still had the small blade hidden in her heel.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine Raoul's arms about her. Had anyone informed him of her arrest? If he loved her, he would come to her. No, God forbid, it was selfish to even think it. No, he must stay away. Let him hate her. France had need of him for a lifetime, whereas Françoise-Antoinette de Montbulliou probably had one day left—Bastille Day.

  Bastille Day. Of course! Now she realised. Charlotte had planned to murder Marat on Bastille Day. Poor deluded, courageous Charlotte, fervently believing that with Marat dead, Paris would regain its sanity and the Girondins their liberty. Now she understood why her beloved friend had been so dismayed to see her, so at pains not to involve her.

  "The Abbé Flammermont to see the prisoner."

  Fleur straightened. Oh, not some hypocritical churchman who put politics first.

  "I have lost my faith in the Supreme Being," she snapped, her back rigid. "Go away!"

  Two soldiers wearing the Commune uniform stepped into the cell followed by a priest round as a cheese and fat as butter. The tallest soldier took care to position himself sufficiently in front of the grille to block any observation and then he winked. It was Raymond without his usual wig. Outside she heard Juanita's voice low and seductive.

  Her actors. Fleur could have embraced them all, especially when she realised the abbé had cotton wadges stuffed against his gums to expand his cheeks and a bolster round his middle.

  "Pax vobiscum," intoned M. Beugneux, and proceeded to chant a succession of Latin prayers while he swiftly shed not only a soldier's trousers, but a hat and tunic from beneath his habit. His tiny congregation murmured "Amen" at intervals while a belt and a curly brown wig resembling Fleur's hair materialised from under Raymond's tunic. A full Grosholz mask made of wax—a woman's face-emerged from the front of Albert's breeches. While Fleur drew on the trousers, Raymond quickly unlaced the back of her dress. He arranged her clothing and the other props so ingeniously that it looked as though she was lying huddled on the floor. It was absurd and wonderful. But if they were caught...

  "Nihil carborundum est we cannot take you from the prisonus, Amen," chanted M. Beugneux softly. "Tempus fugit we were counted in alleluia. It'll be up to you how you escape benedicte filia, and there'll be a pass Agnus Dei waiting for you at the Porte Maillot et spiritu sancte ask for Uncle Jules. The string is to garrotte if you have to. Amen."

  They left the cell together. The guards were too distracted by Juanita and the basket of Thomas's bonbons to count the soldiers who emerged. Fleur marched second behind Raymond. With a nod, they left her in the corridor above and it was now up to her. For an instant panic flooded through her but the essence of good acting was to keep one's head and bluff it out. But how? Actors knew their set. She had a very poor idea of the prison's layout and only little time before her escape was discovered, and she needed to give Juanita time to leave as well. Briskly, she marched down the corridor in the opposite direction, wondering if there was somewhere she could hide until the inevitable hubbub died down. And then from out a window she glimpsed the postern in the battlement wall that ran close to the Chat Rouge. Usually there was only one soldier manning it since nearly all the traffic was through the main gates. That was her exit.

  "Where's your pass, lad?" Damnation! She recognised the kindly soldier who often played billiards at the café. God forbid he recognised her. She didn't want to tie the string round this man's throat; he had a wife and children.

  "Hell!" Keeping her face down, she fumbled in her pockets, dredging out an oath that would ripen blushes in a brothel. Surely M. Beugneux had supplied a pass?

  The guard laughed. "Can't let you through without a current pass from the governor."

  "Must have fallen out in the pissoir," she grunted and trudged back into the building, shoulders sulkily humped, only to walk straight into no less than Fouquier-Tinville, Citizen Death himself.

  "Look where you are going, fellow," snarled the public prosecutor.

  Oh, this was her death knell. Fleur saluted, trying to nudge her hat down lower over her brow, and attempted to hurry on.

  "Wait this instant!" Terrified, she halted and swung round, her mouth dry with fear." I need someone to take a note to my wife. Are you off duty?"

  "Yes, Citizen Prosecutor."

  "Give me your back then." She obediently leaned her hands on her knees while the prosecutor rested his writing tablet on her back. Did he not notice her shaking? She tried to think of something mundane. Coffee grounds, sewers, the orange slugs of the Grimbosq forest, wild strawberries.

  "There, take that to my wife and tell her I have to question a new suspect about Marat's murder. Why are you wobbling so? You find this amusing?"

  "Am-am-am about to sneeze, citizen." It gave her the opportunity to cover her face with her sleeve.

  "Here's a coin for your trouble. Go then! What are you waiting for?"

  "Pardon, citizen, I need permission from the governor to leave the prison, citizen."

  "Isn't my letter enough?"

  "I don't think so, citizen."

  "Oh, devil take it! Bend down again. And I've only one sheet left in my pocketbook. Here you are, that will have to do. Damn it, fellow, are you still dawdling?"

  "You haven't given me your address, citizen."

  * * *

  Outside the postern gate, Fleur nearly gave a huzzah of pure joy. Forcing herself to march calmly, she set off in what she hoped was the right direction, and then at the next corner she started westwards. The journey was a nightmare of encounters and salutes each time she passed a soldier or a gendarme. Challenged by one officious lout, she flourished the letter and exclaimed that Citizeness Fouquier-Tinville was at a modiste's in the Rue Saint-Honore. By the time she eventually reached the Porte Maillot, her throat was so parched, she was tempted to approach the water-seller's stall. No, she must keep her one coin until she was beyond the city walls. Correction, if for below the portal barring her progress was a pole on cross-supports and the officer and four soldiers on duty were scrupulously checking everyone's passes against a list of wanted persons. Tiens, if "Uncle Jules" wanted to get her past this little contingent, he would need a keg of gunpowder, and what on earth would she do if she could not find him?

  Uncle Jules turned out to be a pawnbroker's, a shop with a placard demanding "Egalité pour tous!" hung up above the name Julius Rosenstein. Inside the shop a merchant with shoulder-length black hair emerging from beneath a skullcap ushered Fleur through to the back room where she found a mirror, some hair shears and the clothes she had worn to burgle Raoul's studio.

  When she emerged in breeches with a red bonnet covering her mutilated curls, the pawnbroker pointed her across to a wizened old carter smoking a pipe on a bench outside the tavern nearest the inspection barrier.

  "Can I have a mouthful of your beer, beloved Grandpapa?"

  "Clever child." M. Beugneux puffed happily at his pipe and pushed the bottle towards her. "I knew you'd manage."

  "And if I hadn't?"

  "We would have tried again." He took a packet from the pouch of his leather apron. "Here's money and a pass, courtesy of your influential friend, to take you as far as Caen. You understand it was too dangerous to involve him further. I'm afraid my friends would not appreciate the acquaintance. Cheer up, we shall soon have you out of here."

  "It doesn't look very hopeful," Fleur po
inted out, grimacing at the barrier and wishing with all her soul she had been able to say farewell to Raoul. They might never meet again this side of hell and he had taken a huge risk in signing his name to the pass.

  Her rescuer shrugged. "There's always the right moment. Be at ease."

  "You and Thomas will take care of Blanchette and Machiavelli, please, won't you? And tell my influential friend I shall not forget him. Ever."

  "Of course. Thomas will be all right, you know, and so will I. Go on, finish the bottle, child." With a hot July sun steaming the morning's puddles, she needed no encouragement.

  "Everyone has been so brave," she whispered, remembering to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand. "How can I ever thank you all?"

  "Ma petite puce, if I were of a different proclivity and less creaky, I'd be on my knees begging you to make an honest man of this old fool. We all love you, child." He stared down the street as if watching for someone and then peered up at a small iron balcony where a coverlet was drying. "No signal yet, but I'd be surprised if there were. Tell me, while we've still time, how did you get out of La Force?" It was perhaps his way of calming her but there were tears of laughter in his eyes by the time she had whispered how she had been abetted by no less than Fouquier-Tinville.

  They sat in companionable silence for a few moments as the bells struck three and then her companion tensed. An officer on horseback was galloping down the street with half-a-dozen infantry running behind him. He swung himself from the saddle and briskly gave orders to the sentries. It seemed a new troop was taking over the gate.

  "Stay calm!" M. Beugneux warned. "Our cooper never leaves the city before three. Ah, see, here comes the wonderful Columbine." Tricked up as a lemonade-seller, the little actress was actually doing business as she progressed down the street. She rattled her cups vivaciously at Fleur and darted a sidelong glance at the barricade. Then, at a nod from M. Beugneux, she shrugged and meandered across to the new sentries. After two sales and a smack on the rump from the off-duty officer, she was back.

  "It's not looking good, patronne," she murmured. "Even a louse couldn't hide from them now. They are not letting anyone out unless there's a pass signed by a member of the Committee of Public Safety. Anyone would think Marie-Antoinette was on the loose. What shall we do, monsieur?"

  "You keep moving, ma fille. We sit it out."

  After ten minutes, two carts, several barrows and a public diligence were queued up and the irate carters and a score of frustrated travellers waving passes were arguing with the new officer in charge. Juanita had also arrived dressed as a lemonade-seller and was squaring her shoulders at Columbine.

  The coverlet airing out of the first-floor window opposite was removed, shaken and folded. "There's the signal. The cooper's ready but we can't risk it." For the first time his voice held the muffled tone of defeat. "Not without the correct signatures. We may have to hide you till tomor—" He broke off. A coach and six with horn blaring was coming along the street at full pelt, flanked by an escort of military outriders. "Oh Lord, what now—a general?"

  "Oh, this is no use." In despair Fleur tried to rise but the old man grabbed her arm. "No, I'm endangering you all," she whispered frantically, trying to wriggle free.

  "No, now's the time."With a precise movement, he tugged out his handkerchief. Immediately the apple barrow drawn in the queue subsided like a thwacked jelly, toppling its load all over the cobbles. Every passer-by and his dog ran to grab and the oncoming coach was forced to brake, its horses dancing impatiently as the driver yelled for the people to clear out of the way.

  Columbine whistled. "Well, just look who's bowled up. The lad himself. Trying to jump the queue too."

  Fleur glimpsed Raoul's stern profile in the carriage window. He was pale and grim as though the hand of Death had beckoned. "They've sent him," she whispered, shrinking backwards into M. Beugneux. "No, no, this is too cruel." It was Columbine who grabbed her by the lapels before she could bolt, and then everything happened at once.

  * * *

  Damnation! Now two lemonade-sellers had chosen to have a spat in front of his coach. Had Raoul not been plagued with worry for Fleur, he might have enjoyed the frenzy of petticoats and garters. His escort were taking bets, relishing the uncensored delights of uninhibited female limbs, but, in foul mood, Raoul shouted out the window for the doxies to be removed at once, along with everything else blocking his progress, and then sat back fuming. Robinet had brought him word that Fleur was still at liberty and busy at the café, but there had been a scornfulness lurking like a sour taste behind the reassurance.

  Nom d'un chien! Could Fleur have been part of the Girondin conspiracy to murder Marat? Is that what Robinet really thought? And that all this time, Raoul de Villaret had been behaving like a lovesick poltroon? Christ, he needed time to sort out the truth. He would see Esnault, make inquiries—thoroughly this time—yes, and—

  "What the devil now?" he ground out as the door was wrenched open."Christ!"

  The last thing he expected was to have a boy thrust in, a boy who stared at him from the floor with eyes too wild with tragedy.

  Fleur!

  "Please, Raoul, forgive me—" She was almost grovelling in terror. "Please, don't send me back to La Force!"

  Horrified, caught on the raw, he snarled, "You've used me."

  "No, I've used no one. Oh, for the love of heaven." She flung her arms about his boots in suppliance and time rolled backwards. She was a young girl again, pleading for him to save her. Raoul swung his gaze round the coach in desperation and sprang to his feet.

  "In there!"The leather seat hinged back like a music stool.

  Fleur needed no second bidding. She scrambled in just as the coach jerked forward. Shutting her in, Raoul sat back down and grabbed a journal from the pile beside him. This could be the biggest mistake of his life but he could not bear the thought of—

  "Papers!" The door was flung open. A lugubrious face surrounded by straggly fair hair inspected him. "Would you mind steppin' down for identification! You or one of your men 'ere may be part of the conspiracy that killed poor Marat, may the Supreme Being bless 'im. We've had people claimin' to be deputies, deputies killed and their papers taken by spies sent by the English. Only a month ago, Deputy de Villaret—"

  "I am Deputy de Villaret." It was spoken through clenched teeth. Raoul imperiously held out his pass and letter of authority.

  The fellow blinked in astonishment and then chuckled. "Ah, but is you the deputy? You could have brained the real fellow and secreted his body."

  "Yes, that is exactly what I did," retorted Raoul, trying to remain unconcerned as the sans-culotte officer's shrewd eyes slid over the inside of the coach. "You will find him lying in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Antoine."

  "Nothing new for a deputy, eh?"

  "Listen, my good patriot, I am on my way to investigate the assassin Corday's fellow conspirators in Caen as it states right there. If you value your head, let me pass."

  "All right, you stay put, sir. Let's have a good look at this, shall we?" A gold earring flashed as the man painstakingly checked Raoul's appearance with the description on the pass, then he compared Saint-Just's scrawled signature against a sheet of the committee's signatures. "Seems to be in order. Won't keep you much longer."

  Eyes closed in relief, Raoul leaned back against the leather upholstery with a prayer of thanks for God's mercy to lovers and fools. But they still were not moving. Diable! He grabbed the doorframe and leaned out. The same officer was making a double check of each of his escort's passes. The fellow deserved a commendation even if he was a damnable nuisance. The minutes ticked by.

  "You aren't carrying much luggage, Deputy," commented the fellow, returning. He sprang onto the step and hoicked himself up so he could see the entire roof of the carriage. "Makes our life a lot easier, that does." Then he stooped and peered underneath.

  "I've got Charlotte Corday strapped down there," exclaimed Raoul, rising to block the doorframe. He resis
ted the temptation to plant his boot on the official backside, but his tone grew staccato: "Can we leave now?"

  The man straightened, signalled for the barrier to be lifted, then his insubordinate gaze once more flickered to the seats behind Raoul. Something more was needed.

  "How about you come and see me when I get back from Caen," Raoul suggested, reaching out for the handle. "Our new committee will hear about your devotion to duty in my report." He bestowed a smile of approval and tugged the door from the tenacious grasp of officialdom. "Well done."

  "That's what they all say. Au revoir, citizen. May Marat prosper your mission!"

  * * *

  So they were turning Marat into a saint already. Fleur, stifled, well, almost, squashed and uncomfortable, felt as though she was already coffined for burial. She tried to push the seat up, but with Raoul's weight pressing it down, she had no strength. It was better than La Force but how long could she endure this? He had a substantial escort with him, judging by the hooves thudding the road, and they were going at a cracking pace, with the horn constantly berating every wretched carter and straggling wayfarer.

  It was not until they were well beyond the city's outskirts that she heard him pull the shutters down. Then the lid creaked open but only a fraction. Raoul knelt on the floor between the seats. He did not look at all loving and he was having trouble keeping his balance.

  "You are going to have to stay in there," he hissed. "I've half-a-dozen soldiers with me, all devoted to the cult of Marat."

  "And what about you?" Fleur asked anxiously, her heart in her eyes.

  "Me." The harsh lines of his face softened. "I am devoted to liberty." So he wasn't going to surrender her.

  "Oh, Raoul." Desperately in need of his love, she reached out her arms and felt his fold about her. She wanted to snuggle in beneath his coat and weep for the relief of being with him.

  Rubbing his chin across her soft hair, Raoul wondered how in hell he was going to keep her safe. He wanted to kiss her, pull her up onto his knees and staunch the glinting tears, but that way lay folly and he was not a fool, not yet.