“Oh, no, please, madame,” Elizabeth protested sharply, sitting up. “Please... stay,” she begged. “I've been alone... too long, and will be...” As she faltered, she bowed her head over the water.
To Madame's consternation, she thought the woman was weeping, and realized afresh this would not do at all. She retreated to the sideboard, poured two snifters of brandy, and earned them back to the center of the room. “Here,” she commanded, extending one snifter over the water.
But there were no tears on Elizabeth's face. She took the snifter with a quick smile.
“Heaven!” she murmured, eyes closed.
Monsieur DuCamp’s Lodging House, Paris November 15, 1874 Three A.M.
For the first few hours of the long evening, Bates had tried to keep pace with Mr. Eden, his aimless wanderings, the repetitious movement around Monsieur DuCamp’s small parlor, then out onto the old rainy pavement, where for several moments he’d search each passing carriage.
Now, weary at three A.M., Bates slumped on the settee. Where was Charley Spade? Bates made a little sound of contempt and suffered a major regret that he had not gone himself. He’d offered, twice, and twice had been rejected on the grounds of his age.
“What time is it, Bates?” The taut, exhausted voice came from the fire, where Mr. Eden had been pacing in small circles for several minutes.
“A quarter past three, sir,” Bates replied, glancing at the large mantel clock directly in front of Mr. Eden. “Sir, may I suggest...?”
All he was going to suggest was a short interval of rest. But he never had a chance to complete the suggestion, for, without warning, Mr. Eden pushed open the double doors of Monsieur DuCamp’s lodging house and stepped out onto the portico.
In growing despair, Bates sat up straight and peered through the lace panels of the wavy glass windows. From this angle he could see the street was deserted except for the play of lamplight on moist canals, the light beams cutting strange, irregular patterns every which way. There was not a conveyance in sight, nor a pedestrian. He took a final look through the lace curtains at Mr. Eden standing alone on the edge of the pavement, the collar of his cape turned up, his head swiveling in one direction, then the other, alert to every sound.
Bates stood as rapidly as age would permit and hobbled to the door, thinking to close it, but at the sound of his boots, Mr. Eden whirled about, looking directly at him. Bates knew if he lived to be one hundred and fifty he would never cleanse his memory of that expression, a tortured combination of hope and despair.
“My God!” Bates breathed heavily, and quickly closed the door on such a face, wishing he'd stayed in North Devon, hating his past, resenting his present, and dreading his future.
Somehow he had felt so safe then.
La Rochelle House of Detention, Paris November 15, 1874 Predawn
Madame Charvin had faced many difficult ordeals in her life, by the very nature of her profession. But possibly the most difficult one of all was watching Elizabeth Eden arranging her hair as though for a ball, when in truth in less than two hours the woman would be dead.
Briefly Madame closed her eyes to rest them from the torturous sight, and enjoying a moment of self-imposed blindness, she wondered bleakly if she would have the same courage as the little Englishwoman if their roles were reversed.
How deftly the woman wielded the hairbrush, bending her slim lovely neck at a becoming angle in order to catch the tiny curling neck hairs. Each time she straightened, Madame Charvin caught a clear look at the woman's face and was newly astonished. Never had she seen such concentration, though there was just a hint of a smile at the corners of Elizabeth's mouth which seemed to say, “I know better than anyone how frivolous and vain this is, but still it must be approached seriously.”
“Madame!” As Madame Charvin spoke, the single word seemed to echo about the small apartment. It was the first word spoken in over an hour and served to startled both women.
Elizabeth glanced up expectantly into the looking glass. “You spoke, madame?” she asked.
“Yes. I wondered...”
What had she been wondering? How they would survive the next hour, the last before the guards came? Against the onslaught of that thought, Madame Charvin bowed her head. It was then the thought occurred, so devastating that for the next few moments she could not look up. No, dismiss it. Now, before it took root and grew and spread and flowered.
“Madame Charvin?” It was Elizabeth again, concerned. “You mustn't. Remember, we promised. No fear.”
No fear? Madame Charvin had never in her life known the degree of fear she was now experiencing. And yet, what was the alternative? That they sit here, both of them, passively, like canaries awaiting the arrival of the cat? How stupid.
“Madame Charvin, is something wrong?”
“I'm well,” Madame Charvin muttered, and stood immediately to pace to the far corner of the chamber, requiring a few minutes alone before she shared her madness. She was fully aware as Elizabeth tracked her with her eyes, still trying to determine the exact cause of the change which had come over her in the last few minutes. When Elizabeth saw Madame staring back, she quickly averted her eyes by ducking her head in order to secure the clip tightly at the back of her neck.
All right, keep busy for just a few more minutes, Madame Charvin brooded, thinking on the first step — which, if she agreed to this lunacy, should take place almost immediately. Elizabeth Eden, fully dressed — in the blue gown, if she insisted — but the gown as well as her new coiffure would have to be well covered in one of Madame's prison-issue cloaks, drab dark gray heavy wool and smelling of old urine, like everything else in La Rochelle.
Then, with her identity obscured, including her fair hair and English features, Madame Charvin would lead her to the long passageway which led to the small service entrance, which in turn emptied out into one of the busiest thoroughfares of Paris, a narrow artery which tried to accommodate the goings and comings of all prison personnel, plus the three hundred workers from the sprawling match factory opposite. There were times — early in the morning, like now — when the soldiers were forced to halt all conveyances at the end of the street and the passengers spilled out onto the pavement and proceeded to their various destinations on foot. With her identity obscured beneath the dark cloak, who would stop and question one more woman who appeared to be moving with dispatch toward a private destination?
Madame Charvin closed her eyes, momentarily overcome by the hope that it might work, it could work, it should work. Energy was being generated deep within her, in the place where every rebellion, major and minor, had gone into hiding after being annihilated by practicality and good sense for the last forty years. Now it seemed as if all those other lost opportunities, quiet agreements, docile obedience, joined forces with this newest and most deadly revolution to give impetus to a plan, hastily conceived, and Madame Charvin could not now think of one reason why it could not work.
How often she had run the gamut daily, adjusting her cloak, hood raised — for she did not like to be seen and identified on the street, nor did most prison personnel. There was always the possibility a recent parolee bearing a painful grudge would be waiting.
So anonymity was — and always had been — the order of the day passing from inside to outside, and Elizabeth would be anonymously garbed. Once out on the street, Madame Charvin would be of no further assistance, except to give her instructions on how to reach other equally clogged thoroughfares. From where Madame Charvin stood, it seemed Elizabeth's safety lay in taking refuge in very public places, at least for a few days.
Then, after the search — and there would be a search, for General Montaud did not take kindly to any escaped prisoner, let alone those who eluded his crack firing squad — Elizabeth should be able to leave the country undetected with her kinsman.
What was his name, the man who was here and who had behaved so badly? And what relation was he to her, and could he be trusted? He had failed so miserably the day the guard
had half-dragged him up from the dungeon cell.
Abruptly Madame Charvin turned back to face Elizabeth. “What is your relationship with the gentleman who was here recently, the one who...?”
She stopped speaking, stunned by Elizabeth's expression. Madame Charvin had no idea that such a simple question would produce such a painful vacancy on that face which earlier had been amused by her own vanity.
“I... raised him,” Elizabeth said to her hands.
“Then he's your son?''
“No,” Elizabeth replied with matching quickness. She looked up, and again Madame Charvin was so moved by the depth of emotion she saw in that pale face that she regretted bringing up the subject.
As though Elizabeth had been following the progression of her thoughts, she asked, “Why do you inquire? Is he...?”
Madame Charvin shook her head and tried to speak as reassuringly as possible. “Nothing, I promise you. I’m certain he will return today and - ”
“No! Please, he mustn’t,” Elizabeth protested, starting out of the chair. “Please, madame, I beg you, see to it that he is not allowed in during...”
“I have no control,” Madame Charvin replied as calmly as possible in an attempt to calm Elizabeth at the same time. “I do not make that policy, have no authority to enforce - ”
“Oh, no, please!” the woman went on, speaking as though Madame Charvin had not spoken at all. “He must not be permitted to witness...” Suddenly she stopped. One hand covered her mouth as though to prevent an outcry.
In that moment, and with no further debate concerning the rightness or wrongness of her action, Madame Charvin reached a decision which — regardless of its success or failure — would drastically transform one of their lives, perhaps both.
“Elizabeth, you must listen to me as carefully as you have ever listened before. If you follow every instruction to the letter, I think I can help you out of here.”
She started to say more, realizing time was short, that ideally such an insane scheme should have been planned weeks ago, every guard movement noted, money obtained along with identification papers — oh, so many things that would simply have to be left undone. But perhaps the element of surprise would ultimately benefit them. No one knew at this point but Madame herself, thus no chance for leaks of secrets or revelations of any sort.
“Elizabeth, did you hear what...?”
At last she saw a faint alteration in the dead eyes. “Help... me...”
“I will,” Madame vowed. “I’ll help you out of here.” Furiously she dragged a chair close. “There will be tremendous risks, of course, but you have nothing to lose.”
Where before there had been no words, now they spilled out in an incoherent stream of hope. “Madame, please tell me. I’ll take the risks. Just tell me your scheme, what I must do to help make it work.” In her growing excitement, she angled her chair around, and now the two women were seated knee to knee.
“All right,” Madame Charvin declared, and felt the warmth of hope and found it a singular miracle. “All right,” she repeated. “My scheme is this — and though it sounds simple, it is filled with danger and you must understand that if caught, nothing will be altered for you.”
“Go on...” Elizabeth faltered and lowered her head.
Madame Charvin grasped both of Elizabeth's hands. “Now, this is what we are going to do...”
Monsieur DuCamp’s Lodging House, Paris November 15, 1874. Dawn Dawn.
Whether John was even aware of the small fingers of light splintering the safe darkness, Bates could not tell. The night had diminished him in some way. Bates watched the tortured image as long as he could, then slowly pushed himself off the uncomfortable settee which had been his bed. He wanted to remind the man opposite him of what remained to be done on this morning before they could shake the dust of this despicable city from their boots and head for the channel. “Sir, time is passing,” Bates said, and heard the idiocy of his own remark. In an attempt to cover his embarrassment, he withdrew his pocket watch and angled the face toward the dying lamp at the end of the settee.
Five-forty-five.
For Mr. Eden's last meeting with Elizabeth Eden they were to be at La Rochelle at six-fifteen. It was a fifteen-minute carriage ride, longer if traffic was fierce, and with Charley Spade still among the missing, Bates would have to take the reins this morning. Repeatedly yesterday he had tried to dissuade Mr. Eden from this senseless form of self-punishment. He'd not come right out and said so, but as much as it grieved him to even think it, he knew: Elizabeth Eden was a dead woman. He’d been amazed Mr. Eden had not realized Charley would not survive in London. But of course, Mr. Eden was not himself, had not been himself for some time.
The simple fact was that if Mr. Eden was forced, through some misplaced sense of duty and obligation, to witness this execution, there would be two corpses at La Rochelle on this day.
“Sir,” Bates prodded, feeling he had to at least give the impression of performing as a loyal servant, just in case Mr. Eden was truly more aware than he appeared to be.
“Sir, the hour is … He started to say “late,” but at that moment Mr. Eden stirred.
“Must … wait,” Mr. Eden slurred. “Charley Spade is due...”
Never, Bates concluded to himself. Charley Spade would not appear in Paris this morning. Unless Bates missed his guess, Charley Spade quite probably was still in London, either in some dockside pub passed out in the sawdust or else he’d met a bumpkin’s end with a knife between his shoulder blades.
“Sir?” he tried again.
“Wait...” Mr. Eden murmured.
All right. So be it! They could wait all morning, for all Bates cared, certainly well past the hour of six-thirty, when the French soldiers would take their positions in a straight line, rifles at the ready, and...
Let her die alone and in peace.
“Very good,” he said obediently, having been told they would wait. “Very well,” he repeated, and slipped his watch back into his pocket, wondering only briefly what manner of God it was who presided over the debacle known as the human race.
La Rochelle House of Detention, Paris November 15, 1874. Dawn
Their only disagreement had been a minor one, whether or not Elizabeth would wear the blue gown beneath the gray prison-issue cloak.
Madame Charvin had been opposed on the grounds Elizabeth was to pass for her, and never in her entire life had she ever worn so fancy a gown.
But Elizabeth had insisted, and now, buoyed by her imminent escape from this nightmare place, she stood back to survey the lovely blue silk in the full-length glass. She caught a glimpse of Madame Charvin's furrowed brow and instantly regretted causing the kind woman additional worry.
“Madame, please,” she entreated, turning away from her reflected image to confront the woman directly, “there is no way I can repay your kindnesses to me. Indeed, I owe you my life - ”
“It may not work,” the stern woman grumbled, still worried.
“I think it will,” Elizabeth countered, “and so do you, or you would never have suggested it. But please, let's not argue in our last moments together.” She stepped closer and took Madame Charvin's hand. “I do know if God is with me and I make my way successfully to freedom, as long as I have a mind and a conscience I will remember you every day in my prayers...”
Madame Charvin turned away and shook her head brusquely, as though the expression of gratitude had embarrassed her — or worse, moved her.
But Elizabeth persisted. “No, let me finish, then I shall disguise myself beneath your cloak and bother you no longer.”
“You should be off now,” Madame Charvin snapped, seeming to grow angrier as the moment of parting drew near. “It's none too soon, you know. The guards have already - ”
“I know,” Elizabeth soothed, “and I'm ready. Just let me say one more thing. If this day has a happy ending and I see dawn tomorrow, I’ll make my way to England, and once there, to the West Country, to Devon and a place cal
led Eden Castle. If you are ever in need of anything, you are to contact me there. Do you understand? And if France ever becomes... unsuitable, you are to come to me and I will see to it you have a home of comfort and security always. Do you understand?”
She had been so intent on getting it all said that she had failed to notice the look of pain on Madame Charvin's face. At first she was shocked, for she'd said nothing to cause pain. “Oh, madame, please don't,” Elizabeth murmured, reflexively embracing her. At first Madame resisted the offer of closeness, but as Elizabeth stood her ground, Madame thawed and ultimately succumbed. For several moments the two women clung to each other as the most loving of friends.
“What... if it doesn't work?” faltered Madame Charvin.
“Then I'm no worse off than I was before,” Elizabeth said with a calmness she did not feel. It would work. It had to work. She'd make it work.
“Do you have my purse?” Madame Charvin asked, stepping away from Elizabeth's arms and fishing blindly in her pocket for a handkerchief.
“I do.” Elizabeth smiled. “Right... there.” She glanced toward the dressing table and spied the well-worn black satchel belonging to Madame Charvin, the same one she'd carried in and out of the prison every day for the last fifteen years.
“The guards have sharp eyes,” she had cautioned Elizabeth. “They will recognize the purse.”
As Madame Charvin returned the handkerchief to her pocket, Elizabeth went back to the dressing table and caught a glimpse of the gown as she passed by the looking glass. It was lovely. Once away from the prison, she planned to remove the coarse-woven cloak and blend with all the other Parisians who were making their way to the channel and a holiday. She'd thought once of trying to contact John. She was certain he was still in Paris. But it was too risky. On that point she and Madame Charvin had been in complete agreement.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 33
