“Here, and in every hedgerow between Paris and Dieppe. They didn’t unhitch the wagons to pick blackberries.”
“You are a very suspicious man.”
Men and boys came forward to put themselves casually between approaching strangers and the wagons. Shandor stood at the front of his men. He wore a blue vest and a red neckcloth. On every cap and hat was the red, blue, and white circlet of ribbons, the cockade of the Revolution, showing what good republicans they were.
LeBreton scratched the stubble upon his chin. She was coming to recognize that as the accompaniment of his deeper cogitations. He spoke softly, as if to himself. “What it might be . . . Might be there’s some damn thing ahead on the road and they know about it.”
“There is always something unpleasant ahead on the roads these days.”
Shandor knew she would come this way. He had disobeyed and stayed to talk to her, even at risk to his own people.
He was Crow. He had saved the lives of numberless men and women in the last five years. Of course he would try to save her.
As they approached the camp, the half-grown children stopped talking and edged together. The boys wore hats, like their fathers. The little girls were in blazing bright skirts and blouses, with four or five braids lost in the wildness of loose, frizzy hair. An old woman, tanned to mahogany, sat on the step of a wagon, carving with a small, bright knife.
“They’re Kalderash,” LeBreton said. “Coppersmiths. See the pots hung on the wagons? They make those.”
She knew that. They also sharpened shovels and knives and axes. That was why Shandor’s family was intact and unmolested, five years into the Revolution. His kumpania was known on all the roads out of Paris. Armies passed, and Shandor’s people whirred away, grinding knives and sharpening bayonets. Soldiers of the Revolution lined up to take their turn. And in the wagons, under blankets, silent, the sparrows hid.
LeBreton made a sign with his hand, talking to Adrian. She would not have caught this if she had not seen him do it before. The boy twitched a stick at the donkeys’ heels and followed closer.
“Maybe we’ll get our fortune told,” LeBreton said.
They walked into the midst of the camp. Dogs came to sniff. Decorum tried to kick the dogs, who proved to be agile. LeBreton walked past a dozen men to stop in front of Shandor.
LeBreton said, “Sastipe. And good morning to you. Hot as the hinges of hell, ain’t it?” He added another dozen words in what must be Romany and waited. He did not quite whistle and twiddle his fingers, but he had a great air of relaxed confidence.
Men answered him in Romany and French. Everyone agreed it was hot. Yes. Hot as the forge of the demons. Yes, it was good to stop in the shade for an hour.
She should not be surprised that LeBreton could speak a few words of their language. He was a reprobate of six or seven kinds and had doubtless led an interesting life.
The ancient grandam put her knife away and climbed down from the wagon. She hobbled to the front, acting like a force to be reckoned with. LeBreton took out a pouch of tobacco from Dulce’s pack, jiggled it open, and offered it round, starting with the old woman. Adrian went off to the stream with the donkeys. In a minute he attracted a dozen half-grown boys. With his ragged clothing and dark hair, he disappeared among them. It would be one of those grubby boys who had brought her Crow’s message last night.
Dulce nosed somebody into the water.
Shandor and LeBreton finished the serious business of agreeing that, yes, it’s a hot day, and moved on to, those donkeys are bad-tempered devils. But so beautiful. Perhaps Shandor would take the pair in trade for a good horse or two.
Everyone laughed. Shandor sent a small boy running for his pipe and took tobacco with a liberal hand. He and LeBreton lit up from the same burning straw, passing it back and forth. They ignored her because this was the affair of men, after all, this discussing of the weather and donkeys and horses and the pleasure of smoking.
LeBreton was all that was placid and friendly. She did not trust him in this mood. Well, she did not trust him in any mood.
She tucked her apron in her waistband and knelt on one knee on the ground and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of children. Dark-eyed boys. One girl with her little sister on her hip, half as big as she was. A pair of babies, barely tottering on their feet. A pert flower of a child, six or seven, with gold bangles on her arms and rings in her ears.
They were delightful, both shy and bold. They spoke no French, nor any other language they could share with her. They giggled when she pointed at one and the other and tried to repeat their names. They were barefoot, like the children in the peasant cottages, but they seemed healthier. Strong little bodies, full of energy. And happy.
“Marguerite.” She patted her chest. And then, “Maggie,” because that was what LeBreton called her and she was getting used to it.
She brought this kumpania and these children into danger, time and time again. She sent arrogant, ungrateful men to hide in their wagons and eat their food and be impolite to their mothers and sisters. Even now, sparrows were hiding in these wagons, just a few feet away. Or they were dressed in Gypsy clothes, out there in the fields with the women, picking berries.
I risk these beautiful children to save out-of-favor politicians and the Marquise of This-and-That. It was no laughable thing to make these choices.
Shandor puffed on his pipe. “We were delayed at Vaucresson for a while. A rough road. Keeping a little to the south, though . . .”
LeBreton answered in turn. All offhanded. All as if they were talking only about washed-out roads and mud, not patrols of gendarmes. “I’ve heard Bois d’Arcy has bad roads, too. Just rumor.”
A nod. A dozen words about crossing the Seine at Saint-Cloud. Ten words to say the Versailles road was full of troops and a prudent man would let his path wind elsewhere, however long it took. This was Crow giving her what help he could by helping LeBreton.
“. . . but today should be a lucky day.” Shandor drew in smoke. Exhaled. “I’ll tell you what I saw this morning. I saw an egret take off from the field, fast.” He swooped a gesture, like wings flapping. “One inch ahead of a pair of foxes. He got away. Flew over my wagon and headed toward Caen. Now that’s a sign for you.”
Shandor was saying that Egret had been threatened, but escaped. Truly, her network was exposed from Paris to the coast. It was time for her people to run, to take new names, open new waystations. Everyone left in place must be warned.
Children pressed closer. Touching her braid. Fingering the white fichu she wore around her neck. It was of poor quality, but cleaner and more fine than what their mothers wore.
In her pocket, under her skirt, she still carried the length of red string. It would talk for her. She unwound the thread and tied the ends together to make a loop and wove a cat’s cradle between her hands.
She slipped it out to catch a little girl’s wrist. Giggling, the girl snatched her hand back. The Gypsies made string figures by the fire at night to delight the children. These little ones all knew this game.
She pulled her net on another. Some she trapped. Some were fast as lightning. “You must be very quick to get away.” She raised her voice. “You must run, or someone will trap you. See. I go one way. You go the other.” That was her answer to Crow. He must leave, and she would not go with him.
She saw him hear the words and understand.
“We have a saying.” Shandor was now playing the Wise Gypsy Patriarch. “The sparrows fly away to the west, but the Rom travel the whole world. Who knows where we will go next? Perhaps we will return to Paris. There’s work in Paris, even in hard times.”
No, Shandor. Not for you. Not anymore.
She wove the thread one last time, in a complicated pattern. A twist . . . and it became a ladder. Another twist . . . it was a net. Another brief, clever magic of woven string and she had a web that danced and changed. Even the men stopped talking to watch.
“And so . . .” She loosed a single
loop and opened her hands. Everything dropped away. She held only a limp string. The children made a sound of disappointment. “It is time to stop. Let us do it before the thread breaks and disaster comes. We play out the last game and we walk away and we do not begin again.”
That was how she told Crow not to return to Paris. The wagons were too easy to recognize, now that they had been betrayed. Crow’s part in La Flèche was done. She would not put these children in danger again. Not to save a hundred sparrows.
Nine
Paris La Maison de la Pomme d’Or
MADAME LET THE LAST OF THE PAPER BURN TO ASH in the saucer of her coffee cup before she spoke. “His name is William Doyle. He landed in France ten days ago. He is crafty. Knowledgeable. Very dangerous. He has come to put a stop to the assassinations in England.”
Madame’s sources were beyond reproach. If she said an English spy had come to France, then that was what had happened.
Justine waited silently while Madame poured coffee upon the ashes in the saucer and, with the back of the spoon, patiently destroyed all semblance of writing.
Madame said, “He must enter Paris. But it could be any day and through any gate. He might even circle the city and come from the east.”
Music came faintly from the pianoforte in the parlor. It was still full daylight, but men had already come to drink with the girls. They came earlier and earlier every day. There were not many salons in Paris where the wine flowed so freely and the wit was so unfettered. In a brothel men believed their words were not immediately reported to the Secret Police.
They were correct in that, and not correct. Madame decided which indiscretions would be carried to the Secret Police. She was one of its chief agents.
“If William Doyle is so unpunctual, it would be a great waste of time to send me to watch at one of the barrières.” Justine dared to speak so frankly to Madame. She was young, but she was not the least of Secret Police operatives. “Where shall I wait for him, this English spy?”
“I think . . . at the Hôtel de Fleurignac. De Fleurignac’s home. I have a great wish to know who comes and goes from that house. William Doyle will arrive there sooner or later. Here. Take this, please.” She held out the saucer.
A pitcher of clean water stood on the sideboard among the liqueurs and good wine. She poured the mess of coffee and ashes into the washbowl and rinsed the dish. She returned, drying the saucer with a soft cloth. Carefully, she set everything in place on the tray. She took it upon herself to anticipate the next request and poured new coffee. “The British are sure of this connection to de Fleurignac? Between the deaths and his visits to England?”
“It is Monsieur Doyle who has done that. He asked many skillful questions concerning the men who were killed and discovered the silly French scholar who studied each of them and filled his notebooks with their histories and spouted such absurd theories. Monsieur Doyle is entirely the best field agent of the British Service. I am gratified when our enemy sends their very best to do our work for us.”
She wishes me to understand what she is saying. To show that I am clever. “William Doyle is not to be killed.”
“Do not be bloodthirsty, child. There are conventions in these matters. Be glad the British observe the old customs and do not commit slaughter among our own group. In any case, we will let him find de Fleurignac’s troublesome list and put a stop to the murders of young men. Perhaps he will even discover which Frenchmen loosed this atrocity upon the world. Then,” Madame sipped coffee delicately, “we will see what becomes of William Doyle.” She set the cup aside. “You must dress beautifully tonight. Wear the gown with gillyflowers and the blue sash. It becomes you immeasurably.”
For an instant . . . a brief instant . . . she was sick and afraid. Because a year ago dressing beautifully had meant she must entertain men, as a whore does. It had meant—
“Child, I did not mean to frighten you.” Madame’s hand was on her arm, reassuring. “Forgive me for being clumsy. You will not do that. Never anymore. I have promised. We attend the Opéra tonight. Only that. We will go, you and I and Citoyen Soulier. For your birthday.”
Joy, uncomplicated joy, filled her. Because she was safe and Madame had remembered the day for her. They would go to the play and laugh and then, perhaps, afterward Soulier would take them to the Boulevard des Italiens for ices.
“Will you buy me cakes? May I bring cakes home for Séverine?” She was impudent. If Madame worried that she had been dismayed by memories of her past, this would smooth the moment between them and make all well again.
“You must ask Soulier to buy sweets. He is the one with bottomless pockets. Now, off with you. I must dress and go downstairs before my women are induced to give themselves away entirely for free. I will send Babette to you to put ribbons and curls in your hair so all the young men will fall in love with you.”
Justine went, dancing a little on the steps to the attic, to tell Séverine. It is not every day one becomes thirteen and goes to the playhouse in the company of the chief spies of France. She would wear a wide blue sash and perhaps drink absinthe at the café, if Madame was not attentive. Tomorrow she would watch the Hôtel de Fleurignac. Perhaps next week she would be allowed to kill an English spy.
Oh, but life was good.
Ten
SHE WAS SAFE. BERTILLE’S HOUSE WAS OVER THERE, across the stream. Sanctuary and friendship and a shoulder to cry on. The practicality of money and fresh clothing and help to get to Paris. She could relax.
Marguerite didn’t remember the name of this rivulet that wound past Bertille’s house, but it was wide enough one had to cross it stepping from flat rock to flat rock. Or one could splash through. The donkeys did not like the idea of splashing through.
“There’s leeches.” Adrian stood in the middle of the stream, facing the pair. “Big, ugly leeches the size of my thumbs. You keep standing here and they’ll sneak up and suck your blood till you turn white.” This time, when he pulled the reins, they followed. It was a strange relationship he maintained with the donkeys.
Bertille’s snug stone cottage was set between her husband’s workshop and the vegetable garden. A rough shed looked down from the hill above. The front of the house was bright with roses and hollyhocks. Brown chickens wandered the brick walkways, occupied with small bugs.
The chickens in the yard told her Bertille was still here. No warning had reached her. She must pack and go into hiding at once.
“That is Bertille’s house.” She was informative to LeBreton. To Adrian also, if he was listening. “With the cooperage to the side, you see? Where the barrels are stacked. She married a cooper, Alain Rivière. He is a dour and silent man and given to long gaps in any conversation one might hold with him, but Bertille likes him.” Bertille had been her nursemaid, then her femme de chambre, and, always, her friend.
“You think they have fifty livres?” LeBreton sounded skeptical.
“Oh, yes.”
Because Bertille was the Dove, the oldest of old hands in La Flèche, a woman who had made hundreds of journeys, leading sparrows through the dark of the streets of Paris, she would have the pouch of coin everyone in La Flèche was given. Five hundred livres, all in coin. Enough to bribe oneself free, if captured. Enough to pay for an escape, even as far as England.
“I’ll be well taken care of by my friends,” she said. “And you’ll be paid.”
Inside the cooperage yard, behind the wooden gates, Alain’s big cart stood, its poles pointed up into the air. The cart hauled barrels to the makers of cider and the distillers of calvados brandy for miles around. It also led a secret life of ingenious hidden compartments and counterfeit barrels and false piles of wood. Of long, clandestine journeys to the coast. Ordinary at first glance, extraordinary upon closer inspection. It was a cart not unlike Citoyen LeBreton himself.
LeBreton looked over the house and yard, to the fields beyond. He was, she thought, a man who saw the fly upon every leaf. His face remained placid. “It’s quiet.”
The air lay heavy, humming faintly. In the late afternoon, no one moved anywhere within sight. The chickens of the dooryard were lackadaisical. No dog barked. Even the cows on the hill were motionless, as if they had been painted there.
Unease tickled under her skin. “Nothing is out of place. I am fond of quiet.”
“Not this much quiet.” Without making it obvious, he drew a circle with two fingers of his right hand. Adrian stopped talking. “If they’re looking out the window, they’ve seen us. Any reason your friend wouldn’t come out giving glad cries of welcome?”
“She is not expecting me, certainly. She might not know me at this distance. I arrive, always, in a carriage. They would wonder—”
“They’ll be wondering more if we stand here talking.” He made a quick hook with fingers that chopped down. Another signal to Adrian. “Let’s go see your friend.”
They followed the wall of the cooperage. LeBreton’s strides were long and she had to push to keep up. She said, “You are right to be wary. I will go ahead alone. You will wait back there with—”
“No.”
She had not yet learned the knack of giving this man orders. He was like a large rock rolling down a steep hill. Once started, difficult to control. “If there is a problem, it makes sense that I—”
“If there’s a problem, it’s looking out the window right now and it knows I’m here.” They passed the workshop gate where the ruts of wheel tracks turned in. “Your friends have a good broad view over the countryside.”
It was one of the reasons Alain liked this house. One could see visitors coming.
In the front garden, chickens scattered themselves out of LeBreton’s way. The shutters of the house were closed. That was not amazing on such a warm afternoon. But Bertille did not come to the door and fling it open and rush down the path toward her.
She must be putting the baby to bed. That was why everything was quiet. She would come running in a minute, laughing.
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