François nodded. “Which is why it’s safe to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Georges Jacques is going to arrange to intercede with Marat to have Dupree sent out of the city as soon as possible. He’s the only man who can recognize you.”
“There’s a courtyard of men who can recognize me. You recognized me.”
“The Marseilles were busier at that moment than I.”
Juliette’s stomach clenched as she remembered the tasks that had occupied those men in the courtyard. “Yes, very busy.”
“They’re still busy.” François’s lips set grimly. “I’m sure in a few days the events at the abbey will blur into one red haze.”
Juliette’s gaze flew to his face. “Dear God, more?”
François nodded. “After they left the abbey that morning they marched on La Force. They killed the Princess de Lambelle, stuck her head on a pike, and carried it to the Temple to show it to Marie Antoinette.”
Juliette swallowed bile. Her mother had always hated the gentle princess who had given the queen her love and loyalty since girlhood. Juliette had not understood the woman’s high-strung delicacy but never questioned the princess’s genuine affection for Her Majesty.
“You should not have told her,” Philippe said. “Can’t you see how it’s upset her?”
“The queen?” Juliette asked. “Did they kill the queen?”
“No, the Temple is well guarded. None of the royal family was hurt.”
Relief rushed through Juliette. The queen and Louis Charles were still alive. “How disappointed those butchers must have been.”
François avoided her glance. “Marat won’t permit Dupree to be sent away until he’s satisfied that his job is done. You must not step foot out of the house until there isn’t the least possibility you could encounter him.”
“Is bribery feasible?” Jean Marc asked.
“Not now. Perhaps later.”
“So we’re to stay here until Dupree is sent out of Paris?” Juliette tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of order. “I don’t like it. There are too many residences around the square and we can’t stay here very long in secret. No matter how careful we are, people are bound to realize we’re in the house.”
Jean Marc thought for a moment and then said, “I can tell Robert to put it about that Philippe came from Vasaro to be of assistance to his two sisters who were forced to flee from their homes in the north after the Prussians took Verdun.”
“It’s possible,” François said. “Providing no official inquiry is undertaken regarding them.” He turned to Philippe. “You’ll stay here to lend the story credence?”
Philippe nodded. “Of course. I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”
“Catherine won’t want you here,” Juliette said. “She does not wish to see you.”
“I’ll stay out of her way.” Philippe’s tone was firm. “But my place is here helping Jean Marc and Catherine to—”
“The story will have to do for the time being,” Jean Marc said. “You’ll let me know if there’s any danger, Etchelet?”
“I assure you neither Georges Jacques nor I wish to have the women apprehended. It would be a distinct embarrassment.” François turned toward the door. “I’ll inform you when Dupree has left Paris.”
“Wait.” Juliette took a step forward. “That’s not enough. Philippe is a stranger in Paris and it may be known that Jean Marc’s ward was at the abbey. It’s you who must lend our presence here credence. You must be well known if you work for Danton. Call on us at least every other day.”
“I have no time for—”
“Call on us as frequently as possible and stay but briefly.” She smiled mockingly. “Do wear one of your tricolored cockades so that everyone can see how loyal to the government the members of this household must be. A fine revolutionary gentleman like yourself should be displaying one anyway.”
He met her gaze. “I don’t have to wear my convictions on my hat.”
“It won’t hurt you to do so for the next few weeks. Don’t worry, we don’t want to see you any more than you do us. Have Marie show you to the garden and spend the time in contemplation.” Her smile faded. “Yes, contemplate why you were at the Abbaye de la Reine.”
He gazed at her silently for a moment. “I may drop in occasionally if I’m in the neighborhood.”
He turned and left the salon.
“Wait.” Juliette suddenly remembered something and followed him into the foyer. To her surprise, she found him standing at the foot of the curving staircase, looking up.
“How is she?” he asked in a low tone.
“Not good. How do you expect her to be? She dreams and wakes up screaming. She won’t eat or—” Juliette drew a deep breath and tried to regain her control. “This man I killed, who was he?”
“A Marseilles. His name was Etienne Malpan.”
“Do you know what he looked like?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“Dead.”
“Very amusing.”
“I find death lends a certain anonymity of appearance to everyone. Why are you suddenly so curious about his looks?”
“It was dark in the tomb and Catherine couldn’t see who attacked her. She said they had no faces and for some reason it bothers her.”
“So you’re trying to put faces to them for her?” He was silent a moment. “Etienne Malpan was fair, about forty, a big, beefy man.”
“I remember he was large. What color were his eyes?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Find out.”
“I’m to go to the graveyard and, providing they haven’t buried him yet, have them pry open his lids?”
“She needs a face, a complete face. You don’t impress me as being overly squeamish.”
François shook his head. “Do you never give up?”
“She needs a face.”
François opened the door.
“Will you do it?”
“Stop badgering me.”
The slam of the door echoed in the high-ceilinged hall.
“You should be more cautious. He’s a dangerous man.”
Juliette turned to see a frowning Philippe behind her in the foyer.
“I asked a few questions about Etchelet when I was trying to locate his lodgings. He’s well known among the representatives of the assembly.”
“Well known in what way?”
“He’s nominally Danton’s agent and clerk, but that’s not his primary duty.”
“I’m not surprised. He didn’t impress me as a clerk.”
“He gathers information for Danton.”
“A spy?”
“He also intimidates. He’s fought five duels in the past two years, all with men Danton found convenient to have out of the way. Needless to say, he was not content merely to inflict token wounds to have honor satisfied.”
That information didn’t surprise her either. “He’ll not challenge me to a duel. Nor do I have any important information he can steal.”
“Two of those duels concerned women. Etchelet presumably seduced the women in order to prod his prey into challenging him so that he would have the choice of weapons.” Philippe shook his head. “None of it was honorably done.”
“That he used the women to get what he wanted?” Juliette could not see Etchelet in the role of seducer. In spite of his physical attractiveness, he radiated a blunt honesty that seemed at odds with the deceit needed for such schemes. “But did you not do the same? How else did you get those gowns Robert brought to my chamber.”
“That was different,” Philippe protested. “I merely explained my need to the ladies in the shop.”
He believed what he was saying, Juliette realized with amazement. Philippe had merely charmed and cajoled and smiled sweetly and the deed was done. “At which shop did you purchase them?”
“Julie Lamartine’s. I remembered Jean Marc uses her to clothe his—” Philippe stopped and then continued lamely.
“She’ll begin fitting you both with a complete wardrobe as soon as I provide her with your present measurements.”
He had gone to the shop where Jean Marc sent his mistresses. Juliette felt a sudden jab of pain. No, it couldn’t have been pain. She was tired and confused. All rich men had mistresses, and most courtesans had better taste in fashion than wives. The dressmaker would do very well to outfit Catherine before she left Paris. “I’ll have Catherine’s measurements for you tomorrow.”
Philippe nodded. “And yours.”
“I can make do with one of Marie’s gowns.”
“My sisters would not be ill dressed.”
Juliette’s gaze traveled over his impeccable attire, and she was forced to smile, albeit faintly. “I can see how you would be filled with shame at such ignominy.” She started up the stairs. “Very well, you’ll have my measurements too.”
She had almost reached the landing when she heard Jean Marc’s voice behind her. “Juliette.”
She glanced down to see Jean Marc standing in the doorway of the salon and unconsciously tensed. “Yes?”
His dark eyes narrowed on her face. “Why Citizeness Justice?” he asked softly.
Juliette quickly glanced away. “I told you it wasn’t important.”
“No? I’m beginning to wonder just what you do consider important.”
“My painting. Catherine.”
“And nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
Jean Marc’s lips were lifted in a faint smile, and there was something in his expression that was both intimate and challenging. She became suddenly aware of the physical presence he exuded, the wideness of his shoulders beneath the smooth fit of his gray coat, the sinewy muscles of his thighs outlined by the clinging doeskin of his trousers, the flatness of his belly. She found herself gazing at him in helpless fascination unable to look away.
His intent gaze held hers for another moment. “How interesting. And challenging. We really must attempt to widen your horizons.” He turned and strode back into the salon.
Her breath expelled in a little rush as if his departure had forced its release.
“Did you ask if she’d see me?”
To her amazement, she had forgotten Philippe was there the moment Jean Marc had appeared in the foyer. The knowledge sent a tingle of uneasiness through her. Jean Marc had been there only one day and he was already overshadowing everyone and everything around her.
Philippe took a step forward. “I’d still like to express my shame for my—”
“Shame? Let me tell you about shame.” Juliette’s hand tightened on the oak banister as she looked down at him. “Catherine is so full of shame she can’t look you in the face. I can’t make her understand the shame belongs to the guilty, not to the victim. For some reason she thinks you’re a gentleman of such nicety of character you’ll find her abhorrent.”
“Then let me tell her differently.” Philippe took another step forward. “Let me tell her I’m the one to blame.”
“She wouldn’t believe you. Do you know her so little? She would see your shame and think it a reflection of her own.”
“Tell her—Never mind. There’s nothing I can say, is there?”
“No.” Juliette hesitated. To her surprise the desolation in his expression moved her. Everyone mentioned that Philippe had a way with women, but she had not thought herself vulnerable to his charm. “Perhaps you may try in a few days.”
His expression brightened. “And you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do for either of you? It would be my great pleasure to serve you in any way.”
“If there is, I shall tell you.” As Juliette climbed the stairs she could feel his wistful gaze on her back.
Peacock and panther, she mused. And dominating both of them was the darkly glittering, enigmatic mirror who was Jean Marc Andreas.
She abruptly stopped and looked down as she reached the head of the stairs. “Paints and canvas.”
Philippe was startled. “What?”
“If I’m to be imprisoned here in this house for any time, I must have paints and canvas. Will you see to it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but turned on her heel and moved down the hall toward Catherine’s chamber.
“Monsieur Jean Marc is not at home. Will you wait in the salon while I tell Mademoiselle Juliette you’ve arrived?” Robert asked as he took François’s hat and gloves and laid them on the table in the center of the foyer. “I believe she’s upstairs in the—”
“No.” François certainly didn’t need Juliette de Clement lashing out at him today. He had come directly from the assembly and was already raw enough with the talk of Dupree’s latest massacre. He didn’t know why he called now. He’d had no intention of obeying Juliette’s command to appear at frequent intervals at the Place Royale, and it had been only two days since he had slammed this very door and stalked out of the house. Still, now that he was there, he might just as well stay for a brief time. “Show me to the garden.”
Robert blinked and then nodded. “Oh, you wish to see Mademoiselle Catherine? Certainly, Monsieur. This way.”
François hesitated as Robert started across the foyer. He had no desire to see Catherine Vasaro either. He had thought he was too hardened for either pity or regret to touch him, but looking at Catherine filled him with a strange poignant desire to soothe and protect.
Robert was looking at him inquiringly over his shoulder.
François slowly followed him across the foyer toward the glass-paned double doors leading to the garden.
Catherine Vasaro sat on a marble bench by the fountain in the center of the garden, her hands folded on her lap. He was vaguely aware she was dressed in something blue and soft and that the sunlight threaded glints of gold through her light brown hair.
“It’s Monsieur Etchelet,” Robert said gently as he paused before Catherine. “He’s come to see you, Mademoiselle Catherine.”
“Has he?” Catherine lifted her gaze from her folded hands to look beyond Robert’s shoulder at Etchelet. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “François. Your name is François, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He stood looking at her as Robert turned and walked back toward the house. She appeared even more fragile than when he had last seen her. Dark shadows underscored her eyes, and she appeared thinner, the bones of her wrists breakable. “You’ve not been eating.”
“I’ve been eating a little. I don’t seem to be very hungry.” She looked down at her hands again. “I remember now. You were angry with me. Why were you angry?”
“I wasn’t angry.” He dropped down on the marble bench across the path from her. “Well, perhaps a little.”
“Why?”
“You gave up. You can’t ever give up. No matter how much it hurts, you have to endure. That’s the only way to survive to avenge yourself.”
She looked up at him. “But I don’t want revenge.”
“Of course you do,” he said harshly. “It’s only human to want it. Anyone would—” He stopped as he realized she was staring at him as if he were speaking in a language foreign to her. The comparison was apt, for she looked like some serene, gentle being from a land alien to any he knew. A land where there were no Duprees, no compromises, no jostling for power, no bloody massacres.
He glanced away from her, filled with the sense of sick premonition that she would be destroyed. This world had no tolerance for gentleness. Forgiveness was a weakness. And he was helpless to change any of it.
“I’m … sorry.” Her voice was hesitant “I’ve made you angry again, haven’t I?”
“Why should you care if I’m angry? For the love of God, worry about yourself.”
Her hands were opening and closing nervously on her lap. “It’s more than anger. You have … pain.”
“Nonsense.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “This garden helps. For the past few days I’ve come here to sit for hours. The feel of the sunlight on my face and the sound of the birds in the tre
es … Sometimes you can wrap the silence around you and close the pain out.” A gentle smile turned her face luminous. “Perhaps the garden will help you too.”
Dieu, she was going through an inward agony and yet she was still trying to help him banish the unrest she sensed in him. François suddenly realized Catherine was like the garden she had just described—beautiful, serene, lit by sun and yet vulnerable to every cruel wind. He could feel her serenity flow over him, soothing the rawness he had brought with him.
He sat silently, gazing at her with the same expression of bewilderment and wonder with which she’d looked at him. He suddenly knew he wanted to stay there. He wanted to sit in that garden and look at Catherine Vasaro and let peace and silence replace the turbulence of the outside world. Yet how could he do so when he had chosen his battleground?
He stood up abruptly. “No, merci. I won’t stay in your garden. You can sit here and close yourself away from the world, but I have things to do with my life.”
Some untranslatable emotion flickered across her face before she once more lowered her gaze to the hands folded on her lap.
He stared at her for a moment, an inexplicable frustration aching in him. He left her then without a word.
It didn’t improve his temper to encounter Juliette de Clement in the foyer.
“I was wondering when you would see fit to visit us,” Juliette said. “We could have been—”
“Blue.”
Juliette blinked. “What?”
François picked up his hat and gloves from the table and turned toward the front door. “Etienne Malpan’s eyes were blue.”
“Oh, you did go to the graveyard.” Juliette paused on the bottom step, her gaze narrowed on his face. “What about the other man? Can you find out who he was?”
“Are you never satisfied? There were over two hundred men at the massacre at the abbey.”
“Catherine has nightmares every single night. She’s obsessed that those two men have no faces for her.” Her lips tightened. “Besides, I want to know.”
“I’ve given you one face. You’ll have to be content with Malpan.” François opened the door. “I’ve better things to do with my time than conduct an inquiry that not only could take months but also arouse suspicion among Dupree’s men.”
The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds Page 56
