The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  “No.” His jaw set stubbornly. “You can’t stay at the Temple. For God’s sake, it’s a prison, Catherine.”

  “That’s another reason we must make our surroundings as comfortable as possible.” Catherine brushed a kiss on his cheekbone before moving toward the door. “They’re bringing my boxes now. Will you see if that nice captain can find me an armoire in this vast place? I must go back to Jean Marc’s house and beg linens and blankets.”

  “Stay there.”

  “And we must keep a fire burning in the stove all the time. These stone walls are dreadfully damp.”

  “Catherine, I have no intention of arranging a pass for you. The guards will refuse to let you back through the gates.”

  “No, they won’t.” She paused at the door, her smile infinitely loving as she looked back at him. “Because, if they do, I’ll sit at the gate and weep and wail until they let me come to you. And that would cause a good deal of attention, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but you still—”

  “And attention shouldn’t be focused on you at the present time. Besides, didn’t you marry me to protect me from the eye of the republic? Would you want word of François’s poor, rejected bride to be bandied among the soldiers and come to the ears of the Commune?”

  A slow smile lit his face. “You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?”

  She smiled serenely. “Certainly. I thought I’d made clear my position. If you wish me to be gone from here, you must accomplish your task quickly so that we may both leave.”

  He shook his head ruefully as he bowed with a flourish. “I’ll do all within my power to oblige you, Madame.”

  “And I’ll do all to oblige you,” she said softly, her gaze clinging to his a moment longer before she turned away and opened the door. “Remember the armoire.”

  A Savonnerie carpet patterned in beige and ivory now covered the cold stone floor and heavy rose-colored-velvet drapes hung at the window. A scarlet velvet coverlet had replaced the linen blanket, and a massive cream-covered cushioned chair with a matching footrest occupied the area next to the porcelain stove.

  “It’s not too bad.” Catherine tilted her head critically as she looked around the room. “I like the yellow curtains in my room at Vasaro better, but these are heavier and will do more to shut out the cold.”

  “Did you leave Jean Marc any furniture?” François asked as he leaned back and rested his head on the cushioned back of the chair. “As I recall, he had a fondness for this chair. He always sat in it when we met in the Gold Salon.”

  “Because it’s large enough for a big man. You need it more than he does.” Catherine smiled. “Don’t worry, he didn’t argue with me when I took it. Jean Marc has many chairs and he can spare us this one.” She shivered. “It’s still chilly here. We can’t seem to get rid of the cold. Is the little boy’s apartment this cold?”

  François nodded. “But he’s not uncomfortable. The Simons treat him very well, by their own standards. Of late they’ve let him live a normal life.” His lips twisted. “Though, God knows, at first they did everything to turn him into what the republic wanted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simon had orders to coarsen him, educate him in the ways of the common man.”

  She frowned, puzzled. “What did they do?”

  “Brought in whores, taught him to drink wine as if it were water. He was in a drunken haze during most of the period before they guillotined his mother.”

  Catherine looked at him in horror. “But he’s only a little boy. How could they do that to him?”

  “It’s Simon’s idea of heaven for the common man,” François said dryly. “Whores, wine, and time to enjoy both. In his eyes he was only doing his duty and showing the boy a fine time.”

  Catherine shook her head. “How is Louis Charles now?”

  “Old for his years. When I look at him and remember Michel …” His gaze met her own. “They’ve robbed him of his childhood. I want to give it back to him, Catherine, but I don’t know if anyone can.”

  Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes as she heard the weariness and discouragement in his tone. He had struggled long and hard against tremendous odds and had lost as often as he had won. Pray God he did not lose this time. “When can I meet him?”

  “Tomorrow. I have supper with the Simons twice a week and then play cards with Simon and a few of the officers. You’re sure you want to do this? They’re crude, bawdy people.”

  “The field workers at Vasaro are certainly not genteel.” She smiled. “And I liked them very much indeed.” Her smile faded. “Though I don’t believe I’ll like these people. To bring whores to an eight-year-old boy …”

  He held out his hand and she came to stand before him. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “You could always go back to your garden.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Not without you. Never again without you, François.”

  He pulled her down on his lap and cradled her in his arms. He sat holding her, carefully, lovingly, for a long time without speaking. At first she was aware only of the delicious pleasure of being close and held as if she were a treasure infinitely precious to him. However, gradually she became aware the muscles of his body were hardening against her own. Her heart leapt and then began to pound harder as his lips pressed to her throat.

  “You do know how much I want you?” he whispered.

  She stiffened and then forced herself to relax against him. She had known this moment would come, and she had thought she’d prepared herself for it. She laughed shakily. “That night we were wed you said you didn’t like skinny women.”

  “I lied.”

  “When I thought about it later, I suspected you had.”

  “I wanted you so much I was hurting.”

  They were silent a long time.

  His voice was muffled against her hair. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. I can wait.”

  She was frightened. She could tell him to wait and he would do it. She wouldn’t have to face the fear tonight.

  But if she told him to wait, she would be hiding again.

  “No.” Her voice was trembling. “Now. Though I may not be able to please you.”

  “You’ll please me.” His fingers sought and found the pins holding her bun, plucking them out one by one and dropping them on the floor. “If you only let me hold you close, you’ll please me. It pleases me to look at you, to hear you laugh.” He threaded his fingers through her long hair. “That’s the difference between love and lust, Catherine.”

  His green eyes were so intent, his smile so tender, she felt her fear melting away. “How … do we start?”

  He lifted a long silken strand and rubbed it on his lips. “Anywhere we choose. We can do anything we like. There are no rules.” Suddenly his smile widened mischievously. “I know. Why don’t I brush your hair, my sweet?”

  The pounding of her heart was starting to steady as she looked up at François. “Is … it over?”

  A shudder went through François’s body as he moved off her and lay down beside her. “Yes.” His chest was moving in and out with the unevenness of his breathing. He turned her over and cradled her spoon fashion. “For now.”

  “You were quite … intense.” She thought about it. “Does it always bring you that much pleasure?”

  “It always brings pleasure but this”—he kissed her ear—“this is extraordinary, my love.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you suppose it’s because I love you? I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “I like to know I brought you pleasure. It … warms me.”

  He went still. “But you felt no pleasure yourself, did you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I told you I—”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “At first, but not later.” She kissed the arm binding her to him. “You were so kind to me. I was afraid I’d see … but there was only you.”

  “That’s good.” His
voice was husky in her ear. “But I want more for you. Tell me what you felt, Catherine. I need to know.”

  “Warmth, comfort, love.” She nestled against him. “It was really quite pleasant.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Toward the end a kind of … tingling.” She rushed to assure him. “But you didn’t hurt me. I know you were being very careful.”

  “Not careful enough. I should have taken more time. I tried but …” His lips brushed her ear and his voice was suddenly hoarse. “I’ve loved you for too long, Catherine.”

  “Why do you feel so bad? I told you that I thought you—”

  “Kind and gentle.” His arms tightened about her. “I believe I’m too impatient.”

  “There’s something wrong? I was supposed to do something else?”

  “No, I just thank God you’re not afraid of me.” He kissed her gently. “Never mind, another time. This is enough for now.”

  “You came.” Dupree felt a fierce burst of pleasure as he gazed at Nana Sarpelier. He hadn’t been sure she would obey him even though it meant displeasing the count. He had watched her closely these past weeks and knew she wasn’t hesitant about jumping into the bed of any man who took her fancy. Still, she seemed to be of a deplorably independent nature. “Come in.” He stepped aside as she came into the room. “I expected you, of course. You have seen Etchelet?”

  She shook her head. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to contact him so quickly.”

  “Tomorrow will do as well.” He closed the door, his gaze running over her. “Take off your cloak.”

  She took off her coat and draped it over a chair. “I don’t like this, Dupree.”

  “But you do like the extra livres the count gives you.”

  “A woman must eat.”

  “There are other needs that must be met as well.” He sat down in a cushioned chair and leaned his arm on the table beside him. “And you can imagine that in my present state I have great difficulty persuading a woman to pleasure me.”

  “I understand the strumpets on the Palais Royal care little how a man looks as long as he has money in his pockets.”

  “But they can’t give me what I need. I used to have a choice mistress who was quite wonderful. She was an actress at the Comédie Française. Camille Cadeaux. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  Nana shook her head.

  “She looked a little like you. A tall, strapping, full-figured woman. She suited my purpose admirably.”

  “Then I suggest you return to her.”

  “Oh, I can’t. While I was in Spain she took another lover, and when I tried to get her to change her mind, she refused to accommodate me.”

  “Perhaps you can persuade her to see how mistaken she’d be to discard a truly admirable gentleman such as yourself.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t permitted,” Dupree said. “It’s clear I’ll have to train you as I did her.”

  “It hardly seems worth your time when your Camille is already—”

  “Camille is dead.” Dupree smiled as he saw the shock on her face. “I really couldn’t permit her to live and continue to go to another man’s bed. It would have desecrated the role she played.”

  “Role?”

  “I told you she was an actress.” He nodded to a large armoire against the wall. “You’ll find a gown and a wig in there. They were Camille’s, but I’m sure they’ll fit you just as well. Put them on.”

  She simply stared at him. What was his game?

  “Now, you know you would never have come here unless you intended to do as I wished.”

  She went to the armoire. “Have you decided how you’re going to dispose of the king?”

  “Poison, I think. I know an apothecary on the rue Marat who will oblige me with what I need. Poison would seem a safe, reasonable method for Robespierre to choose, and I no longer have the strength for a physical struggle.”

  “The king is only eight. He wouldn’t struggle hard enough to—”

  “I don’t want to speak of the king. Put on the gown.”

  Twenty minutes later she stood before him in the pink brocade gown, tucking her own brown hair beneath the stylishly coiffed gray wig.

  Dupree could feel the excitement rise within as he looked at her. “Magnificent,” he said breathily. “You have a strength Camille never possessed.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver snuff box. “Bend down. There’s one last touch.”

  She bent close to him, her expression wooden.

  He opened the snuff box, carefully extracted the heart-shaped beauty mark, and put it just to the left of her mouth. “There, you’re quite perfect now.” His hands were shaking as he closed the snuff box and replaced it in his pocket. “Kneel before me.”

  Nana hesitated and then sank to her knees before his chair.

  “Very good. Now the words. You must say them very sincerely or I’ll be displeased.”

  “What words?”

  His voice took on a high, simpering note. “Raoul, promise me we’ll be together always. You’re mother’s own sweet boy. I’ll never punish you again.”

  She repeated the words.

  His hand cracked against her cheek. “Sincerely. Again.”

  Nana opened her mouth to speak, her eyes glittering with anger, then she drew a deep breath. A moment later she repeated the words.

  “Better. Now say ‘I was so wicked to put you in the wood box with all those nasty creatures.’ ”

  “I was so wicked to put you in the wood box with all those nasty creatures.”

  He bent forward, his breath coming in short, hard gasps. “I beg you to forgive me.”

  “I beg you to forgive me.” Nana looked up to see his face convulsed with pleasure.

  “Say it again.”

  “I beg you to forgive me.” Nana was silent for a moment. “Is that all?”

  “Oh, no.” Dupree smiled, his eyes glazed with pleasure. “There’s much more. You may kiss my hand.”

  The next evening Catherine carefully avoided speaking directly to Louis Charles during supper, concentrating instead on making herself agreeable to the Simons. She found to her surprise that it wasn’t such a difficult task. As François had said, they were rough, obscene, and not overly intelligent, but they appeared good-natured. Of the two, she preferred the woman to her husband. Madame Simon was a squat, tubby little woman with heavy masculine features and a pimpled face, but she had a warm smile and appeared genuinely fond of the child.

  It wasn’t until the men had settled down to their card game and Madame Simon to her knitting by the stove that Catherine dared wander casually over to where Louis Charles was reading by the window.

  “It’s overwarm by the stove,” she said. “May I sit here beside you?”

  “As you like, Citizeness.” His gaze was wary and returned at once to his book.

  A wave of pity swept through Catherine. François had said that Louis Charles was too old for his years and now she saw what he meant. His air of grave maturity was not so much quaint as saddening. She sat down in the chair across from him and studied the little boy from beneath her lashes. He was truly a beautiful child, though he bore only a faint resemblance to Marie Antoinette. He possessed the same fair hair and wide-set blue eyes, but his features were far handsomer than his mother’s.

  “I don’t like people to stare at me,” he said without lifting his gaze from the book. “I wish you would not do it.”

  “I was thinking you look a little like your mother.”

  He looked up quickly. “You’ve seen my mother?”

  “A long time ago when you were a baby. She was very kind to me.”

  He nodded eagerly. “She’s always kind.” He lowered his voice. “But we must not talk of her here. They don’t like it.”

  “Very wise. What are you reading?”

  “A book by Rousseau. Citizen Robespierre thinks he’s a fine man. They took away all the books Papa gave me but they let me have these.” He nodded to the four books stacked o
n the table beside him.

  She reached for a volume bound in dark blue leather.

  Louis Charles swiftly put his hand on the book to keep her from taking it. “No.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  His gaze met her own. “It’s not a book you should look at, Citizeness.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are pictures of unclothed men and women doing …” He stopped and shrugged. “It’s not a proper book for a lady who knows my maman.”

  “But it’s proper for you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He nodded across the room at Simon. “He says it’s the only kind of book a man should read.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. “How can I know what’s true and what’s false if everyone tells me something different?”

  “Do you like Citizen Simon and his wife?”

  “They’re very jolly most of the time.” For an instant his air of maturity slipped as he said wistfully, “But I wish they’d let me see my maman sometimes.”

  “But she’s—” Catherine stopped when she realized with shock that he had been referring to his mother in the present tense. Louis Charles thought his mother was still alive! She was silent a moment before asking, “Where is your maman?”

  “In the apartment on the floor above us with my sister and aunt.” His hand tightened on the book. “They say she’s a wicked woman and I must not talk about her.”

  Catherine felt a sense of poignant sympathy. “I didn’t find her wicked. I think you must make up your own mind about that, Louis Charles.”

  “Charles. They call me Charles here.”

  She smiled. “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Yes, it’s hard to remember everything they want of you.” His gaze was as bleak and world-weary as a very old man’s. “Maman says one must do one’s best.”

  Catherine knew she had lingered too long and must return to the group by the stove, but she found herself reluctant to leave him. Louis Charles was so terribly alone. More alone than he knew. “Do you like flowers?” she asked impulsively.

  He nodded. “At Versailles we had beautiful gardens and even at the Tuileries …” He trailed off and then his gaze focused on her face. “My maman loves flowers. She wears a perfume that smells of violets.”