Den of Thieves (29 page)

They talked almost as if they were one person. Clearly the trio had discussed my case and decided on a joint approach.

‘Thank you.' My insides as well as my muscles now felt a flush of warmth. Their praise had never been more welcome.

‘So you go out there and try to enjoy yourself. What have you to lose?' said Mimi.

What indeed?

Standing in the wings with J-F, I watched the scene before ours unfold. Everyone danced so beautifully. They could do things with their arms and legs that I'd never even dreamt of. It was hard to believe that they were plain old Mimi, Belle and Colette in the dressing room: on stage, they seemed like goddesses.

‘Ready, Cat?' grinned J-F.

Too anxious to speak, I just nodded. The strains of our entry tune were beginning. I could see Pedro bowing away next to the first violin, eyes fixed on the conductor. At least, thanks to the demands of the music, there was one friend who wouldn't see the hash I was about to make of my debut. Frank, I knew, was somewhere in the galleries with Marie and Annette, keeping his distance from his parents who were sitting in ducal splendour in the box right opposite me.

‘I kept my promise, now you keep yours,' whispered J-F.

‘I'll try.'

‘Remember,' he muttered as he seized my hand for us to run on, ‘for all you know, your mother was Terpsichore, your father principal dancer in the English ballet. This is our moment.'

With that, we were on. Hand in hand, we ran through the crowd of peasant dancers gathered for the festival scene and leapt centre stage. Immediately, the orchestra struck up the popular tune Renard had taught us. It was clearly a favourite with the audience for I heard a mutter of
approval from all sides and a smattering of applause. On that signal – and I'm still not sure how it happened, Reader – something lit up inside me. I felt as if I had come home. Drury Lane might have been reduced to rubble, but its spirit lived on wherever there was an audience and performers. I realized that I loved this tune too. I wanted this dance because to me it meant friends in unexpected places, mops twirling in kitchens, freedom, the rush of the crowd through the streets demanding that justice be done. It meant
Ça Ira
– we, the people, will win. It meant Revolution. Le Vestris must have known this too and that was why he had chosen this ballet of the common people to play tonight of all nights: the night when the king returned to Paris with his tail between his legs. I didn't care if I made a fool of myself, I just wanted to dance because I, Cat Royal, was one of the people too. I was going to prove that Drury Lane lived on in me.

J-F must have sensed a change in me for his face blazed with joy. For the first time, I was truly his match in the dance.

‘Terpsichore indeed!' he breathed in my ear as I pirouetted into his arms.

‘No, just a daughter of the people,' I grinned, catching my breath as Le Vestris moved forward with his partner.

Now we repeated the dance in unison. I didn't even need to watch Mademoiselle Angeline: I just knew I was in step with her. The music was running through us like an electric current through a chain, binding all together. There was something special in the air tonight. I could feel it surrounding me: it was coming from the audience, from Mimi, Belle, Colette, from Madame Beaufort and Le Vestris, even from the Duke and Duchess of Avon as they urged me on to success from their box. But most of all it came from the touch of J-F's hand on mine. Looking back now, I can tell you what it was, Reader: it was liberty, equality and fraternity – the essential ingredients of the spell cast by the stage in all ages. The only difference here was that in Paris this heady potion had spilled over on to the streets and people were trying to rule their lives by it.

The dance ended and the crowd erupted. Cries
of ‘Encore!' rang out. We had to obey our public. I looked across at Le Vestris and saw him smiling at me. To my astonishment, he handed his partner to J-F and took my fingers.

‘Again?' he asked.

I nodded. What else could I do? I was now dancing with the master. When he spun me round, I flew; when he lifted me, I soared. The feeling was so exquisite, it was almost painful. I couldn't bear it when the dance finished. If I could have lived forever in that moment, I would've done. My one perfect moment.

But such stage magic cannot last. J-F and I took our bow and exited with the applause ringing in our ears. Once in the wings, I found I was trembling again – no longer from nerves but from a quiver of excitement.

‘Wasn't that fun?' said J-F, rubbing his hands together.

‘It was more than fun. It was a revelation. I now understand why they do it.'

‘Do what?' He pulled me with him past the scenery waiting for the next scene change.

‘Dance. It's always escaped me. To be honest, I always thought the ballet a distraction from the real drama at Drury Lane. How wrong I was.'

‘So you are converted?' He paused in front of a flat painted like a gloomy forest. ‘Thinking of quitting the life of a spy and making your career as a ballerina?'

His comment was like a slap in the face, waking me from my dream.

‘What did you say?'

J-F took my hand again – roughly this time – and led me to the dressing rooms. ‘I think you heard well enough.'

My exhilaration was draining rapidly away, to be replaced by dread. My heart was pounding. ‘You've known all along?'

‘At least give me the credit for not being a complete fool. You, so inquisitive, involving yourself in everything you shouldn't – as soon as the mayor put out the call for a spy, I knew who they really wanted. In here!'

J-F pushed me into his dressing room. It was empty as the other performers were still on stage.
I backed up warily against the mirror. J-F's tone was light but that only made me more worried. We both knew that this was no joke for either of us.

‘What are you going to do with me?'

J-F began to wipe off his make-up. ‘From our first meeting, I was watching you, trying to make you out – and at every turn you've surprised me. I was going to hand you over – that would've been the most sensible thing from a business point of view, naturally – but then . . . then something stopped me. And now? I still haven't decided. Tell me first who you were spying for.'

‘It wasn't so much spying. I was just supposed to let my old patron, Mr Sheridan, know how things stood in Paris.' He continued to remove his costume without looking at me. ‘I wasn't trying to interfere with what's going on here. I meant no harm by it – neither did he.' His silence was worrying me. ‘Please believe me, J-F.'

He opened his mouth to speak but we were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Enter the Bishop of the Notre Dame Thieves,
splendid in a purple jacket and candy-striped breeches.

‘Oh dear,' I groaned. My wonderful evening was fast turning into a nightmare.

Ibrahim bowed to me. ‘Enchanting, mademoiselle, enchanting! You are truly a great dancer.'

‘Thank you, your eminence.' I curtseyed. I looked from one thief lord to the other, wondering how this would unfold.

J-F threw his face cloth into the wash basket and perched on the edge of the dressing table, his mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. ‘Well, Ibrahim, I do believe you are on my territory now.'

The bishop's eyes glinted. He straightened his cravat. ‘By invitation.'

‘Of course. But I prefer to negotiate with you here rather than at your palace over the water. We have one English spy to dispose of. I think it will be to our mutual advantage to do it together.'

Dispose of? This sounded grim.

‘Please, J-F, I didn't mean any harm,' I pleaded. ‘Far from it: coming here has made me realize
what the common people can do – I've learnt so much.'

‘So it
is
you, mademoiselle,' interrupted the bishop with a satisfied smile. ‘I had almost begun to think I had got it wrong and had cause to regret informing the mayor that you were the one he should be seeking. That's good, as I don't want his men to be disappointed when they arrest you. If I'd been wrong, I would not have received my reward.'

‘They're waiting to arrest me?'

‘Indeed.'

J-F frowned. ‘I cannot allow that. You have no right to take her in my kingdom without my agreement – no right to keep the reward to yourself.'

‘Then you hand over the English boy – he'll fetch something, I've no doubt.' The Bishop moved towards me.

J-F leapt from his seat and stood between us. ‘He's worthless now his parents are free.'

‘Shame, but you have only yourself to blame for dallying with the girl, missing your chance while you had it. It seems you will be the loser tonight.'

J-F looked from Ibrahim to me, his eyes calculating. ‘There's another consideration,' he said, not giving way.

‘Oh yes, and what's that?'

‘That we might think that Mademoiselle Cat has earned her freedom. She proved herself a dancer as you asked, you said it yourself when you came in. I believe her when she says she was doing nothing to harm France. She deserves our trust.'

‘Trust? Since when have we thieves done business on the basis of trust?' mocked Ibrahim.

‘Since the people of Paris began to think the unthinkable, and do the impossible,' I said softly, remembering J-F's words to me a few days before.

‘What?' snapped the bishop.

‘That's what I've learnt: you people are rewriting the rules here. Why not risk trusting me?'

‘You ask why? Because there's no profit in trust!'

J-F shook his head. ‘You're wrong. Her friends will match the reward you would've received for her – perhaps even double it if we're lucky, so we can both emerge richer men.'

‘Yes, yes, I'm sure they will. Just ask Frank,'
I said eagerly, clutching at this straw.

Ibrahim stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, J-F, I was beginning to fear that you were losing your touch. That's not bad reasoning for a vagabond.'

J-F bowed, his old playfulness returning. He waved his hand as if embarrassed. ‘Compliments, compliments, Ibrahim: you'll turn my pretty little head if you go on in this manner. Time is short. Cat must write a note to her friends, pledging their support on her behalf, and we must do our part and get her away. But how to do this? I suppose the mayor's men are waiting outside?'

The bishop nodded. ‘I regret to say that they are.'

‘Hmm, tricky, very tricky.'

Realizing that J-F was throwing me a lifeline with this deal, my thoughts were employed on thinking of a way out of this dressing room without being seen.

‘Should I distract them perhaps?' suggested the bishop, approaching the door to listen to what was going on outside.

‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,' I said.

They both looked at me. ‘What?'

‘Shakespeare, Falstaff – surely you know it?' J-F shrugged; the bishop looked blank. Clearly French education was deficient. ‘Falstaff escapes from the house in a buck basket – a wash basket.' I opened the lid and emptied out the contents. ‘Put me in here – cover me with something. Ibrahim distracts the guard while J-F and Renard carry me out.'

‘Excellent,' chuckled J-F. ‘I'll fetch Grandfather.'

‘And I'll make sure she writes that letter. She's not going without giving her word of honour that we'll see a reward for this,' said Ibrahim.

‘We'd better hurry – the performance will be over soon. We want to get her clear of here before everyone comes backstage.' J-F thrust a bill for tonight's performance in my hand. ‘Here – use this. I've no ink so use the charcoal in the make-up case. Washing basket, indeed!' he laughed. ‘I could make her my queen for that.'

Ibrahim propelled me to a seat at the dressing table and put the eyebrow pencil into my hand.

‘Mademoiselle, it looks as if you will be
la fille mal gardée
*
tonight, if this works,' quipped the bishop.