French Passion (38 page)

“You arranged for that mob.”

“The people wanted to view the chasm between them and the great nobility.”

“You meant them to terrify me.” My voice trembled. “André became The Incorruptible, the moderate voice you need in the Assembly. Revolutionaries rule the country. You have what you want … I lost my baby.…”

I began to cry. Goujon never had seen me weep. Tears weren't difficult to manage. I was miserable, desperate. My tears had an astounding effect on Goujon. Small noises came from his thick throat, his huge, unbuckled shoes shuffled on wet paving.

After a minute he said, “All right. I'll see what I can arrange. Tomorrow I'll visit de Créqui.”

“No! No!” I cried, terror halting my sobs. “You mustn't do that!”

“Name of God, if I can't talk to him, how am I meant to get him out?”

“That … is … what we have to … manage.…” I said and began sobbing again.

“All right, all right, little one, if it means that much to you,” he said, resting one arm heavily over my shoulder until I controlled my tears, then leading me into the Hôtel des Anglais. In the warm public room Sir Robert waited anxiously. I introduced the two men and went up to my rooms to change my clothes and dry my hair. When I returned, the two of them, the florid English country gentleman and the huge Breton peasant, were amicably discussing farming over the wine mugs.

Yet after Goujon had left, and Sir Robert and I sat together in front of the blazing logs, the Englishman said, “There's something not right about that fellow.”

“Goujon? He's a very good friend.”

“He was muttering something about a rescue of the Comte de Créqui.”

“He's promised to help us.”

“He shouldn't have been let in on it, Comtesse.”

“But why?”

“He's a Jacobin. None of that breed would help a minister of the King bolt from the Conciergerie.”

“I … well, once I did him a favor. He's repaying me.”

“When he spoke of the rescue, he looked me too much in the eye, if you follow my meaning.”

“Goujon's in the Assembly. He can be a tremendous help. And we need all the help we can get.”

“Oh, dash it all. There's nothing against him that I can pin down, but in my opinion the fellow's playing a double game.”

I poured mulled wine from the pitcher. My visit to the Conciergerie and securing Goujon's promise to help had left me in a state that can best be described as chaotic numbness. Not really listening to Sir Robert, I attributed his misgivings to Goujon's undefinable emotions toward me.

Chapter Three

That evening I was in no mood to dress for supper. I yanked a comb through my hair. The rap at the door was an annoyance.

“Who is it?”

“Me, ma'am,” Izette's voice said.

I ran across the room, tripping on the muddy shoes I'd kicked off, falling against the door to fling it open. We were in each other's arms, hugging, pulling apart, hugging again. Seeing her wonderful broad smile, her dear pockmarked face was pure joy. Izette, the only woman friend I'd ever had. As we parted, there were tears in both our eyes.

“Goujon brung me,” she said, wiping her tears with her knuckles. She sniffled, then said in her most sensible tone, “And you've got to leave Paris right away. You're an émigré. You ain't safe here.”

“Prisoners of the Bastille lead charmed lives, and I'm safer than you—that is if you call me ma'am once again. I'll denounce you, Citizeness.”

At this the quick gamine smile split her face. “You!” she said. “What's this Goujon's been telling me? You've come to rescue the Comte with some puffed-up English milord who's in love with you.”

“Sir Robert. You'll see. He's a great, nice grown-up boy, slaying dragons to rescue a maiden in distress. Or in this case, to rescue the ex-maiden's husband.”

Dusk came through open windows, and in this bleached light Izette examined me. “Why do you want the Comte loose?” she asked, her gaze never leaving me.

“I … I feel a great deal for him. And remember, I wrote to you about the miscarriage. I want to have other babies.”

“A shame women have to put up with a husband to have 'em,” Izette said grumpily. “If we get him free, you'll leave?”

I have to, I thought. André mustn't know of my presence. “Paris is very desolate now,” I said.

She nodded, accepting this. “How's Captain d'Epinay?” she asked.

I sighed. “As well as can be expected.” I had left Jean-Pierre a note explaining my hasty departure, and a leather pouch with most of my carefully hoarded gold sovereigns. “He's not confined to bed anymore, but his chest is weak.” I sighed again.

Izette patted my arm in sympathy: she, too, had worried over an ailing brother.

Another knock at the door. “Sir Robert requests,” a lackey shouted, “that you join Deputy Goujon and him in his rooms for supper.”

A square table had been set in front of the fireplace, and Sir Robert explained that the four of us would sup here rather than in the public room so we could be free to “talk.” We said little as the leather-aproned lackey helped Sir Robert's man, stout and gravely attentive, serve us a transplanted English meal. Great bowls of brown soup, a heap of small unidentifiable birds, some over-fried sole, a saddle of mutton surrounded by sodden vegetables, a sweetly heavy suet pudding. The savory, oysters wrapped in bacon, came last, and was the best of the meal. I felt ashamed that, in this country of shortages, I enjoyed only this course. The leather-aproned lackey piled a tray with dishes, and kicked the door shut behind him.

Sir Robert, holding his fingers to his lips, moved to the door, flinging it open. He looked up and down the corridor. His florid cheeks shone. He was as exhilarated as a schoolboy on a prank.

Sir Robert, Goujon, Izette, and I gathered around the fire, discussing in conspiratorial quiet how to rescue the Comte. Like most plans of escape, ours were insubstantial enough to fall apart at the first probe of reality. The fire burned down. Sir Robert's man put on more logs. The stout man, speaking no French, couldn't follow our conversation, and soon his snores came from the shadows.

It was Izette who finally said, “Ain't the easiest thing to rescue the Comte once he's
out
of the Conciergerie?”

“Out?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“When he's in the tumbrel,” she replied. Her voice was sober. And I knew Izette well enough to realize she'd already privately picked at this idea until it made sense.

“On his way to the guillotine?” Sir Robert asked. “I say, isn't that drawing it to a hairline?”

“It is,” she admitted. “But the Conciergerie is got a million armed guards.”

“They parade everywhere in twos,” I interjected. “But, Izette, the tumbrels are guarded.”

“Yes, but that's only twelve soldiers,” she replied. “Mind you, I ain't saying this is sure fire. Still, a bigwig aristocrat like the Comte de Créqui draws huge crowds. And in a crowd you can always manage a disturbance.” She turned to Goujon for confirmation.

Firelight cast shadows on his beard, flames glittered in his eyes. He nodded.

“I got a lot of friends in my club,” she said, pausing to explain to Sir Robert. “Us women has our own discussion club, just like the men's got. We
could
manage a disturbance alone. But Goujon here's got experience organizing crowds.”

That he does, I thought, visualizing the sea of bloodred caps beyond the Comte's iron palings.

Goujon asked, “What's your plan?”

Izette said, “When you goes up Rue St. Honoré, there's a courtyard to a burned house. The whole place didn't burn to the ground, so the worst damage don't show from the street. But one wing's gone, and there's a path through the foundations. A wagon could wait there. Us women could pretend we wants to get at the Comte, shrieking and pushing at him. One of us can stop the horse in its traces, others can swarm over the tumbrel. One of us'll throw a shawl over the Comte and spirit him into the courtyard. We'll cover him with straw or some-such. Drive him to where he can change to lackey's clothes.”

“But what if …” My voice shook. “What if he refuses to go?”

The others turned to stare at me.

And tensely I told them what I'd held back. “The Comte says he's fought and worked for France, and he won't leave it. He says—he says he'll denounce anyone who tries to help him leave.”

Sir Robert's lips pulled together as if he'd been deprived of a much-anticipated sport. Izette gazed at me with disbelief. Goujon pulled at the knuckles of his huge hands. The cracks resounded in the quiet room.

It was Goujon who spoke first. “So that's why you didn't let me visit de Créqui. Well, this puts an end to the matter.”

“I can't let him die,” I whispered, dangerously close to tears. “I just can't. There must be a way.” My palms reached out beseechingly.

Firelight etched Izette's pitted complexion. After a long moment she took one of my outstretched hands. Comfortingly. “It don't have to be the end,” she said. “One of the club members is wife to a guard at the Conciergerie. She helps in the prison kitchen. As I remembers the Comte, he's one to buy wine. She could slip something in his.”

Sir Robert nodded. “Drug him, yes.”

“Just enough, not too much. I never seen the guillotine at work, but I knows a lot who has. They say some folk go to the scaffold looking drug-dosed.”

“This guard's wife,” I asked, “will she do it?”

“She's a good friend.” Izette smiled that brief, face-splitting grin. “But there ain't no harm in making it worth her while.”

Sir Robert leaned forward, eager again. “I'll arrange the … arrumph … wherewithal. And the wagon, too, leave to me. I'll arrange the hire. And we don't need to let a carter in on our plans. I'll drive the wagon—I've driven enough wains during harvest at Foxwarren.”

We sat by the dying fire, Sir Robert, Izette, and I, adding to and refining her plan. The trial being a week from tomorrow, Friday, Izette told us the Comte would go to the guillotine Saturday week: in almost every case execution was set for within twenty-four hours. So we needed to have our plan letter perfect as soon as possible.

Goujon said little. I stared at him. He'd never been talkative. Yet something about this silence turned in my vitals, like a cold snake. Sir Robert had said he didn't trust Goujon. That's because they both cared for me, I told myself.

Goujon must have sensed my eyes on him. He looked at me. “Don't worry, little Manon,” he said. “All will work out for the best.”

His smile was deeply gentle. I told myself not to look for demons where none existed.

At length Goujon yawned mightily. “It's very late,” he said.

He left. Izette slipped across the dimly lit hall to my rooms—she had agreed to spend the night.

I stood at Sir Robert's door, barely hearing his hearty affirmations of our rescue plan. During the rush of working out details, my mind had been alert. Now, all at once, a blow seemed to descend on my head. Weak, I rested against the door jamb.

“What is it, Manon?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“No, you're sad,” he replied. “And when you're sad, you're almost too lovely.”

“You promised not to say such things.” The words came automatically to my lips.

“Jove, I can't help myself. That lost, sad expression of yours makes a man yearn to take you in his arms—a man feels he might die if he doesn't take you in his arms.” He coughed awkwardly. “To comfort you, of course.”

“I'm tired. Tomorrow things will seem brighter.” And I took a step toward my rooms.

“Stay a minute,” he said, taking my hand. “I've got to get this out. It's been on my mind since we left London, but I've never found the right time or the right words.” He inhaled loudly. “Comtesse, I go hot inside whenever I think about spouting that filth at you. How can you ever forgive me?”

“I've forgotten,” I said truthfully. “England seems another world. Safe. Sane.” A spasm of unhappiness passed through me.

“There, there,” he soothed. “This will be a bad dream, no more.” And reaching his arms around me, he held me to his large body. His muscles were very hard, possibly as Lady Gill had explained from his being spawned in the country, more likely from riding to the hounds. For a moment I leaned against him, his warmth comforting my bleakness.

He started breathing heavily. I tried to pull away, but he hugged me closer, his lips coming down rough on mine. My numbness vanished. I struggled, kicking at his boots, pounding on his back, muffled sounds coming from me below the unrelenting pressure of his lips. I couldn't free myself. His pent-up passion was unleashed in this one strangling embrace. I could hear his rasping breath. With one hand flat on the small of my back, he pinned me to him, his free hand searching roughly over my buttocks, rising to my breasts. His hand gripped and kneaded, and he shoved aside the bodice, reaching for my naked flesh. With one wildly frantic, twisting motion, I pulled free.

Cloth tore.

My breasts were exposed, very white mounds rising and falling, the nipples a pale, defenseless pink. With a shaking hand, I pulled together the torn edges of printed muslin. With the other hand, I covered my eyes. I, who so rarely cried in front of anyone, for the second time this day was weeping in front of a man.

Sir Robert's response was even more startling than Goujon's. Sir Robert sank to his knees, like a huge child in prayer, resting his head against my skirt.

“Comtesse, I'm so ashamed, so terribly ashamed.” He used English. “Don't blame you if you never speak to me again … but you're lovely, so desirable, with curves that drive a man wild. Control went entirely. Meant to always act the gentleman with you.” His voice sank to low anguish, and he said in French, “Forgive me.”