Minuet (29 page)

“No, no,” Degan disclaimed at once, thinking the invalid would recuperate more quickly without an additional worry, and wondering how long it would be before the truth were known. News was not slow to seep into the asylum. “We begin to think he’s watched. He doesn’t go out.”

“That is wise. I hope he has a good weapon.”

“No, actually we are trying to obtain one. You wouldn’t know how it might be done?”

“You don’t mean you came without guns!” Edward asked, astonished.

“I had one when I landed, but... lost it shortly after arriving,” Degan admitted. Very likely Henry had had one on him when he was arrested too, though if so, Degan had never seen it.

“Take mine, by all means. You need it worse than I.” Without another word, Edward reached under his pillow and extracted an excellent pistol, oiled, loaded and ready for action. “I keep it with me, just in case. A friend brought it shortly after we came here.”

Degan grabbed at it with delight. They spoke for a few moments, with the boy telling him what Minou had already, that there was no hope for help from friends of the family. Any man known to them who walked the streets at this late date was not to be trusted.

Soon Degan left, promising to return the next evening to check on Edward’s progress, and urging him to recover as quickly as possible. As he left the doorway, a dark shadow detached itself from the hedge and grabbed his arm. It was Minou. “I saw her! I saw Mama!”‘ she said excitedly. “How thin she has become. She was beginning to worry about being too plump when we were first arrested.”

“We’ll soon get her fattened up,” Degan said happily. “A great piece of luck. Edward had a gun. Let’s get back to Robespierre’s place and try to save Henry.”

It was thoroughly dark by this time, with the streets unlit but for an occasional linkboy. After a long walk the lights became more frequent as they approached the main part of the city. So did the
gardes,
but it couldn’t be helped, and that gun in Degan’s pocket felt good. The street behind the rue St.-Honoré running parallel with it was quiet, the jog into the chosen alleyway made without attracting any attention.

They found themselves in a large courtyard, unpatrolled and unlit with torches. All the windows of the buildings were lit, however, shedding considerable light on the yard close to them. Which of the rooms might hold Henry was impossible to know, but heads were seen at some, a few of them even looking out into the yard, for the night was sultry. They hung back in the shadows of the spreading tree, their dark garments making them invisible to any stray glance that might turn their way.

“Now what?” Degan asked, calculating that even if half those rooms were occupied, they would soon find themselves dealing with upward of twenty men.

“Now I risk giving the signal,” she told him.

“What signal?”

“We have arranged for all these necessities in advance, Henri and I. I make the song of the
rossignol,
and he knows I am here.”

“Rossignol?”

“The
gou-glou.
The bird with the pretty song, like so,” she said, and puckering up her lips, the shrill, sweet notes of the nightingale floated through the night. It was an excellent interpretation, but unfortunately had the effect of calling the attention of the men at the windows to the tree. Before Degan had gulped in horror, she did it again, two more times. “We do it three times, to tell the other it is us, and not a bird,” she explained in a low voice to her companion.

They both stared hard at the windows, then suddenly on the third floor, a dark head looked out. The window had been hastily barred with a cross of wood nailed on outside the glass to prevent escape. This told them the room held a prisoner, and the shape of the head determined it to be Henri. They had at last found him, even seen him and told him they were present, but what was the next step, with several men straining their eyes toward the tree?

“Now we wait,” she said calmly, and leaned her back against the tree. “Maybe we wait a very long time, Pierre. Why don’t you try to relax?”

He realized then that his whole body was tense as a coiled spring, and soon realized his nerves were different from Minou’s, for he could no more relax than he could sprout wings and fly. He continued looking all along the rear facade of the building, searching for footholds, vines, drainpipes, any possible means of getting in or out.

She reached out for his arm. “It may be hours. We must wait till the lights go out, and he can give us a signal, a note if possible, or we may have to go closer so he can talk.”

They went back farther into the shadows of the large yard and sat down to rest, though relaxation was still totally impossible. They had enough worries and plans to keep them occupied without talking. Eventually the lights in the other rooms began to go out, then Henri’s too was extinguished, but Minou mentioned that the
gardes
had likely made him put it out, and certainly he was waiting for them. Within an hour and a half the building was in darkness, from the rear at least, but they waited another half hour to be certain.

Then Minou stood up and made her nightingale call again. At once a white hand was seen at the barred window, waving to them. A squeak sounded from the same direction, and the window inside was raised higher. On such a hot night it was already open. Minou darted forward recklessly, but Degan pulled her back.

“Have your gun ready,” she said, then pulled away and went to a spot below the window. Degan drew his pistol, keeping his eyes peeled for the doorway primarily, but also scanning the other windows.

Before she spoke, a white paper fluttered to the ground. She snatched it up and ran to Degan. Illumination was poor. They had to risk going into the brighter patches where the moonlight gave them a lamp to read. “I am safe. Don’t do anything foolish. Get Mama home safe to England. Godspeed.” It was unsigned.

“Safe!” she scoffed. “He is as safe as if he stood on the guillotine platform. He wants us not to take any chances. I must speak to him.”

“Henri!” she called up softly.

“Go! For God’s sake go away!” he called back, his voice strained with emotion.

“No, we stay! We’ll get a ladder. Can you pull off those wooden bars?”

“No—no. Please go.”

“We are not budging a step, Henri,” she repeated firmly, even angrily, her voice rising to a dangerously audible level.

“I’m safe. Everything is changing. It will be all right. Degan, take her home, in the name of God.”

The urgent pleas for them to go home told them as plain as day that all was not safe, and he wanted only to make sure they weren’t caught.

Degan added his voice in English. “I have a gun. Have you got a rope to haul it up?”

“No. Oh God, someone’s...” The face disappeared from the window, and the two ran for the shadows. Within minutes a
garde
came into the courtyard to look around, but in a lackadaisical way. He carried a torch, which he set up on a stand. Grabbing Degan’s hand, Minou scuttled back through the alley by which they had entered.

Degan didn’t feel they had accomplished much except risk their necks, but she was optimistic. “Tomorrow night we go with a ladder and hammer and pull off the bars to rescue him. There must be a ladder nearby that they used to put up the bars. We should have looked for it, all that time we stood doing nothing. No matter—Henri will now have hope. He will understand we are coming and be prepared for us.”

It seemed more than likely this warning would cause torches and guards to be in the yard the next night, but Degan did not want to discourage her, and went along with her optimistic talk.

“Now we know where he is; we know he is not so closely guarded. There has as yet been no announcement of his execution, so he is not in imminent danger. They amuse the crowds a few days with the Commune and other henchmen, then make a special show of Henri and that other nobleman they have got lined up. They like noblemen for victims; it reminds the people what this Revolution was all about in the first place. It was never the plan to go massacring the whole country, but only the aristos. It doesn’t matter to them that Henri left France when he was eighteen, and for three years before that lived with Grandpère doing nothing more awful than attending school and teaching me to ride. He is a Virais, and he must die for the sins of his father’s family, whatever they were.”

“We’d better try to find somewhere to sleep,” Degan suggested, every bone in his body aching from all their walking and other adventures.

“Another long haul for us,
mon ami,”
she agreed. “We daren’t put up anywhere downtown, for no doubt that pair of dumb oxen that were looking for us today are still nosing about.”

They went north till they could walk no longer, then took a room at a rundown little inn. There was no mention of anyone sleeping on the floor. They fell onto the bed together, hardly able to talk from fatigue, and were soon asleep in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Chapter Twenty-one

There was really nothing to do all the next long day. Their task could not begin till darkness fell. They sat for part of the morning in their room after a hasty outing to buy bread and papers. The Terrorists now were in command of the country, vowing to purge the Tribunal of everyone connected with Robespierre. Thirty of his associates were scheduled for execution the next day. “Why none today?” Degan asked.

“Maybe they have to sharpen the blade, and have time to dig the graves,” Minou said. “Even for such work as this there is a practical, routine side to be considered. Nothing about Henri,” she commented, glancing down the page. “Ah—here it is. Two paragraphs only. I’ll save it to show him. How insulted he will be to know that is all he rated. Maybe other papers gave him more space.”

To get some fresh air and sunshine they went out for a long walk in the afternoon, making the discovery that there was cooked meat for sale at some shops—roast pork, to avoid the maximum price on raw meat. It would have been a wonderful change from cheese, but they were reluctant to apply for ration coupons, which were necessary to buy from the shops. It was cheese again.

They strolled along the Seine, Minou mentioning happier times, and Degan trying to beguile her into peace with some memories of his own earlier years. They scarcely glanced at the dozens of architectural features along this famous promenade. As afternoon drew to a close, they walked toward the rue St.-Honoré, along to the next street and down toward their alley. A mutt, his skeleton showing through his hide, was coming out of it. “I’ll chase him in and get a look at what’s going on there,” Minou said, and clapped her hands at the dog, chasing him back into the alley. She got right into the courtyard, and took a good look around, making a game of chasing the dog.

There was no one to see her, but a window might be occupied. The yard had been unguarded all day, she assumed. The dog ran back to the tree where she had hidden the night before, and behind it, at the back of the yard, was a long ladder. She hopped happily away, the dog forgotten, to meet Degan coming in after her.

“I found an excellent ladder!” she told him. The scold he had been preparing died on his lips. “Good! Any sign of action?”

“No, they are careless of the back. They must think we have abandoned any thought of rescuing him. It is to our advantage. Come, Pierre, we celebrate with a glass of
eau-de-vie.
Also it will give us false courage. It is the only kind we will have, I think.”

“You
have a great deal of the genuine thing.”

“I?
I would be running as fast as I could for the Channel if it weren’t for you. You are all that keeps me going.”

“Let’s get that
eau-de-vie. It’s
very effective, isn’t it?”

“Have I corrupted the Incorruptible?” she asked, laughing and well pleased with her accomplishment.

“No, just rubbed a bit of his self-righteousness off him.”

They walked along several blocks, finding another out-of-the-way place, of which there were many, in which to have their false courage, lingering till darkness had fallen. Then it was back to the streets, back to the alley behind the temporary prison, for a careful scrutiny of the yard. It was not raining, but there was a strong wind blowing up, and consequently most of the windows were closed. Henri’s was wide open, however. Minou stood well back in the shadow and gave her triple signal. A hand came through the slats, waving.

“Get the ladder,” she said to Degan, who had already been busy to find it.

“Shouldn’t we wait till later?” he asked.

“Strike while the iron is hot. There is no one about now.”

“I’ll put it up, then go out front and create a diversion to cover the sound of his pulling off those window boards.”

“And make it necessary that we come back to free you?
Non, mon ami,
your elegant name will not free you. Robespierre has been executed; he is no longer of any influence. You will stand with that gun pointed at anyone who comes out while I steady the ladder for him. Now, we go.”

They took a deep breath and went, carrying the ladder between them, putting it to the window as quietly as possible. Henri, as Minou had foreseen, was ready for them. The boards were already loosened from his having struggled with them all day. Soon he was easing them off and sliding them in through the window to place on the floor.

Next a pair of feet came out the window, and Henri began his perilous descent. This was the most dangerous moment. If a
garde
came out and saw him, he would certainly shoot first and ask questions later. Degan stood with his gun ready, his heart in his mouth, but no one interrupted them. In three minutes the thing was done, without a hitch. Mérigot was again a member of their party.

“Run like hell, Minou,” were the first words he said. He grabbed one of her hands, Degan the other, and together the three dashed down the alley into the street, running away from the center of town, vaguely northeast in the direction of the Maison Belhomme. They were required to slacken their pace occasionally when they saw someone coming, but they made good time. When they felt they had put themselves beyond immediate capture, they slowed down. It was generally agreed among them that they had earned a bottle of the country’s best champagne after their nervous work, but they were too frightened to enter any place where they could obtain it.