Royal 02 - Royal Passion (38 page)

"If you think that—that I have been afraid to answer your summons these last weeks, afraid to come, you should know that—"

"Dear Mara, there have been no summonses. Not because of my colossus of a father or his colossal impudence, but because, with the exception of one night of weakness, I felt you deserved something better."

"One?” she murmured.

"What are you smiling at, like Circe on the shore?"

"A night when I heard you and your father having words in the antechamber of the back stairs."

"To have us both prowling the corridors in the dark hours of the morning is, I will grant, amusing, but not, quid pro quo, a sign of guilt for either."

"My apologies. And what, in your considered and superior opinion, do I deserve?"

"Oh, a prince charming, of course, all languishing airs and manly graces, executing a courtship dance of slow and purest delight."

Why could he not say in plain words what he meant? There was no chance to delve into the matter, however, for Grandmère called out then and she had to go to her. Mara was left to wonder if Roderic referred to himself or to a prince charming in the abstract, some man who would court her in the approved fashion with marriage as the end result. Was he, in effect, renouncing her? She could not believe that he meant to ignore what had been between them, to start over, and so it must be the last. He had gone to great pains to indicate that he shared the responsibility for his own seduction; that he understood what had forced her to an act so unnatural for her; that, in fact, he bore her no grudge and wished her well. That was all. The knowledge was no consolation.

The banquets of the reformists continued. The speeches that accompanied these political meals grew more inflammatory. It became obvious that only radical change would satisfy the rabble-rousers. They wanted an immediate end to the absolute power of the monarchy and a vote for every citizen. There was a great outcry against Louis Philippe's conservative minister, Guizot, seen as holding the country to its present humiliating course. The English government, upset by what it considered to be the treacherous alliance of France and Spain by marriage the year before, did its best to increase the furor. The legitimists added fuel to the fire, as did the Bonapartists, in the hope that in the confusion of a change there might occur an opportunity to snatch the crown for their own candidates.

France seethed with unease like wine fermenting in a barrel. The yellow newspaper journals printed scurrilous cartoons of the king and his minister and lauded the sayings of Lamartine. There were food riots in the provinces and sullen gatherings ending in marches under a red flag in the back streets of Paris. The carriage of a rich merchant was overturned by a mob and the man severely beaten. Another round of marchers, after breaking into the warehouse of a wine merchant, went on a rampage, looting several shops and breaking windows in one of the elite districts near the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

At Ruthenia House, in the public salon, the growing seriousness of the situation became the main topic of conversation when more than two people gathered. Some blamed it on the king of the French, a man they admitted had done nothing wrong, but also nothing right. Others blamed it on the unseasonable warmth that allowed the proletariat to crawl out of their hovels and think of something besides keeping alive in the winter cold and damp. Some frowned and shook their heads. Some smiled.

It was difficult, if not impossible, to know the attitude of Roderic and his father, King Rolfe. They could speak as well as for one side as for the other, and often did. They continued to entertain everyone and anyone. If Roderic bowed with a sharp click of his heels over the hands of comtesses and duchesses at the receptions given by his father, then in return Rolfe argued and drank rough red wine at meetings in his son's rooms with Lamartine, the moderate scientist Arago, the socialist Louis Blanc, and with men in rags who carried pistols in their belts and left by the back stairs.

To Mara, the crosscurrents and questions were disturbing. She pitied the people she saw huddling and begging in the streets and tried to give the children centimes when she could. She could see the justice in the call of the people for some voice in the manner in which they were governed, for some concern for their need for jobs and fair pay for their work. At the same time, it appeared that Louis Philippe was doing the best he could for his country and his subjects. People were suffering everywhere, not just in France.

Despite the unrest, it seemed impossible that violence could erupt and barricades be installed once more in the streets of Paris while the mob ruled. Until one sunny afternoon.

Mara had gone with Juliana and Trude to visit a
parfumerie
in the back streets of La Marais. She had heard that she could get a scent there called Creole Garden, which combined the scents of a New Orleans garden: gardenia, sweet olive, and honeysuckle, all lightened with a fern undertone. Beyond the fact that the perfume sounded interesting, she wanted it as a gift for Grandmère. The elderly woman was doing well enough, but she needed something to lighten the days she was forced to spend in bed. Besides, it would make a most suitable opening for a discussion of their return to Louisiana.

The distance to the shop was not far, perhaps a ten-minute walk. It had been so long since they had been out that they decided not to take the carriage. The cadre was out, as were Roderic and Rolfe, so they decided not to wait for an escort. It would be safe enough if the three of them went together, especially since it was a short excursion.

The walk there was uneventful and pleasant in the fresh air. On their return, Mara carried the small glass vial of perfume in her reticule, and all three walked in a delicious aura of the many scents they had been encouraged to apply on their persons by way of trial. The streets were narrow and twisting, with uneven cobbles underfoot that did not make for the easiest of walking. The sun did not quite reach here, only catching the tops of the buildings. Refuse littered the doorways, windows were broken, and shutters hung askew.

When they had left the
parfumerie
, there had been children running here and there, cats scratching on doorsills, and women hanging out the windows to shout across at their neighbors. They rounded a corner, and suddenly the street was empty. Somewhere a child cried and was hushed. A shutter banged shut and a bolt was slammed into place over it.

Mara turned her head to exchange a look with Juliana. Then they both looked at Trude.

"We had best make speed,” the blond woman said, her face grim. With one hand on the hilt of her sword, she looked around her, her cool gaze comprehensive, missing nothing.

They walked on more quickly. Their footsteps echoed among the stone buildings, making it sound as if they were being followed. The sun dimmed as it went behind a veil of cloud. A small wind funneled between the buildings, raising gritty dust that stung their eyes.

Ahead of them they heard the sound of voices raised in a chant or marching song. Closer they came until the song could be identified as “La Marseillaise.” Male and female, there was anger and raw exultation in the shouted words.

"It's a mob. Quick, back the other way,” Trude said.

But it was too late. The crowd of men and women, perhaps thirty strong, armed with clubs and other crude weapons, emerged from a cross street ahead of them. Their clothes were shapeless and faded to a dingy gray-brown, while on their heads they wore flat caps or, for the women, colorless kerchiefs. Their faces were gray, and their teeth were bad as they opened their mouths to sing. They caught sight of the two women in their telltale mourning for the dead sister of the king and what they took to be a young man with a black arm band.

The mob surged toward them as if with a single mind. “Aristos! Oppressors of the people! After them! After them!"

The blade of Trude's sword rasped as she drew it. She gave Mara and Juliana a shove. “Run! I'11 hold them."

"Dear God,” Juliana breathed, “I would give my diamonds to have my épée here now."

"You can't hold them; there're too many!” Mara shouted, grasping Trude's arm and pulling her with them. “Come on!"

Trude was far from being a coward, but she had been taught to calculate the odds and to know the value of strategic retreat. She backed a few steps, then whirled and ran. Yelling, screaming, with the mindless instinct of hounds on a trail, the rabble pounded after them.

The direction the three women were heading in would take them deeper into La Marais. They needed to work back toward the river and Ruthenia House. Trude pointed to an alley, and they dived into it. It was piled with refuse heaps, slimy with slops and garbage, and above them sagged lines of gray washing strung from the balconies on either side. As they ducked and twisted through the shortcut, Trude leaped to slash at the wash lines so that they dragged down into the alley behind them to impede their pursuers.

They gained a little time, but not much. When they burst from the alley, the mob was close behind them. Juliana, clutching her skirts above her knees, sprinted toward a
pâtisserie.
“In here!"

The proprietor saw them coming and tried to close the door. Trude hit it with her shoulder, flinging the man backward. They dashed through the shop, pushing over tables of cakes and pies and a display case of bonbons as they went. They pushed into the kitchen and, ignoring the screams of the fat and blowsy woman who turned from stirring a custard with her spoon dripping spots of yellow on her massive bosom, crashed through the back door into yet another alley.

Trude, cursing with a virulence that did not seem in the least surprising under the circumstances, overturned a vat of rancid grease that stood beside the door. Farther down the alley, they joined forces to upend a barrel of pig and sheep entrails behind a
boucherie.
Choking from the smell, each breath a jagged ache in their chests, they ran on, but had the felicity of hearing the hoarse yells as the first of the mob out of the pastry shop went sprawling in the grease, sliding into the entrails.

They emerged from the alley and swung back to their left. Their feet pounded on the cobbles. Juliana's hair was coming down, her skirts were lifted above her knees, and her face was pale with hectic color on her cheekbones. There was an ache in Mara's side and a red mist before her eyes. She could not keep this pace much longer. Hearing Juliana gasping beside her, she thought the other girl was in the same condition, though Trude hardly seemed winded.

Their one hope was to gain enough time to find shelter, to hide, Mara thought. They were closer to Ruthenia House, but still some five or six blocks away. The street was wider here, lined with a better variety of shops, though every door was closed against them. Outside the establishments stood the merchandise that had been left when the shutters had been slammed and the bolts shot home. There was no place to hide, no refuge. Behind them the howls of the mob were coming closer.

Then, ahead of her, she saw it. She laughed out loud. When the other two looked at her, she could only point with a shaking hand and redouble her speed.

The shop with its line of men's accessories was tightly shuttered, but outside was a rack holding men's hats: derbies and stovepipes and opera hats, alpine hats, hats of silk and beaver fur and woven wool. There was a case of heavy waistcoat chains with fobs and seals to be attached. Hanging from the awning were canes: canes with gold and silver handles, canes with carved-ivory and amber handles, and canes carved from blackthorn, brilliantly polished. And in a stand were canes with knobs instead of handles, canes extra thin and limber and also extra thick: sword canes.

Mara and Juliana fell upon the canes, twisting the knobs, throwing aside those that did not open until, with cries of triumph, they each drew a sharp and slender blade from its hard sheath.

They spun around. “In the street,” Trude said tersely. “There's more room."

The pack sighted its prey and bore down on them. Mara, standing shoulder to shoulder with Juliana and Trude, realized suddenly that she still had her beaded reticule on her wrist. She shook the strings down and, catching the top, flung it aside. It landed near a doorway. The door opened and a young boy of ten or eleven peered out. A voice called out sharply, but the boy darted out to pick up the reticule.

"What's in it is yours,” Mara said, her voice ringing, “if you will carry a message to Ruthenia House. Tell them to come."

"Tell them,
A moil A moi!
” Trude called.

It was the ancient battlefield call for assistance. To me. Rally around me. Help me. The cadre would come without fail. If the boy took the message. If he was allowed inside. If the men had returned.

In the meantime, there were only themselves.

The rabble poured down the street toward them. Nearer they came. Nearer. Their mouths were wide open, and the tendons in their necks corded as they screamed. Their eyes glared with hatred and blood lust. In their clenched fists they brandished their crude weapons. Their rough shoes clattered like thunder on the cobblestones. Nearer. Nearer.

"En garde,"
Trude said softly.

The three blades swept up, then down, steadying. Balanced, poised, they stood ready.

The sight that met the gaze of those in the front of the mob was so unexpected that they checked their progress. They were pressed forward by those behind them so that they skidded, stumbling and staggering on the cobbles. They came within inches of those glittering, gently rotating sword points, then flung themselves back against their fellows, cursing and yelling. There was a moment of milling confusion.

Abruptly, the mob broke, a half-dozen men charging from the crowd. They came at the women with their cudgels raised, their teeth bared. Mara had no time for the others, only for the two who were bearing down upon her. She ducked the first swiping blow and, leaning in that same crouch, thrust low at the legs of the first man. He yelped, hobbling out of reach. Mara recovered, whirled, slashing the wicked blade in her hand at the belly of the second man. He jumped back and the stick he was bringing down scraped her shoulder. Ignoring the numbness, seeing only the winking shaft of the knife he held in his other hand, she immediately reversed, slicing at his arms. He caught his wrist with a hoarse cry, dropping the knife as blood welled between his fingers. His place was taken by a woman swinging a hatchet. Mara met the harridan with whirling, incipient death in her hand. The woman screamed in rage and threw the hatchet. It tore at the thick material of Mara's skirt before clattering harmlessly to the cobblestones. A man with a poker advanced, holding it at full length like a sword. Mara parried it in the same way, knocking it aside again and again until, with a swift riposte, she circled it with her blade and plunged through the man's guard, piercing his shoulder.