Storm Winds (62 page)

Dupree’s hand closed caressingly on the bottle Barshal had given him as he hurried down the street. It was a pity he’d had to dispose of the apothecary. An amoral man of his profession was very useful, but Barshal was known to others in the city beside himself. The comte must be made aware how sharp was his new tool and how ruthlessly it cut.

He hefted the tiny bottle, such a light, lethal weight. Yet, even with the drops of poison he had put in Barshal’s wine, he was sure he would still have more than enough for his purpose.

“You can’t see him today,” Madame Simon told Catherine when she came to the door of the cell three days later. “The boy just lies there in bed and stares.”

Catherine’s eyes widened in alarm. “Is he ill?”

“No.” Madame Simon’s lips tightened as she glared at her husband nursing a mug of wine by the fire. “It was that stupid husband of mine. He got drunk and told Charles about old Sanson choppin’ his mother.”

“He had to know sometime,” Simon said with a surly look. “Everyone else does.”

“You didn’t have to dance around singing and pretending you were holding the bitch’s head,” Madame Simon said crossly. “He wasn’t ready to hear it like that.”

White hot anger surged through Catherine, and she had to turn away so they wouldn’t see it in her expression. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“You won’t see me,” Simon said bitterly. “I’m leaving the Tower, They tricked me.”

Catherine’s gaze flew to Madame Simon. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “The Commune promised him a better position and he resigned as guardian for the boy.”

“But they didn’t give me the other position and now they won’t let me take back my resignation.” Simon drained his cup. “They’ll be sorry. No one was ever better to that boy than I was.”

“What are they going to do with Charles?”

“Do you think I’d give up four thousand a year just because my stupid husband leaves the Tower?” Madame Simon frowned. “I’m staying with the boy as long as they’ll let me, of course.”

So now, if they worked quickly, they would have only Madame Simon to contend with in freeing Louis Charles. François should know about this at once. Catherine turned away and started for the door.

“Catherine!”

She turned to see Louis Charles raised up on one elbow. “Don’t go, Catherine.”

Catherine glanced pleadingly at Madame Simon.

The woman shrugged and turned back to her seat by the stove. “See if you can get him to eat.”

Catherine moved across the room toward the small bed.

Louis Charles’s ghastly pallor made his blue eyes look enormous as he gazed at her in desperation. “They cut off her head, Catherine,” he whispered. “Like they did Papa’s.”

Catherine sat down beside him on the bed. “Yes.”

“You knew?”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

“She wasn’t wicked,” he said with sudden fierceness. “They shouldn’t have done it.”

“Shh.” Catherine glanced over her shoulder at the couple by the fire but they didn’t appear to have heard. “You must be careful, Louis Charles.”

“Why? They’re only going to cut my head off too.”

“No, not you.”

“I’m the king. No one likes kings anymore.” Tears were running down his face. “But they didn’t have to cut off her head. She was only the queen. They should have killed me instead.”

Catherine’s hands gently stroked the fair hair from his face. “I know it’s hard to understand why bad things happen. I can’t understand it myself.”

“He said they didn’t give her proper burial. They just threw her body into a pit with lots of other traitors and poured lime into it so that no one would ever know she lived. He said since she didn’t have the proper rites she couldn’t ever go to heaven.” His eyes were wide with panic. “She’s
lost
, Catherine.”

Catherine cursed Simon beneath her breath. It wasn’t enough that he’d told the child his mother was dead, he had to condemn her soul as well. What could she say? she wondered frantically.

“Listen, Louis Charles, do you remember what I told you about some fragrances living for thousands of years? Perhaps souls are like fragrances. Perhaps they don’t really need a body or rites or hallowed ground to live on.”

Louis Charles’s gaze clung desperately to her face. “She’s not lost?”

She shook her head. She was silent a moment and then spoke hesitantly, feeling her way. “I think memory must be the fragrance of the soul. As long as we remember your
maman
, she’ll linger with us. She won’t be lost.”

“I’ll remember her,” Louis Charles whispered, his thin fingers nervously clutching the coverlet. “I’ll remember her every day so she’ll never be lost.”

“It doesn’t have to be every day.” Catherine took out her handkerchief and gently wiped his damp cheeks. “Sometimes at Vasaro we barely notice the perfume of the flowers because it’s always with us. But then suddenly something happens to remind us. It rains and the scent becomes more powerful or there’s a strong breeze after a long stillness. You don’t have to try to remember
what’s already a part of your life, Louis Charles. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I had something to remember her by. I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I don’t have anything to remind me of her. They keep telling me things and sometimes I believe them. I’m not like your friend Michel.”

“You don’t have to be like Michel. You’re fine just as you are.” She kissed his forehead. The nuns would have probably condemned every word Catherine had spoken, but she had been desperate to help him and they had seemed somehow right. “Will you eat something now?”

He shook his head. “Will you bring me my violets?”

She got up and went to the cabinet and brought back the box of violets. “I see you have some new blossoms.”

He nodded, his gaze on the violets. “If they don’t cut off my head, I’ll have an entire garden of violets someday.”

“They won’t do—” She stopped in mid-sentence. How could she assure him this world would not take his life when it had taken both his parents? If they didn’t manage to get Louis Charles out of this prison soon, he could well lose his head. “I’ll bring you another box of violets the next time I go to see my cousin.”

She wasn’t sure he had heard her. His head was bent forward over the violets and he breathed deeply, taking in the fragrance. He murmured something, but she couldn’t quite catch the word.

It might have been
merci
.

Or it could have been
maman …

Y
ou’re surprised I sent for you?” Danton leaned back in his chair and regarded Jean Marc wearily. “I’m a little surprised myself. I was very annoyed with you at one time. I didn’t like losing a pawn of the magnitude of the Wind Dancer.”

“One cannot lose what one has never possessed.” Jean Marc seated himself in the chair across from Danton’s desk. “Though, of course, I have not the faintest idea as to your meaning.”

“Of course.” Danton smiled sardonically. “However, you should know I was so annoyed that I failed to inform you I was paid a call by a mutual acquaintance of ours several weeks ago.”

“Indeed?”

“Raoul Dupree.”

Jean Marc froze.

“You did good work on the bastard. His
body is crippled and his face would do justice to a nightmare.”

“Not good enough, evidently. I meant to kill him.”

“I know. He told me. He was frothing with plans for vengeance. He said he’d take the statue from you and the two of us would share the glory of the Wind Dancer.” He smiled faintly. “Naturally, his plans called for your very painful demise.”

“How surprising, and I thought he was so fond of me.”

“He also mentioned your cousin, Mademoiselle Catherine, and Juliette de Clement.”

“And?”

Danton shrugged. “I told him I wasn’t interested in obtaining his services. I was quite busy at the time trying to keep Robespierre from chopping off half the heads in Paris and certainly wasn’t interested in having yours served up to me.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you were otherwise occupied.”

“Dupree swore he’d go to Robespierre when I refused him.” Danton frowned. “But since you’re still alive I doubt he did as he threatened.”

“May I ask why you’re suddenly concerned for my continued well-being?”

“Oh, I’m not. You must take your chances with the rest of us,” Danton said bitterly.

“Then why are you warning me?”

“It’s come to my ears that your cousin now occupies the quarters of François Etchelet in the Temple. A romantic, foolish gesture on her part.”

“I agree. I couldn’t persuade her to do otherwise.”

“If I know she’s in Paris, then it’s reasonable to assume Dupree knows also. He has many contacts in the city and Pirard, his former lieutenant, is now serving in the Temple. It would be wise of you to safeguard her.”

“I’ll endeavor to do so.” Jean Marc stood up. “Thank you for your warning. May I ask why you bothered to give it?”

“I remembered her face that night at the abbey …” Danton shook his head wearily. “She’s suffered enough.
So many innocents dying … Did you hear about my wife Gabrielle?”

“Yes, my deepest sympathy, Citizen.”

“I’m married again now. Lucille is Gabrielle’s cousin, a fine woman. After I married her we went away to the country for a number of months. We were very happy there.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to come back.”

“But you did.”

“I have to try to halt it,” Danton said. “The tumbrils keep rolling to the guillotine. Robespierre thinks terror is the only way the revolution will survive.”

“Good luck,” Jean Marc said gravely. “I’d not like to wager on your chances of stopping that madman.”

“I’m not sure I would either. God, I’m weary of it all.” Danton stood up. “Good day, Andreas. Guard your cousin well.”

“François will guard her.”

“François.” For an instant an expression of sadness crossed Danton’s face before it hardened. “I hope he gives her more loyalty than he showed me.”

“Good day, Danton.” Jean Marc turned away.

“Juliette de Clement.”

Jean Marc glanced over his shoulder.

“He mentioned your cousin only in passing, but he was quite venomous on the score of Mademoiselle de Clement. I think he’d go out of his way to hurt her badly. If he doesn’t dispose of her himself, I’m quite sure he’ll find a way to send her to the guillotine.”

“He said that?”

Danton nodded. “If she has value to you, I’d send her out of harm’s way.”

“She has value to me.”

Jean Marc opened the door and left the study.

“Set a date,” Jean Marc told François tersely. “I want it over.”

“Even if I set a date, we may have to change it,” François said with a frown. “We can’t be sure—”

“I told you what Danton said.” Jean Marc whirled away from the window to face him. “It’s
Dupree
, for
God’s sake. You know what he’s like. Who knows when he’ll decide to move against all of us?”

“He’s held his hand this far.”

“Set a date. I want Juliette safely away from all this.”

François nodded, staring absently at the portrait of the Wind Dancer on the wall in the corner of the room. “Very well, we’ll take the boy from the Temple on January nineteenth.”

“January nineteenth.” Nana pulled the gray wig on her hand and began tucking her hair beneath it. “They’re going to tell Simon and his wife there’s a threat of rescue by William Darrell. They’ve bribed four of the guards to act as escort and Juliette de Clemente is going to forge Robespierre’s signature to a writ to have the boy released to Etchelet’s custody and removed to a place of safety.” She went to the mirror and took the heart-shaped beauty patch from the silver snuff box. “Once away from the Simons, the boy will be escorted by the guards through the front gates and taken out of Paris to Le Havre.”

“Very clever. That beauty patch is too close to your mouth. Move it a little to the left.” Dupree looked thoughtful. “The de Clement bitch will have to practice the signature in order to get it right. I want one of the papers she discards, but it must contain only the signature. Nothing else. You understand?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You have a saucy tongue. You’re fortunate I’ve been pleased with you in other ways. I told you what I did to Barshal.” Dupree gazed at her critically. “Stop fussing. You look fine now. Come here.”

Nana stiffened and then turned and moved slowly toward him. “We move on January nineteenth, then?”

“Why not? It would be amusing to use their plans to augment my own. I spoke to Pirard today and he’s eager to earn a generous stipend for a day’s work. Kneel down.”

She knelt before him. “You’ve told Pirard about the count?”

“I’ve told him nothing beyond his duties in the enterprise. Men like Pirard are only tools. You hate kneeling to me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you do it anyway.” His index finger touched the beauty patch on her cheek. “Camille rather liked it. I think I prefer your attitude. It’s more satisfying.”

“Shall I begin?”

“In a moment.” His hand stroked the fullness at the sides of the wig. “Someday I’ll take off all your clothes and put you in that armoire across the room. That’s what you did to me, remember? It was a chest in the cellar and you said I must learn—”

“I didn’t say that to you.”

He slapped her, hard. “Of course that was you. Say it.”

“It was … me.”

“And then you put the roaches in with me. I couldn’t have done anything so naughty as to deserve that, could I?”

“No.”

“But don’t worry. After I take you out of the chest, I’ll hold you and stroke you and tell you what you must do to be a good girl and please me.”

Her voice shook with a terror that was no pretense. “Don’t … put me in the armoire.”

“Not now,” he agreed. “One must savor such discipline.” He leaned back in the chair. “You may begin.”

Nana’s voice still trembled as she altered her tone to the high, pleading pitch he preferred. “Promise me we’ll always be together. You’re my own sweet boy, Raoul.…

“The forgery is quite good.” Nana handed Dupree the blank paper with Robespierre’s signature at the bottom of the page. “It was the best of the lot, but I told her they were all only adequate. I slipped this one beneath the fans in my basket when she wasn’t looking.”