Tender the Storm (28 page)

"Please, Salome," pleaded Zoë, "
tell
me about
Maman
and Papa."

Sighing, shaking her head, the elderly maid embarked on a story she had related to her young mistress time and time again. As Madame Devereux's maid, she had been allowed access to her mistress through the many months of her incarceration. She was in the unique position of being a witness to much of what had taken place in those last days. Though she related the facts in stark terms, her voice grew husky as her recitation progressed.

Leon Devereux and his wife had been moved to the Conciergerie in the latter days of the Reign of Terror. They were under no illusions as to what would be their eventual fate. Nevertheless, even in the midst of that overcrowded, foul-smelling hell, they never lost
their courage. They were sustained by the knowledge that their children were safely hidden away in the city of Rouen. Madame Devereux, in particular, though separated from her husband, and able to communicate with him only through smuggled letters, seemed to develop an unshakable serenity. Her very presence in the
cour
des femmes,
that courtyard where the female prisoners were daily allowed to take their walks, created order among women of widely disparate backgrounds, from duchess to the lowest streetwalker. She became the source of advice, kindness, and consolation to many. On the day she was to be tried, she came down with a fever. She was taken to the infirmary that very morning, but nothing could be done for her.

When Leon Devereux heard of his wife's death, it was as if a terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. She was beyond pain, beyond torment, and he thanked God for it. He went to his trial with a lighter step. The verdict of "guilty" was a foregone conclusion. That same day, before the barber came to cut his hair, he wrote a letter to his children describing his sentiments and state of mind. The barber was bribed and agreed to pass the letter on to Madame Devereux's maid. To his everlasting credit, the barber kept his promise.

At six o'clock that evening, in company with other victims, men and women both, Leon Devereux's arms were tied behind his back and he mounted the
tunbril
that was to take him on the hour-long ride to the Place de la Revolution where the guillotine had been set up. At the corner of the Pont
Neuf
, Salome had stationed herself. Leon Devereux was calm and erect, and he acknowledged Salome's presence with a slight inclination of his head.

At this point in the narrative, Zoë interrupted to ask, "Why did you go to the Pont
Neuf
, Salome? Why did you want Papa to see you as he passed?"

Salome hesitated, groping for words. "Who can say?" she said. "Somehow it seemed the right thing to do."

"I think I understand. I'm glad you were there. I'm glad Papa knew that he was not alone."

Zoë gazed at her empty cup, her thoughts shifting to the letter her father had written. Leon Devereux's final farewell to his children was long since committed to her memory. He began by commending them to God's care, said a few comforting words about their mother and his sure hope in the hereafter, then went on, in concise terms, to advise his heirs how and when they should claim their inheritance. Though it was beyond her at the moment, one day Zoë expected to read that letter and smile at her father's characteristic practical turn of mind. That in his last hours, he should set his affairs in order was the most comforting gesture of all.

Incredible as it seemed, his house in St. Germain, his wealth, had not been confiscated. His heirs, so long as they were citizens in good standing, were free to claim it. Though the bulk of his estate was to go to his son, he left his daughters wealthy women. Charles Lagrange, in the last number of weeks, had been working on Zoë's behalf to have her fortune turned over to her as well as the house in St. Germain, until such time as Claire and Leon could be located or their fates determined.

Thoughts of her brother and sister were always the worst torment for Zoë. It was a year almost to the day since she had last seen them. Of Leon, only one thing was known with any certainty. He had run away from the boarding school in Rouen before she had ever set out for Coutances. Claire must have known it on that very last day when they had said their farewells. Yet, she had said nothing to Zoë, wishing, no doubt, to save her young sister anxiety. Zoë refused to accept what everyone else supposed as a matter of course, that Leon was long since dead. No one, in her hearing, dared mention his name in the past tense.

And there was Claire. She had been Commissioner Duhet's mistress. According to Charles Lagrange, that fact was incontrovertible. And when Zoë had been languishing at Rivard Abbey in Kent, Claire had disappeared from Rouen without a trace. What was known was that, at the same time as Claire vanished, in the
Spring
of '94, Commissioner Duhet was recalled to Paris, denounced for corruption, and summarily executed. But what had become of his beautiful mistress, no one could say.

Claire. Leon. It was the not knowing which was tearing Zoë apart. Her friend, Francoise, had come to accept that no member of her own family had survived the Revolution. And so might she, Zoë, if, like Francoise, she had indisputable proof of their respective fates. As it was, her thoughts wavered constantly between a deep despondency and the brave hope that all would yet be well.

Her thoughts gave her no peace, returning time and time again to every possible eventuality that might have befallen her brother and sister. Boys were sometimes pressed into the army, or lured into bands of marauding brigands.
Either of them might be ill or injured and
in strange surroundings, not knowing who and where they were. And as for beautiful girls like Claire —but Zoë's thoughts shied away from this unpleasant and wholly unacceptable conjecture.

She must do something. But she did not know where to begin. Charles Lagrange had done as much
as was possible to ferret out information, but it was all very sketchy. Someone, somewhere, must know something of Claire and Leon.

She surrendered her empty cup into Salome's outstretched hand. "I don't know what to do," she said, and Salome knew that her
nurseling
had no notion that she had spoken the words aloud. "I never told them, you see."

Salome blew out the candle on the bedside table. She touched a hand to Zoë's brow. The mild dose of laudanum was beginning to take effect. "Never told them what,
ma petite fleur?"
she asked soothingly.

"I never told them . . ." The eyelashes quivered. "Salome, have I ever told you?"

"Told me what,
cherie
?"

"That I love you?"

The maid chuckled. "No need to tell old Salome. She already knows."

"How do you know?"

"The same way you know that old Salome loves her little flower."

Zoë's eyes grew heavy. Her lashes lowered to lie like fans across her cheeks.

"They know," soothed Salome. "Just as you know that they love you. Go to sleep, little Zoë, go to sleep." Quietly, Salome extinguished the few remaining candles and quit the room.

As the latch clicked into place, Zoë's eyes fluttered open. Wide-eyed she stared into space. The darkness seemed to press in upon her. From somewhere came the sounds of a child sobbing uncontrollably. By degrees, the sobbing subsided and Zoë's breathing became more regular. She turned her face into the pillows, and the fragrant linen absorbed her tears.

*
    
*
   
 
*

As January drew to a close, Zoë's affairs were settled. The keys to the house in St. Germain were given into her hand, and her fortune, left to her under the terms of her father's will, in its entirety, was put at her disposal. There was never any question in her mind of how she intended to make capital of this happy turn in events. In the certain hope that Claire or Leon, circumstances permitting, would seek out the home of their childhood, she proposed to take up residence there with her friends, the Lagranges, and await developments.

When it became evident that Charles Lagrange would not countenance a move to St. Germain, Francoise did everything in her power to dissuade Zoë from her course.

"A woman alone, Zoë?
Charles says it's not fitting."

"Then come with me."

"You know Charles's sentiments. His pride would never allow him to live off a woman's charity."

"What nonsense! Haven't I been living off his charity these many months past?"

"That's not the same thing, dear. And the expenses to run such an establishment, even supposing we share them, are simply beyond our means. Won't you reconsider?"

But nothing could dissuade Zoë. For the first time in months, her melancholy was lifting. She was beginning to take up the reins of her own life. In company of thousands of women throughout France who had formerly led a sheltered existence, she found herself with no father, no husband,
no
guardian to order her life. She was mistress of her own fate. At one and the same time, the thought terrified her and exhilarated her.

She removed to her former home at the beginning of February. Though Lagrange had warned
her what
to expect, her first sight of the house since she had fled from it more than a year before was almost enough to plunge her into a fresh wave of despair. She stood in her mother's yellow
salle
and could have wept. Though the house had been boarded up and still displayed the official seals prohibiting unauthorized persons from making free with the property, thieves had broken in and ransacked the place. This Zoë could have borne with equanimity, but not the desecration, the violation, the wanton destruction of everything of beauty which could not be carried off or was of no monetary value.

When she retrieved her mother's blackened tambour frame from the ashes in the grate, the first tide of self-pity gave way to slow-burning anger. It was this anger which fueled her flagging energies and made her more determined than ever to restore the house to its former magnificence.

She became untiring in her purpose. Slashed paintings were removed and substitutes found for them. Cabinetmakers were employed to restore smashed furniture. Her piano, with new sounding board and strings, was completely rebuilt. Walls were given a fresh coat of paint and soon after, carpets, curtains, and chandeliers were purchased and set in place.

"I can't see the point in any of it," Charles Lagrange was to remark to his wife. They were in their carriage, having at that moment taken leave of Zoë, after she had shown them her latest improvements.

"Zoë's done wonders with the place!" exclaimed Francoise. "Don't you approve?"

"I can never approve of luxury on that scale."

Slightly taken aback, Francoise protested, "She's a wealthy woman in her own right. And besides, think of what this project has done for Zoë. She was falling into a decline until she took over the house. It's been
the making of her."