The English Heiress (30 page)

The look on Roger’s face did not give Leonie any confidence that he would pay attention to her logical suggestions. Fortunately, there did not seem to be any reason to worry. No one paid the least attention to her, except for the chandler’s wife, who called out to ask Leonie whether she was going to the produce market. Since Leonie did not care where she went, she obligingly offered to bring back anything her neighbor wanted and stood and chatted while Roger sweated blood behind the door. Finally Leonie disappeared. Roger went back to his workbench, but his hands were shaking too much for him to do anything except stare at the weapon he should be repairing.

Time passed, then more time. Eventually Roger picked up the gun at which he had been staring and began to remove the barrel from the breechblock. Surely, he thought, even if time is dragging because I’m scared nearly witless, Toulon could easily have come back with men to arrest me by now. He tilted the barrel of the gun into the light and squinted down the false ramrod where the powder was stored. Cursing softly, he took a thin rod from the shelf beneath the counter and poked gently at the clogged magazine. “Idiot,” he muttered, annoyed at the fool who could afford so expensive a weapon and had not enough brains to learn how to care for it. Soon he became absorbed in his task and panic receded.

Leonie returned, changed to her next-to-best dress, and went out again. “Came back from shopping. Going out to visit,” she said briefly, but she was also more relaxed. It began to seem as if either Toulon had only been innocently curious or her guess was right. That is, he did not intend to denounce them but wanted to exert a little pressure before starting open blackmail. Nothing further had happened by late afternoon when Leonie returned again. Roger put away his tools and came into the kitchen where she was laying the plates for a belated dinner.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Sometimes they prefer to make arrests at night.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Leonie replied. “It’s blackmail I heard in Toulon’s voice, not death. However, there isn’t any sense in taking chances. We should go out. It’s a shame the theaters are closed. Oh, I know. Let’s go to the Café Breton.”

They did so and had a very pleasant evening, staying late even thought that meant they would have to chance the bands of thieves that roamed the streets. They were even lucky there and came home safely to a neighborhood completely quiet. Quite clearly there had been no attempt to arrest them, and Fifi’s investigation of the area indicated that no one was lying in wait for them at the front.

“We will see,” Roger remarked, opening the door so that Fifi could carry out a similar investigation at the back.

Here it seemed their luck had run out. The little bitch hesitated on the doorstep, stiff, her head thrust forward. Roger’s hand went into his pocket.

“I am not a thief,” Toulon’s voice came from the dark in the alley. He came forward into the faint light cast by the kitchen.” You are an Englishman,” he went on, so softly that only Roger could hear. “Your head is forfeit the moment I speak. No, do not shoot me. My comrade Lepitre knows where I am and why.”

“What do you want?” Roger asked. “If you intended to denounce me, you would have done so already.”

“It is a little matter of treason,” Toulon said, grinning as he pushed gently past Roger into the room, “for which you will be well rewarded. Since you will lose your head either way—if I denounce you or if you are caught for treason—it seems to me a practical man of business like yourself would prefer to take the chance and the reward.”

Roger shooed Fifi out gently and closed the door. She would soon be back in indicate whether there were other men out there. He was aware that Leonie in the bedroom above could hear them now. If she came down and distracted Toulon… He shook his head.

“If you think I am a spy from England and can give you information, you are sadly mistaken. I have been many years in France.”

“I know that. I have English friends—which is why I caught that accent—but very few would recognize more than that you were not a Parisian, or not from any other particular place with which they were familiar.”

That was probably the only good thing Solange had done for him—refusing to answer if he spoke to her in English and making fun of his French until in self-defense Roger had learned to speak nearly perfectly. That flicked through one part of his mind while the other part considered what Toulon said. If Toulon believed he did not know any secrets, what treason could he possibly commit against England? No, stupid, Roger said to himself, the treason must be against France if he might lose his head for it. They hung men for treason in England.

“Then I do not understand you at all,” Roger said.

“Let me ask you a question,” Toulon remarked. “How did you feel about the execution of—of Capet.”

There was no point in lying. One might as well be guillotined for a sheep as for a lamb. “I saw the political necessity but grieved for the man, who was innocent, I think, of ill intent.”

“Just—” Toulon broke off as he heard a creak of the stairs. He turned and gasped when he saw Leonie with her pistol held in both hands and leveled at him.

“Stand very still, m’sieu,” she remarked quietly. “I am not afraid to fire. I have done so before.”

“Put it down!” Toulon cried, but there was irritation rather than fear in his voice. He turned to Roger. “Saintaire, take it away from her. She is likely to kill you as me!”

Roger could not help smiling, for what Toulon said was quite true. However, his mind was racing. Toulon had no need to set traps for him concerning royalist sympathies. The question about Louis then, had some other purpose. In fact, to ask it gave Roger a weapon against the questioner. It was not much of a weapon. Toulon was a commissioner and Roger was in no position to accuse anyone of anything. Thus it might be useful to indicate to Toulon his goodwill. He shook his head at Toulon.

“Oh no,” he said. “A gunsmith’s wife grows accustomed to guns. However, you said I was an honest man. I hope you are. I would like at least to hear what you have to say. Sit down on the stair, Leonie. I do not believe Commissioner Toulon intends us any harm.”

As he said the words, Roger was convinced by them. He had been making the mistake of thinking in ordinary legal terms, of thinking that evidence was required to prove a case, in a situation where legality had been totally abandoned. If Toulon had wanted them imprisoned or even dead, he had only to accuse them of incivism. He was a trusted arm of the revolution—no further evidence would be needed.

“I may bring you harm,” Toulon said suddenly, with great earnestness, having been much moved by what Roger said, “but I swear it will not be by intention.”

Roger nodded and gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, commissioner. Will you have a glass of wine?”

The dog whined and scratched at the door, and Roger went to let her in. She had not barked nor run back, and her tail was high and waving. There were no strangers in or near the alley so Toulon had come alone. In these days a man did not walk alone in the streets at this hour of the night unless he had a good reason. Then another bit of evidence that Roger had not seen added a final affirmative point. Toulon was not wearing the scarf that identified him as a commissioner. Yet that scarf was a relatively sure protection against the gangs that roamed the city. So! Toulon must be very eager to keep this visit a secret. Put all that together with the question about Louis and one obtained an interesting answer.

“Put your pistol away, Leonie,” Roger said, “and bring us some wine and join us. I am sure that Commissioner Toulon’s treason will be an honest one and bring no harm to France.”

Toulon’s breath hissed in sharply. “You are right, of course. Have you guessed?”

“Not what it is you want of me,” Roger replied, “but that it has to do with the royal family—that I have guessed.”

The wine slopped on the table as Leonie started with surprise. Toulon looked at her.

“Did you hate Marie de Conyers when you were her servant?” he asked.

Leonie looked at him with startled eyes for a moment, then remembered that Roger had excused her aristocratic accent by saying she had been her mother’s maid. “No,” she breathed. “She was a good woman, kind to me.”

“Did you know,” Toulon went on, “that there are those who say that the—that Marie Antoinette should meet the same fate as her husband?”

To avoid spilling more of the wine, Leonie set the bottle down. She clasped her hands to hide their shaking. Roger pushed her gently into a seat and poured the three glasses of wine himself, but no one reached for it.

“I had not heard it,” he said untruthfully—where could a simple tradesman hear such things? “But I am not surprised. She was always hated.”

“And with reason,” Toulon remarked. “She was extravagant. She had no understanding of the dreadful condition of the country. Also, there is good cause to believe that she urged Louis to resist all reform and drove him away from the people who could have saved the monarchy.”

Neither Roger nor Leonie knew what to say. They agreed with Toulon. How often had Leonie heard her father damn the queen for her pride and her resistance to Lafayette’s advice? How often had Roger and his friends in England discussed the fact that the queen’s influence was pushing Louis into the arms of ministers who only intensified the ills of France? But there was nothing treasonous in hating the queen—not to the current government. And Toulon’s statement had been dispassionate. There was no hatred in voice or expression. His look was that of a man unavoidably mentioning an injury long forgiven.

“That is all true,” he went on, “yet she is also a woman, a gentle, tender mother—and helpless. What you said about the—about Louis Capet was true. His death was a political necessity. If he lived, the republic could not. However, there can be no gain to the country in Marie’s death. That would be an act of wanton cruelty. She has no power now and will not have ever again. She can never be a danger to the state.”

Roger lifted his glass and drank, not realizing that his action might well be taken as a toast to Toulon’s words until he saw the smile of relief on the man’s face. Actually, Roger had only wanted to hide his eyes. Toulon was wrong about the fact that Marie Antoinette could not be dangerous. If the forces ranged against France won the war and seated the dauphin on the throne, Marie would again exert the same influence, or even a stronger one. The boy was only eight years old. He had been deprived of his father in a horrible way of which he was no doubt aware. On whom would he lean if not on the gentle, tender mother Toulon described. Perhaps for a time Prussia and England would choose a more stable regent, but Marie Antoinette would be teaching her son all the wrong things.

It was clear enough now where this talk was leading. Toulon must be involved in a plot to permit Marie Antoinette to escape. Roger could still not guess what his part was to be, but he was not thinking about that. He should, he knew, point out to Toulon that the queen could still be a formidable danger to France—and more formidable in exile, where her pleadings and promises might stimulate a more determined attack on France than was now being made. As long as Marie was a prisoner in France, she was powerless and no threat. As soon as she was free, she might be the cause of much suffering and loss of life—now and in the future.

As much as he abhorred what was going on in France, Roger believed that to break the revolution by war would be useless. The people had the bit between their teeth now. Conquest of the country and restoration of the monarchy by force could only breed more and bloodier insurrections. It would be necessary to quarter a huge army of occupation in France to put down these revolutions. Internally, Roger shuddered at the suffering that would cause, the hatred that would grow out of it.

Possibly Toulon would pay no attention. Possibly he had thought of these matters already. But just possibly, his pity for the queen had not permitted him to see the pitfalls her freedom would open. If he listened and abandoned the plot… Roger’s hand clenched on the glass he was holding until his knuckles showed white. Fortunately, it was a thick, common drinking glass. He would have crushed the delicate, stemmed crystal out of which he drank at home. If Toulon listens to me and abandons the plot and Marie Antoinette is executed, I will be her murderer, Roger thought.

“What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Very little,” Toulon said eagerly. “A refuge for a little time. A place where clothing may be changed, new disguises assumed. You will be in no danger. Even if the escape should be noticed—and we have taken good care that five hours at least will pass before anyone has reason for suspicion—there will be two commissioners standing in your shop talking to you. They will, of course, assist any men who come here, should the worst happen and a search be instituted.”

“Oh please, Roger,” Leonie pleaded with tears in her eyes, “help her. She has lost so much—her world is all broken. Her husband is dead. Don’t be the one to take away her very life. Whatever she has done ill, she has paid for it already and—I don’t believe it was done in malice.”

Roger nodded without delay, but not because his refusal would have any effect on the plot. There were many other places in the area that could serve briefly as a shelter. He might be able to take away Marie Antoinette’s life, but not by refusing to receive her. That could only cost Leonie’s life as well as his own. Obviously if they refused to help they would have to be silenced—disposed of, one way or another, both to protect Toulon and his fellow conspirators and to protect the plot. Their lives might be forfeit anyway, Roger knew, but to agree at once and without reservation was the safest path in a morass of quicksand. He smiled at Leonie. Her ingenuous pleading had probably done more to protect them than any reasoned action.