The English Heiress (43 page)

Terror and guilt notwithstanding, Fifi’s nose continued to work. Suddenly she stopped and lifted her head, her tail came up and began to wave slowly. Vaguely she remembered that she had been frightened, but now she could not remember why. What a long walk she had had! The goddess would be very angry. She must hurry home as fast as possible. Perhaps the goddess would not know that she had come, all alone, to that place that smelled of leather and ink where the god talked to “friend” Fouché, who fed her bonbons.

Fifi ran her best, but she was wet and cold and tired. It grew darker and colder. Then memory of warmth and comfort and food applied a spur, and she ran again. There was a steady encouragement for her too. As she ran along the broad rue de Rivoli, turned left into the rue du Temple, the way grew more and more familiar. It was very dark now. There was no moon, and Fifi could barely see the way at all. However, she really did not need to see now. All the scents were familiar. She had run these streets often at the heels of the goddess.

At last she uttered a happy little bark. There was the sweet stink of bad fish. Next, only a few steps farther, was home. Her tail high and waving madly, Fifi jumped the step and scratched at the door. She stood waiting impatiently for a while, then scratched again. Sometimes the god and goddess were slow about opening the door for her. Still no answer. Fifi barked once or twice and scratched again, but the door remained closed. Her tail drooped a little. She was very, very tired. One more halfhearted scratch, and she lay down on the step. She was still cold and wet and hungry, but this was home. Soon someone would come.

Leonie’s day had been no better than Roger’s or Fifi’s. Danou had pushed her, none too gently, up the stairs and just as she had reached the door she had heard Panel shout, “There she is.” And then command Fifi to return to him. Leonie did not think Fifi would obey Panel, but she might accept the invitation of the open door hoping to get back to her mistress. Even if she ran, she was such a small creature that it was not impossible that Panel could outrun her or corner her somewhere. Before she could hear any more, Leonie was thrust into her room and the door was locked.

Since then Leonie had had nothing to do but regret her own idiocy. Why, oh why, had she wanted to drag Roger into this? Her plan to dispose of the men did not need his cooperation. She could have made a rough cloak from a blanket and asked for the Salle de Ménage—that was not near her present home, but she knew well how to get home from there. Why had she sent poor Fifi out to her death? It was her own weakness, Leonie knew. Danou and Panel deserved to die, but Leonie shrank from killing coldly and deliberately, perhaps needing to shoot a second time to finish a wounded man and later needing to handle the dead bodies. She shuddered and began to sob. She could have forced herself to it, but she wanted Roger, wanted to know he was coming, that he would approve of her, comfort her. That was why she had murdered poor faithful little Fifi.

Tears dried in fury at herself, Leonie paced the room, her eyes as golden as her namesake. “Coward,” she hissed at herself, “did you not learn in those horrible months in Saulieu to depend on yourself?”

Now, the bitter thought continued, you have ruined everything. Even if by some miracle Fifi should survive and find her way home, what could Roger do? He would never dream the little bitch could lead him back—even Leonie was not sure now that she was clever enough for that. Leonie began to cry again. All she would have accomplished was to increase Roger’s misery, and for that she had probably ruined her own chances of escape. The men would never trust her. They would never come alone to her door. She would never be able to convince them that she no longer cared about Fifi and would be passive prisoner.

She cried herself to sleep and woke, hungry and desperate, to find that Roger’s letter had been pushed under the door. Reading it made her cry all over again. Hopelessness and fear breathed trough every line, although the words were all of comfort, all urging her not to worry, not to be afraid. Everything would come out right. This period of trial would soon be over and they would be together again. A complete giveaway of Roger’s dreadful mental condition was that he had not even asked the “significant question”, the answer to which was supposed to identify her.

Again rage and tears racked her alternately, now and then made more intense by a little hope. At last, after many hours had passed, the hope died and Leonie acknowledged that the miracle she had longed for had not happened. Roger had not come. Therefore, Fifi was either dead already or as good as dead. Leonie rose from the bed on which she had been lying, resolved that she would save herself. Then she realized she was shaking with weakness. Nonetheless, she gritted her teeth and drew one pistol, then went to the door and knocked firmly. Quite soon Panel’s voice answered, asking what she wanted. Leonie swallowed hard.

“Whatever you think I did or did not do,” she cried, “I am sure Citizen Chaumette would not like it if I was starved. I am hungry. Either let me cook or bring me food.”

“It is there,” Panel shouted back, “on the dresser.”

Leonie bit her lip hard. Now what was she to do? She went over and looked. The food was ice-cold and the coarsest fare the nearest cafetier provided. Leonie called complaints through the door, but there was no answer this time. She was about to start pounding on the door, when she realized it would be better to eat first and regain some strength. She knew there were no writing materials in the room. They would have to bring paper and pen and ink if she was to answer Roger’s letter. Whoever brought the materials, she would kill at once inside the room. Then she would slam the door shut, possibly she would be able to roll the body across it to block it while she reloaded. Then the other one… Leonie shuddered and nearly choked on her mouthful of food. There was no sense in feeling sick. She had to do it, had to escape. Roger did not know where she was. He could not save her again.

When the food was gone, Leonie rested a while. Then she drew her pistols and checked the priming and loading. Finally she went and knocked on the door again. No answer. Could Panel have gone down to eat? Should she blow the lock off the door? No, that would discharge one pistol and place her in even greater danger. Leonie knew she could not hope to hit anything except at point-blank range, and once the men heard the shot they would be warned. She waited a few minutes and knocked again.

“You might as well be still,” Panel said. “I heard you the first time.”

“Please take the tray away,” Leonie said. “I do not like the smell of stale food. Also, you have forgotten to bring me paper and pen to write to my husband.”

Panel merely laughed at that, and Leonie ground her teeth. Danou had not forgotten the writing materials. He did not want her to write, expecting she would complain about her dog and her treatment. They intended, she supposed, to say she had taken advantage of Chaumette’s leniency, tried to escape, refused to write…anything to discredit her. Furious, Leonie pounded on the door, but Panel only laughed again, enjoying her frustration, and she finally stopped.

The slow hours passed. Leonie tried one device after another without success. When she asked to go to the jakes, she was told to use the chamber pot in her room. When she asked for water, she was told there was a jug of it on her tray. When she begged for the needle and thread promised to her, for a book, for a candle, she received no answer at all. She thought of trying to break the lock with the butt of one of the pistols, but she was afraid to use the gun that way while it was loaded, and to unload it would place her at the same disadvantage as shooting off the lock. It would warn the men that she found a weapon of some kind.

Rage and frustration brought tears again, and she cast herself down on the bed, exhausted with tension. The house was utterly silent, the room dark as pitch. Leonie thought wearily that it was just as well no one had responded to her last few attempts to get the men into her room. She would have to wait until the next day to escape now. It was very dangerous to be out on the streets after dark, especially for a woman. Robespierre, with his mania for “purity”, was particularly violent against ladies of the night. If they were caught plying their trade, they were executed. She must stop being foolish, Leonie admonished herself. She must go to sleep as soon as possible so that she could wake early and be ready. Danou had to bring her food.

Resolution, which can accomplish many things, is unfortunately of very little assistance in obtaining sleep. Although Leonie removed her clothes and tucked her pistols under the pillow, she did not find any rest. She tried one position, then another, tried to keep her mind blank because she knew her thoughts would not be conducive to sleep. Still, frustration and misery take their own toll, and at last Leonie drifted from miserable images of what she might have accomplished if she had not urged Fifi to escape, into uneasy dreams filled with images of the past. A recurring dream of escape, which had not troubled her since Roger’s rescue took hold of her again. She heard the stairs of the Saulieu Hôtel de Ville creak under surreptitious footsteps, heard the snick of the lock as the door opened. Her hands reached out to wake her mother—

“Eager, aren’t you?” There was a leer in Panel’s voice. “You don’t have to hurry. We have all night.”

A rough hand seized Leonie’s breast. She was still half asleep, and her dream switched to nightmare. The bedclothes hampered her limbs so that she felt held down, as she had been that night her virginity was torn from her with such violence. Terror laid an additional weight on her so that her struggles were mere twitches and her throat was too dry to scream.

* * * * *

Deep asleep after her enormous exertions, Fifi also dreamed little dog dreams of hunting and playing. The house was dark and quiet for several hours while Roger waited in the attic for Pierre to arrive. Then, very faintly, voices invaded the dreams of play, but Fifi’s name was not mentioned and she was accustomed to voices around her while she slept. However, she did drift closer to waking, that special sense that brings dogs instantly alert when they are called. But the voices stopped, and Fifi slept again. The worst of her exhaustion was over though, so that when the odor of cooking oozed around the cracks in the door, her nose twitched and quivered. Then, dimly, there was the voice of the god. Instantly, Fifi was aware of hunger, of cold, ills the god could cure. She leaped against the door, scratching and barking.

Roger, who had just taken a large mouthful of food, very nearly choked to death at the sound. Gasping, he lurched to his feet, almost overturning the table in his eagerness, and wrenched open the door. Fifi bounded in, draggled tail waving high, and he swept her up into his arms, regardless of the wet and mud, hugging her so tight that she yelped in protest.

“Fifi,” he gasped, “Fifi! That was what Leonie meant! She sent Fifi for us. Let’s go! Pierre—”

“Stop squeezing that poor dog,” Pierre exclaimed, “or Mademoiselle de Conyers will find her pet dead when we release her. And what do you mean, go? We have just agreed—”

“But we don’t need to force Chaumette to tell us where Leonie is. Fifi can take us to her,” Roger interrupted, caressing the little dog more gently.

Pierre stared at his friend and then began to shake his head. “It is a miracle that the dog found her way home. It is impossible that she should find her way back to a place she does not know well.” Roger’s grip tightened, and Fifi grunted with the stress, but forgivingly stretched up to lick the god’s face. Pierre shook his head again. “Have some sense, my friend,” he urged. “Look at the poor animal. She must have been wandering for hours.”

It was impossible to deny that. The wet from Fifi’s fur had soaked through Roger’s shirt. He exclaimed, got a cloth and rubbed her somewhat dryer, and then scraped nearly all his own meal into her plate. The enthusiasm with which Fifi attacked this largesse confirmed Pierre’s contention, implying that the dog had not been fed for some considerable time. However, Roger would not accept this as proof that Fifi did not know the way. He leaped, instead, to the ridiculous conclusion that Leonie was being starved, and nothing Pierre said had the slightest effect on him.

When it became obvious that Roger would go alone if Pierre continued to argue against the project, the smuggler agreed. He had realized that it would not actually be a dangerous enterprise nor waste much time. Two commissioners walking together in the street probably would not be questioned. He would go with Roger until his friend could be convinced that Fifi was wandering at random. Then they would go to the ship, collect the men, and proceed with the plan. He won a little delay by convincing Roger to let Fifi rest awhile after her meal, but the little bitch’s alertness as Roger picked up everything he wanted to take showed she was no longer exhausted.

Another delay was caused by trying to decide whether it was safe to let Fifi out by herself. Fortunately, before it was necessary to do that, Roger remembered the sling that Leonie had prepared to carry the dog when they first thought they might need to escape that way. Fifi did not like it. She protested with wiggles and yelps, but Roger managed to quiet her, and he and Pierre made their way safely over the slippery slates and down a knotted rope looped around the chimney of the last house into end of the alley. Here Roger released Fifi, cautioning her again to be quiet.

“Find Leonie,” he said, his heart thudding sickly between prayer for a miracle and disbelief.

To Fifi, such a command was perfectly logical and fit all the rules of the game she knew. She now remembered that she had been told to “find Roger”. She had done it and had been rewarded, as was proper, with a delectable treat—Roger’s dinner. Of course, Fifi did not know that, nor was she confused by any memory of being lost between the time she was told to find Roger and the finding. Now it fit perfectly that she should be told to go back to the goddess. Tail high, she trotted out of the alley and unerringly turned in the direction taken by the carriage she had followed. Roger looked at Pierre, his eyes full of such pleading that the smuggler could not bear to destroy his hope.