by Unknown
"No wait, Belledame." Danielle stopped suddenly in the corridor, her senses returning sharply at the sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood coming from below. A great roar of satisfaction bellowed through the house, and she thought with a strange detachment, "They have killed Grandpere."
"No, milady, please. You must leave now," the ancient pleaded in terror, but Danielle pulled her arm free and ran down the corridor to her mother's room. She knew exactly where the case was kept, at the back of the shelf of the wardrobe behind Louise's finest gowns—those she rarely had occasion to wear in Languedoc. With feverish haste the girl, standing on tiptoe, pulled the intricately carved chest toward her, catching it with a grunt as it toppled off the high shelf and into her arms. It was more awkward than heavy and she had little difficulty maintaining a swift pace down the back stairs, through a kitchen now silent and deserted and filled with the acrid stench of scorching meat as the baron of beef rested neglected over the blazing fire, no permanent pot boy sitting in its heat to turn the spit. It occurred to her as she ran into the kitchen courtyard, instinctively seeking the shadow of the high wall, that she had eaten nothing since the night before, and an empty belly was an inauspicious beginning to a desperate flight that would take her God only knew where.
It was a five-mile walk to the cure's house in the village. She dared not risk detection by taking a horse. In their orgy of blood and destruction the mob might well forget the youngest member of the house of de St. Varennes and she could not afford to prod their memories. But she was young and strong after a life spent mostly out of doors, and one day's fast was unlikely to make too many inroads on a usually healthy well-fed body. So it proved, and although weary from the need for both speed and stealth and the added burden of the wooden chest, Danielle arrived at the cure's humble abode little the worse for wear. A tentative tap at the firmly closed back door brought no response. She risked a louder knock. There were sounds of movement inside, but her friend and mentor showed no inclination to open up. She slipped around the house, peering through the grimy windows for a sign of life. There was an eerie silence in the village, even the animals seemed unwilling to make their usual barnyard noises. It occurred to her that the entire population was probably rampaging around the chateau at this moment and on that basis decided to risk a heavier knock and a fairly loud identifying, "C'est moi, mon pere; c'est Danielle"
Heavy bolts creaked in their rusted well-worn hinges and the door swung open the tiniest crack.
"Thank God you are safe. Inside, child, quickly!" A hand seized her arm, pulling her into the sparsely furnished single room of the cottage.
Danielle remembered little of the remainder of that night. The cure shared his scanty supper of vegetable broth enhanced by a lump of salt pork and a crust of black bread, agreed to take charge of the chest and, with trembling fingers, reached under the mattress for a piece of cloth which, when unwrapped, revealed a small hoard of silver coins—all of the money Louise had managed to pay him in recompense for the education of her daughter. He offered the whole to Danielle, but she refused with an adamant headshake, accepting out of sheerest necessity only four of the smaller coins.
"Keep Maman's jewels, mon pere, and I will return to claim them. Then you shall be well rewarded for your kindness, I promise." She did not refuse, out of the same necessity, the small loaf of bread and the half bottle of wine, and set off in the very early dawn on foot toward Paris.
Danielle did not elaborate on the privations of that journey as she recounted her tale to Justin, Earl of Linton, and was unaware that the quiet, expressionless individual opposite had filled in the gaps for himself without difficulty. He was astounded at the fortitude of this diminutive scrap and filled with a sick horror at her story. But, unlike many of his peers, he was hot surprised. The tidal wave of blood and destruction that would soon sweep through France had just begun in the isolated parts of the country, not yet recognized for what it was—a vast rebellion of an entire population against the cruelties and injustices of generations of tyranny perpetrated by the few on the many.
"One question, Danielle." He broke the silence that followed what she clearly considered to be the end
of the story.
"You say you have been in Paris now for four days?" The earl selected a pear from the fruit bowl and began to peel it with careful deliberation. He received a short assenting nod as answer.
"Who stands godfather to you?"
"The Vicomte de St. Just." The brown eyes darted suspiciously at him through the long eyelashes.
The earl sliced the pear into symmetrical quarters and leaning over placed the fruit on the child's dessert plate. She had eaten nothing during her narrative but now bit deep into the juicy flesh with an eagerness that revealed all too clearly the deprivations of the past two months.
"Then why, mon enfant, have you not sought his protection?"
For a second there was silence and then to his utter amazement an imp of mischief sparkled in those previously haunted eyes. "Why, milord," the soft voice proclaimed innocently, "I had no desire to be flogged from his scullery door."
The Earl of Iinton grinned. There was no other way to describe the sheer delight that curved the well-shaped lips and had any of his friends or acquaintances seen the expression they would have doubted the evidence of their eyes.
"Your point is well taken, brat." A walnut cracked between the pressure of his long fingers, was peeled deftly, and placed beside the remains of the pear.
"However, I am certain that the disadvantages of your . . . uh . . . earlier disreputable costume can now be remedied. St. Just shall receive you in the morning."
"No!" The flat negative hung in the air and the earl's eyebrows disappeared into his scalp.
"I beg your pardon?" he inquired gently, too gently, and a slight flush mantled the girl's ivory complexion.
"You do not understand, milord."
"Clearly not and since you were correct when you informed me of that fact earlier this evening I await your explanation."
His reminder of that embarrassing confrontation deepened her flush but his lordship had already decided that this indomitable creature's manners required mending and he ruthlessly quieted his conscience.
"I have not the intention of remaining in France, milord. I shall make my way to Calais and from there to England. My mother's family are in Cornwall. I visited once with Maman— they were very kind to me." The soft voice sank slightly and Linton again forced himself to push the softer emotions aside.
"And just how, pray, do you intend to cross the Channel?"
"I shall work my way on a paquet." Danielle declared, her small chin tilting in angry defiance at this rude catechism.
"Idiot child!" the earl exclaimed. "Your disguise would be penetrated immediately and the only way you would work your passage would be on your back!"
This brutal declaration produced none of the maidenly horror to be expected of a well-bred virgin. Danielle merely nodded.
"In that case I shall stow away."
"You will be discovered and the consequences the same."
"Nevertheless, Lord Linton, I shall take my chance as I have done in recent weeks. You cannot stop me and, indeed, have no right to do so."
The earl raised his gold quizzing glass and examined the small, determined face. "No?" he inquired with interest.
"No," Danielle stated definitely. "You are not my guardian, sir."
"This may come as something of a surprise to you, brat, but in the absence of any other, I assumed that role, albeit unwillingly, some time ago."
Danielle half rose from the table, face set and eyes blazing. "I do not accept that, milord."
"You may accept it or not, as you choose," Linton said calmly, opening an exquisite lapis lazuli snuff box and taking an insouciant pinch. "The fact remains, however. Now, I suggest you resume your seat before I am obliged to encourage you to do so."
He waited until the reluctant, furious figure had obeyed before conti
nuing. "If you will not seek the protection of your godfather you will have to endure mine. Why do you not wish to remain in France?"
"I hate France," the mutinous voice spat. "You forget, perhaps, milord," she layed sarcastic stress on the title, "that I have lived here both as an aristocrat and as a starving peasant. I wish to pursue neither role again. Besides," the rebellious note of an aggrieved child left the soft voice suddenly to be replaced by a thoughtful consideration, "the role of 'aristo' is going to be a dangerous one across the land in a short time—only those idiots do not realize it!"
"I will not argue with you on that score." Linton sat back, legs extended beneath the table as he regarded this troublesome acquisition. He had never been one for the infantry, although his sister's children unfortunately seemed not to be aware of this fact as they lavished unwanted attentions on their favorite uncle. But this frequently ill-mannered brat carried an air of practical and intellectual sophistication totally at odds with her aggressive manner, though perhaps not so much at odds with her near unbelievable success at survival. Not for the first time, it occurred to the earl that once her safety was ensured the horrors she had lived through would surface in all their grisly detail. But Danielle de St. Varennes appeared to have an adamantine will and a sense of humor to match. With the right care she would come through. Whether the Earl and Countess of March were the right people to deal with the break when it came was a moot point. Kind and gentle to a fault, they would undoubtedly receive their granddaughter with open arms, but a strong hand would be needed to hold the reins. Linton was unaware of the deep frown drawing his thick arched eyebrows together as he pondered the situation until Danielle spoke again with quiet dignity.
"Lord Linton, I am, as I'm sure you are aware,at something of a disadvantage. I have no clothes."
"I would hardly dignify what you were wearing by that name," her companion said with an amused quirk of an eyebrow.
"Perhaps not. However, they did cover me. This"—she indicated the shirt contemptuously—"would hardly service me on the street."
"Indeed not," he concurred smoothly, giving not an inch.
"You do not think, perhaps, that you have an obligation to replace those you so roughly tore from my back?" A sweet smile accompanied the question.
"I accept the obligation, infant, but also the right to provide what I see fit."
They were fencing now and Danielle's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think, sir, that if you cannot return my original garments you have the obligation to replace them with their like. I am sure the landlord could be of service, for a consideration, and any expenses you may incur would, of course, be reimbursed once I reach my grandparents' house, so you need have no fear of being out of pocket."
The earl's eyes gleamed appreciatively. "A hit, infant!"
"So, what is your answer, milord?"
"My answer is very simple. Are you suggesting that having scooped their granddaughter from the gutters of Paris I could with any honor face the Earl and Countess of March if, after a meal, a bath, and some new clothes, I simply returned her from whence she came?"
That aspect of the situation had been lamentably absent from Danielle's well-planned scheme.
"I do see that it might be a problem," she began with careful understanding. "You do not think you could ... forget. .. that we met?"
"Forget you, Daniellede St. Varennes! What an absurd idea! Once met, my child, I fear you will engrave yourself into the memory of every unfortunate who happens into your path."
"That, sir, does not sound altogether complimentary. Danielle bit a suddenly tremulous lip.
"I'm not sure it was intended to be so," the earl said with a rueful grimace. "Come, child, you have had enough for one day, if not for many weeks. Into bed with you and we will work out a plan to suit both you and my self-appointed guardianship in the morning."
"But where am I to sleep?" Danielle's eyes widened in horror-struck amazement.
"There's a bed behind you," her companion informed her evenly.
"And you?" It was barely a whisper.
"You are quite safe, infant. I could no more face your grandparents with honor having breached your maidenhead than I could having tossed you back into the gutter."
"No, I suppose you could not," she said matter-of-factly, totally reassured by his logic and just as much unaware of the devastating effect her prosaic agreement had on the Earl of Linton's sangfroid.
"But where will you sleep?" The question carried only interest. "Those chairs do not look very comfortable."
"I do not intend to spend an uncomfortable night," Linton reassured on a choke of laughter. "I do, however, suggest that you do as you are bid. You may sleep until you wake."
That was an almost forgotten luxury, as were the feather mattress and the soft, well-laundered sheets. Linton tucked the small, exhausted figure into the large bed with an unexpected efficiency that should have been born of practice—except that it wasn't—and it was a rather puzzled man who drew the curtains around the bed and pulled the bell cord for the ready servants. He remained in the room as the remnants of dinner were removed, ignored the occasional inquisitive glances toward the enclosed bed, and, when finally the tapers had been lit and the room was at rights again, went over to his ward. She was unconscious in a deep and, it was to be hoped, healing sleep. Linton quietly left the chamber, turning a heavy key in the lock outside and pocketing it before making his way into the night-darkened streets of Paris. He hoped the child would not wake and try the door. His intention was not to frighten her; the lock was to keep inquisitive souls out rather than his urchin in.
Chapter 3
The lanes were unusually quiet as the earl, sunk in thought, picked his way carefully, avoiding the slime running in the gutters and the piles of filth sullying even the broader streets. A brooding, restless atmosphere seemed to permeate the city as its inhabitants awaited the arrival of deputies from across the land to attend, as representatives of the Commons (the Third Estate), the States General, summoned by Louis XVI for the first time in over a century and a half. High hopes that this meeting of parliament would both address and redress the evils of poverty and injustice under which the peasant population of France labored were mingled with a sense of helplessness. When the peasant representatives were outvoted two to one by the nobility and the clergy was it reasonable to hope for change? The Earl of Linton thought not. Danielle's story of the uprising in Languedoc was one of several that had filtered through into the towns. Panic and rumor were beginning to spread, foreshadowing the "grande peur" that would sweep
the country by July.
A sudden movement to his left caught his eye. It seemed innocent enough—a figure disappearing into an alleyway just ahead of him—but his well-honed instincts for danger were instantly aroused. He gave no sign, however, unless one could see the sudden tightening of the slender fingers around the silver-mounted cane. As he reached the opening to the alley Linton moved outward into the middle of the street, thus ensuring open space at his back and room for maneuver that he would not have had in the shadow of the high courtyard wall bordering the narrow paved street. As the three men jumped out of the dark alley he swung to face them, raising the cane which was now a deadly weapon, a wicked sword blade flashing at its tip. A swift movement and one of his assailants fell back, clutching an arm which seemed split from shoulder to wrist by ail ugly, bleeding gash. A cudgel cleaved the air above the earl's head and came down harmlessly as he sidestepped with the quick dancing movement of an expert swordsman. His opponent, caught off balance, could not evade the blade as it sank deep into his shoulder and he fell groaning into the dirt. The third man, after one look at his disabled companions and the calm, expressionless face of their intended victim who was quite clearly not the easy mark they had thought him, decided that discretion was decidedly the better part of valor and fled. Linton wiped his blade on the jacket of the
man at his feet, an expression of distaste curling the fine lips. The sword stick
became a cane again and
he continued toward his destination.
"Ah, my friend, I had almost given you up." The Comte de Mirabeau turned to greet Linton as he was ushered by a blue-liveried lackey into a luxurious, book-lined library on the first floor of a stylish Parisian town house, set behind high walls on the rue de Richelieu.
"The streets are becoming a trifle dangerous, Mirabeau," the earl commented calmly, accepting a glass of claret.
The other man nodded. "They will be even more so if the States General proves as ineffective as I fear it may."
Linton sipped his wine with an appreciative nod. "You still intend to sit with the Third Estate?"
"I do and Orleans also. But what brings you here, my friend. Your message was unspecific, to say the least."
"A little unofficial information-gathering," the earl replied, reposing his powerful frame in a small, exquisitely carved chair, crossing one smooth silk-stockinged leg over the other. 'Traveling without one's valet is damnably inconvenient," he murmured, examining the unblemished sheen of a buckled shoe through his quizzing glass. "Do you not think the left buckle is just the merest bit tarnished, Mirabeau?"