But Francesca noticed how young Roberto froze at the thought of death. She pressed on. “They’ll shoot you or hang you in the market square.”
Roberto squared his shoulders, trying to seem brave, but Francesca saw through it.
“And then,” she continued, “they’ll kill me. And leave the children orphans.”
“You?” Desi burst out. “But you had nothing—”
“Nothing to do with it. I know. But that doesn’t matter. Bonaparte wants the portrait back and doesn’t care who he has to kill to get it.”
Francesca paused to let her words sink in. “Is that true, Father?” Desi looked toward the priest, eyes wide and frightened.
“It’s true,” Father Candelabri said. “You have a choice, men. I pray you make the right one.”
Silence weighed down the room. Daniel stood stock still, as if any movement could sway the two cousins.
Roberto glared at him. “Fuck the painting,” he declared. “I’m dead whether I tell you or not.”
“No. There’s still a chance,” Francesca urged him. “Daniel, tell him.” “Roberto,” Father Candelabri said, “please. For Francesca’s sake. For Emilio’s innocent children. For the sake of your soul. Tell us where the painting is hidden.”
“We’re dead whether we tell you or not,” Roberto repeated.
“What if you’re not?” Daniel asked.
The two men stared at him.
“Do you think we’re fools?” Desi snapped. “Hang us and be done with it.”
“The entire city is in an uproar,” Daniel said. “The general wants the situation resolved as quickly as possible: the portrait returned, and calm restored to Ancona. If he gets both, he’s willing to concede your freedom. On one condition. You must leave Italy. Forever.”
“Leave Italy?” Desi asked Daniel. “Never. Your general is a liar and this is a trap. Why would Bonaparte let us go?”
“Because the general saw the miracle of the blessed Madonna when he looked at it,” Francesca murmured. “Because he knows how holy it is.”
Roberto glared. “Bullshit. You betray your husband’s memory by colluding with the enemy.”
“I’m protecting my family,” she responded hotly. “And protecting you as well, from sin and damnation. Tell them what they need to know and live.” She swiveled toward Desi. “You must want to live! Think of all you have to live for!”
“Think of Francesca and the children,” Father Candelabri added.
A moment of silence followed.
“I’ll tell you,” Desi said.
“Desi!” Roberto broke out, anger blistering in his eyes.
“You’ll thank me someday,” Desi said. He turned to Daniel. “Your word is good? You will not double-cross us on this?”
“You’ll leave Italy forever?” Daniel asked.
Desi shut his eyes, then nodded. Roberto groaned loudly, turning his back on the room.
Daniel shivered as they descended the steep stone steps to the crypt. “I can’t believe the portrait’s been in the cathedral this entire time,” he said.
“They were ingenious,” said the priest. “We never would have thought to look here.”
It was cold and dank, and somewhere water dripped into a bucket with a monotonous drip, drop, drip. Daniel shivered at the penetrating sound and turned toward Francesca, who’d insisted on coming. “Are you all right, signora?”
She shrugged, clearly still upset. Roberto had cursed them all as they left the cell. Once they found the portrait, Daniel would give orders for the two men to be put on a boat sailing for a port far from Ancona.
Francesca drew in a sharp breath. Daniel followed her gaze . . . and shuddered. In a glass coffin set deep in an archway decorated with a thick pediment of stone angels and ivy lay the remains of a saint.
“Saint Ciriaco,” breathed Francesca, crossing herself and kneeling before the crypt.
Daniel couldn’t believe what he saw. The skeleton was dressed in a rich, flower-embroidered tunic. On his head was a bishop’s miter. Daniel swallowed hard, noticing the saint’s feet, shorn with red plush slippers that turned upward, banded in gold. He looked away, attempting to conceal his scorn for the skeletal display.
The priest crossed himself and genuflected before the entombed saint. “A legend states Saint Ciriaco was originally Jewish and converted after he restored the True Cross to the Church,” Candelabri said. “A martyr to Julian the Apostate.” The priest paused. “It would be ironic, don’t you think, Sergeant, if history repeated itself? You, a Jew, instrumental in recovering our prodigious painting—not unlike Ciriaco’s restoration of the True Cross.”
“I’ve no plans to convert, Father,” Daniel said.
The priest smiled. “I’m sure Ciriaco had no intention to either, when he helped Helena, Constantine the Great’s mother, find the Cross. And yet, here he lies, a sanctified saint in our pantheon of the faithful.”
Daniel felt impatient. Staying any longer than necessary, surrounded by the damp walls of the underground cell and the strangely garbed skeleton, didn’t appeal to him. “Desi said they stored the picture behind one of the urns.”
“The urns are there.” The priest extended an arm toward the ancient stone archways protecting them.
Daniel walked over to the bronze receptacles and reached down, feeling in the narrow space between the urns and the damp stone wall. “Ah!” He drew a tube of brass from behind one of the urns.
“Desi made that container,” Francesca said, drawing near. “He didn’t want the portrait damaged.”
“Not unless they burned it,” Daniel said dryly. He handed the tube to the priest. “You open it, Father.”
“They wouldn’t burn it.” Francesca shook her head. “Desi is a good man underneath his bravado. And Roberto’s a gentle soul.”
“That’s a gentle soul?” Daniel asked, incredulous.
Francesca sighed. “He was.”
The priest opened the tube and slid the painting out. He carefully unrolled one edge. “It’s the Madonna.” His relief echoed through the ancient chamber. “Thanks be to Christ.”
“Take charge of it, will you?” Daniel said. “The general wants it returned to the chapel it came from, kept covered. I’ll assign a guard within the hour.”
The priest nodded and turned to leave. Francesca started to mount the stairs behind him. Daniel looked about, staring for a moment at the glass tomb, feeling the cold of the ancient crypt creep into his own bones.
“Jesus, too, was a Jew,” he muttered. “To think of all this superstition—relics, saints, miracle paintings—every bit of it created in his name.” He turned toward the steps. “I think he’d be horrified—he and his mother, both.” Sighing, he started up the narrow stairs, eager to reach the warmth of the late summer sunshine.
55
SEPTEMBER 25
Mirelle couldn’t keep her eyes open. It didn’t matter if she’d slept a full night or had dozed off in her chair earlier that day, she craved sleep even more than food—despite being hungry most of the time. She found herself drowsing through the long day of prayers during Rosh Hashanah. She invented excuses not to go shopping with her mother, who, armed with David’s purse, was busy accumulating Mirelle’s trousseau. She told Dolce to take walks alone, then slipped between the covers of her bed and dreamed the afternoon away. Even when she met Christophe she spent most of their time together fighting slumber, once even falling asleep with her head deliciously perched in his lap.
Then she couldn’t fasten the back buttons of her blouse. She called one of the maids to help her, but Nina couldn’t stretch the fabric over her chest.
“Have you gained weight?” Nina asked as they searched for a less constricting shirtwaist.
“Maybe,” Mirelle said ruefully. “I can’t seem to stop eating these days.”
The maid looked at her suspiciously. “You look bigger. Is your chest sore? Tender?” she asked, gesturing with open palms, as though hefting Mirelle’s breasts.
“No,” Mirelle answered, biting her lip. Is it? She wasn’t sure.
A few minutes later, Dolce entered her room. Mirelle was standing in front of her mirror, looking at herself sideways.
“Nina said you couldn’t button your blouse,” Dolce said. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” Mirelle said. “The food here is just too delicious.”
Dolce pursed her lips. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Mirelle sank back onto her dressing chair, almost woozy with weariness. “Oh, no, Dolce. I don’t want to.”
Dolce tilted her head, thinking. Then she brought another chair over to the dressing table and took Mirelle’s hands in hers. “This is important,” she said. “When did you have your last—visitor? Your courses?”
“When . . .” Suddenly, Mirelle realized what her friend was asking. Her mind went blank as she tried to recall. She, who had always kept a mental count of her courses, couldn’t remember when she’d last had her monthly flow. The distractions of the last few weeks had overwhelmed her heretofore practical mind. Her hands grew icy as she withdrew them from Dolce’s grasp and raised them to her cheeks. “My God,” she said, stomach churning.
Dolce was still sitting close. The glint in her beautiful blue eyes made Mirelle suspicious.
She pushed her chair back. “You wanted this,” she accused her friend.
“Seriously? You’re blaming me?” Dolce’s laugh was a bell-like tinkle. It made Mirelle wince. “I’m not the careless one.”
A wave of mortification washed over Mirelle. Dolce was right. It wasn’t her fault; it was Mirelle’s. Her recklessness had ruined her life.
After Dolce left, Mirelle sat on the edge of her bed, frozen. Eyes closed, she thought back to the afternoon she had finally surrendered to him. Though, to be fair, she had been as eager as he. More eager, in fact.
It was only one time. They had lain on a bed of moss in the woods, caressing one another, growing more and more heated. She let him undo the buttons of her shirtwaist, reach into her chemise to softly cup her breasts. Her own hand, almost of its own accord, had reached down to feel his manhood through his trousers, straining toward her through the material. The buttons slipped easily out of the buttonholes, and he sprang out to meet her questing fingers.
She nestled closer, their breaths mingling. His hand left her breasts.
“Oh,” she moaned. “Don’t move.”
But he ignored her, snaking his hand down to the edge of her skirt, bunching it up as he followed the line of her leg upward. He folded the skirt over her stomach and reached inside her undergarments. She felt hot and slick as he slowly inserted his fingers inside her.
“I want you,” she muttered into his neck, her hand gripping him, feeling him grow even harder as she caressed him. “Christophe, I want you.”
“We have to stop,” he panted, pulling away. “If you’re going to remain a virgin, we have to stop. Or I won’t be able to control myself.”
Now he was acting like a gentleman, a man of honor? The thought spun crazily in her overheated mind. Isn’t this what he wants? What we both want?
“No,” she cried. “No, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
He moved away. “Mirelle. You must be sure. If we do this—there’s no going back.”
Mirelle reached for him again. “I need this. To remember you. To remember you always.”
Christophe froze, eyes sparking in anger. “You mean—after you marry that old man? One afternoon of bliss in exchange for . . .”
It sounded awful. Mirelle reached out and kissed him anyway. “Please,” she pleaded with him, her lips against his neck. “Please.”
He remained still for a moment longer. “This isn’t what I want,” he told her. “I’ve had this: a dalliance with a willing wanton. I want you, Mirelle—in my heart as well as in my bed. But not if you’re going to leave me.”
Mirelle sat up. She knew she should listen to him. But every vestige of common sense appeared to have fled. “You won’t do this for me?” she pleaded. “You’ve been begging me to love you for weeks, now—and now you won’t?”
“I’ve been begging you to run away with me,” he said. “To love me, not sleep with me. There’s a difference.”
“I can’t marry you. You know I can’t. If you loved me enough—” “I’d sleep with you—just once? You don’t think much of me, do you?” His tones were harsh, his bitterness sharp as a blade.
She closed her eyes. How had this gone so badly wrong? “Christophe, I love you,” she whispered. “If things were different, I’d fight to marry you. But I can’t. You must see that.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but her fingers flew to cover his lips.
“Listen,” she said, “I’ve longed my entire life for someone to put me first. I’m asking you to do that for me. Every time I think of sleeping with David—as a virgin, a woman never truly touched by love . . .”
It was enough. Christophe pulled her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers, his hands cupped her body. Their moans mingled as he took her, whispering his adoration for her. When it was over, they lay intertwined, Mirelle weeping against his shoulder.
And now? What would he do now? Would he discard her, the way Mama said unworthy men did once they’d taken their pleasure?
A sudden chill rocked her as she considered Christophe as her life partner. All the reasons for her infatuation—his swagger, the glint in his eye—what kind of husband would that make him? This possible pregnancy was a cold splash of reality, waking her out of a dream. He wanted her to be his wife and nothing more—to abandon her life in Ancona without a second thought, leave behind her religion, her promises to the dead, her father’s legacy.
How foolish she’d been! Playing with fire, holding fast to the thought that she would eventually bid Christophe farewell and marry David. It was no one’s fault but her own that she’d been scorched.
Later that afternoon, Christophe held Mirelle to him, trying to find words to comfort her. They sat in the same secluded spot where she had convinced him to take her virtue. He remembered how she had wept for a long time afterward, sheltering in his arms. Her tears hadn’t alarmed him; even the lustiest of his bedfellows had sometimes wept in release.
Now she was sobbing again against his chest, and he felt both triumph and panic. She would marry him now, be his wife. They already had a family on the way.
But now that Christophe had what he’d longed for, he found his victory had a hollow ring to it. What’s wrong with me? he wondered, pushing the desperation deep inside so he wouldn’t alarm Mirelle. His conversation with Daniel, back when they first came to Ancona, flashed into his mind. She’s something you’ll never have, his friend had said. You like the challenge more than the girl.
Was it true? Had his avowed love for Mirelle simply been frustrated desire for a prize he never thought he’d win?
But then he remembered what he’d told Daniel during that same conversation: “I would never hurt her.” He would keep his promise, no matter what it might cost him. He would make all the necessary arrangements, save her from recrimination. Send her home to Paris. But how would they convince someone to marry them? Or find money for her travel expenses? The army did owe him several months of back pay. He’d have to borrow against it.
It was a busy night, with news about an aborted coup d’etat in France taking up the bulk of the paper. As in so many other articles published in the two newspapers Daniel and Christophe printed, Bonaparte played a leading role. As he proofread the first page off the press, Christophe was momentarily distracted from his own troubles. Bonaparte’s soldiers had captured the Royalist Comte d’Antraigues and brought him to the general in Milan. While interrogating him, Bonaparte had discovered a plot by some of the Directors to betray the Republic. Acting swiftly and heroically, Bonaparte had dispatched General Augereu to support those Directors who were still loyal. One of the traitorous Directors escaped, but the others and their conspirators had been e
xiled to Guyana.
Christophe made a few corrections to the copy, then approved the page. As he lifted his head, Daniel approached him.
“Something wrong?” his friend asked. “You seem distracted.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Christophe said, relieved by the prospect of unburdening himself. Daniel was smart. He’d help figure all this out.
As he and Daniel walked together from the municipality toward the barracks, Christophe drew in a deep breath of sea air.
“Mirelle’s pregnant.”
The punch came from nowhere, a sharp blow to his chin, followed by another to his gut. He doubled over.
“What the hell?”
He straightened painfully. Daniel stood with raised fists, his jaw jutting out and teeth clenched. He moved in for another clout, but Christophe jumped out of the way.
Daniel swung again, this time connecting only with air. “I’ll kill you!”
“Daniel—stop! I’m going to marry her, you fool!”
Daniel did not look appeased. “Not if I can help it, you won’t.”
When they were younger, Uncle Alain had taught them to wrestle and box so they could best the bullies from rival printshops. Christophe had won every tussle then. But he had never seen this murderous light in Daniel’s eyes before.
He stepped back, out of reach of his friend’s fists. “Stop,” he protested. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“How could you?” Daniel demanded, furious eyes pinned to Christophe’s face. “She’s my family—someone you should have respected.” He narrowed the space between them and swung again, connecting with Christophe’s nose. Blood rushed from it. Daniel slammed his entire body into Christophe’s, knocking him backward, making him stumble and fall.
“You bastard.” Daniel followed him to the ground, pummeling him with his fists. “You salopard, salaud . . .”
Christophe wrenched himself into a sitting position and butted his head against his friend’s stomach, then grabbed him under the arms and about his neck. He twisted him to his back and scissored his leg between Daniel’s, cradling him so his shoulders couldn’t move.
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