“So,” he whispered, still staring at her, “you’ve come at last. I knew when the pieces were missing—that one day you would return!” His eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. Mireille felt the blood turn cold in her veins.
“Where are they?” she said.
“The very question I planned to ask you,” he told her calmly. “You’ve made a large mistake in coming here, mademoiselle, under an assumed name or not. You’ll never leave this place alive—unless you tell me what became of those pieces you exhumed from David’s garden.”
“Nor will you,” said Mireille, feeling her heart grow calm as she extracted the knife from her bodice. “Five of my sisters are missing. I mean to know whether they ended as my cousin did.”
“Ah, you’ve come to kill me,” Marat said with a terrible smile. “But I hardly think you’ll do that. I’m a dying man, you see. I don’t need doctors to tell me; I’m a physician myself.”
Mireille touched the knife’s edge with her finger.
Picking up a quill from the board, Marat tapped it against his bare chest. “I advise you to place the tip of the dagger here—the left side between the second and third ribs. You’ll sever the aorta. Quick and sure. But before I die, you’ll be interested to know that I do have the pieces. Not five, as you supposed—but eight. Between the two of us, mademoiselle, we could control half the board.”
Mireille tried to show no expression, but her heart was beating once again. Adrenaline pumped through her blood like a drug. “I don’t believe you!” she cried.
“Ask your friend Mademoiselle de Corday how many nuns came to her in your absence,” he said. “Mademoiselle Beaumont, Mademoiselle Defresnay, Mademoiselle d’Armentieres—do these names sound familiar?”
They were all nuns of Montglane. What was he saying? None of these had come to Paris—none of these had written the letters David had turned over to Robespierre.…
“They went to Caen,” said Marat, reading Mireille’s thoughts. “They thought to find Corday. How sad. They quickly learned the woman who intercepted them was no nun.”
“Woman?!” cried Mireille.
Just then there was a tap outside, and the door was thrown open. Simonne Évrard entered, bearing a platter of steaming kidneys and sweetbreads. She crossed the room, a dour expression on her face as she glanced from the corner of her eye at Marat and his visitor. She set the platter on the window ledge.
“To cool—so we may grind them for the meat loaf,” she said curtly, turning her beady eyes on Mireille, who’d quickly tucked the knife in her skirt folds.
“Please do not disturb us again,” Marat told her tersely. Simonne looked at him in shock, then left the room quickly, a hurt expression on her ugly face.
“Lock the door,” Marat told Mireille, who glanced at him in surprise. His eyes were dark as he leaned back in the tub, his lungs rasping from the effort of breathing. “The disease is everywhere in me, my dear mademoiselle. If you want to kill me, you haven’t much time. But I think you want information more—just what I want from you. Lock the door, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Mireille crossed to the door, still clutching the knife, and twisted the key until she heard the lock click. Her head was throbbing. Who was the woman he’d spoken of—who’d taken the pieces from the unsuspecting nuns?
“You killed them. You and that ugly harlot,” she cried. “You murdered them for the pieces!”
“I’m an invalid,” he replied with a horrible smile, his white face floating in the shadows. “But like the King on a chessboard, the weakest piece can also be the most valuable. I killed them—but only with information. I knew who they were and where, when flushed out, they were likely to go. Your abbess was a fool; the names of the nuns at Montglane were a matter of public record. But no, I did not kill them myself. Nor did Simonne. I’ll tell you who did when you tell me what you’ve done with those pieces you took away. I’ll even tell you where our captured pieces are, though it will do you no good.…”
Doubt and fear gnawed at Mireille. How could she trust him, when the last time he’d given her his word, he’d murdered Valentine?
“Tell me the woman’s name, and where the pieces are,” she said, crossing the room to stand over the tub. “Otherwise, nothing.”
“You hold the knife in your hand,” said Marat in a rasping voice. “But my ally is the most powerful player in the Game. You’ll never destroy her—never! Your only hope is to join forces with us and unite the pieces. Individually, they’re nothing. But united, they hold a world of power. Ask your abbess if you don’t believe me. She knows who the woman is. She understands her power. Her name is Catherine—she’s the White Queen!”
“Catherine!” cried Mireille as a thousand thoughts flooded her mind. The abbess had gone to Russia! Her childhood friend … Talleyrand’s tale … the woman who’d purchased Voltaire’s library … Catherine the Great, czarina of all the Russias! But how could this woman be both friend to the abbess and ally of Marat?
“You’re lying,” she said. “Where is she now? And where are the pieces?”
“I’ve told you the name,” he cried, his face white with passion. “But before I tell you more, you must show the same faith. Where are the pieces you dug from David’s garden? Tell me!”
Mireille took a deep breath, the knife tight in her fist. “I’ve sent them out of the country,” she said slowly. “They’re safe in England.” But Marat’s face lit up as he heard these words. She could see the changes working in him as his expression contorted into the evil mask she remembered in her dreams.
“Of course!” he cried. “I’ve been a fool! You’ve given them to Talleyrand! My God, this is more than I’d hoped for!” He tried to raise himself from the tub.
“He’s in England!” he cried. “In England! My God—she can get them!” He struggled to push away the board with feeble arms. Water churned in the tub. “My dear friend! To me! To me!”
“No!” cried Mireille. “You said you’d tell me where the pieces are!”
“You little fool!” He laughed and shoved the board so it toppled to the floor, splashing Mireille’s skirts with ink. She heard footsteps coming down the hall, a hand rattling the doorknob. She shoved Marat back into the tub. With one hand she grasped his greasy hair, the knife poised at his breast.
“Tell me where they are!” she screamed as the sound of pounding fists upon the door drowned her words. “Tell me!”
“You little coward!” he hissed at her, spittle flecking his lips. “Do it, or be damned! You are too late … too late!”
Mireille stared at him as the pounding went on. Women’s cries filled her ears, and she looked at the horrible face that leered at her. He wanted her to kill him, she realized in terror. How will you have the strength to kill a man?… I can smell the revenge in you as one smells water in the desert, she heard Shahin’s voice whispering in her mind, drowning the cries of the women, the pounding at the door. What did he mean, she was “too late”? What did it mean that Talleyrand was in England? What did he mean, “she can get them”?
The bolt of the door was giving way as Simonne Évrard’s heavy body thrust against it, the rotten wood splintering around the lock. Mireille looked into the pustuled face of Marat. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in the knife. Blood spurted from the wound, splashing her dress. She shoved the blade in to the hilt.
“Congratulations, the exact spot …” he whispered, the blood bubbling to his lips. His head fell over on his shoulder; blood spurted in great throbs with each contraction of his heart. She pulled out the knife and dropped it to the floor just as the door burst open.
Simonne Évrard hurtled into the room with Albertine just behind. Marat’s sister took one look at the tub, screamed, and fainted. Simonne was shrieking as Mireille moved in a daze toward the door.
“My God! You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!” she cried, rushing past Mireille to the tub, falling on her knees to stanch the flow of blood with her towel. Mireille
kept moving out into the hallway as if in a trance. The front door burst open, and several neighbors plunged into the apartment. Mireille passed them in the hallway—moving in a daze, her face and dress splashed with blood. She heard the cries and wails coming from behind her as she moved on toward the open door. What had he meant, she was “too late”?
She had her hand on the door when the blow struck her from behind. She felt the pain and heard the sound of splintering wood. She crumpled to the ground. Pieces of the shattered chair that struck her lay scattered across the dusty floor. Her head throbbing, she struggled to rise. A man grasped her by the front of her gown, clawing her breasts, dragging her to her feet. He smashed her against the wall, where she struck her head again and slumped to the floor. This time she could not rise. She heard the trampling of feet, the warped floorboards buckling as many people dashed through the house, the sounds of screams and men’s boisterous cries, the sound of a woman weeping.
She lay on the dirty floorboards unable to move. After a long time she felt hands beneath her—someone trying to lift her. Men in dark uniforms, helping her to her feet. Her head ached, she felt an awful throbbing down her neck and spine. They were holding her up under the elbows, moving her to the door as she tried to walk.
Outside, a crowd had formed, surrounding the house. Her eyes were blurred as she looked out over the mass of faces, hundreds of faces that swam like a sea of lemmings. All drowning, she thought—all drowning. The police were beating the crowd back. She heard screams and cries: “Murderess!” “Killer!” And far in the distance, across the street, one white face floated in the open window of a waiting carriage. She struggled to focus her eyes. For a second she saw the terrified blue eyes, the pale lips, the white knuckles gripping the carriage door—Charlotte Corday. Then everything went black.
JULY 14, 1793
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Jacques-Louis David returned wearily from the Convention. Already people were setting off firecrackers and running through the streets like drunken fools as he pulled his carriage into the court.
It was Bastille Day. But somehow he couldn’t capture the spirit. This morning, arriving at the Convention Hall, he’d learned that Marat had been assassinated last night! And the woman they were holding in the Bastille, the murderess, was Mireille’s visitor of yesterday—Charlotte Corday!
Mireille herself had not returned last night. David was sick with fear. He was not so safe that the long arm of the Paris Commune would fail to reach him, if they discovered the anarchist plot was laid in his own dining room. If only he could find Mireille—get her out of Paris before people put two and two together.…
Climbing from his carriage, he brushed the dust from his tricolor cockade hat, designed by himself for Convention delegates, to represent the Spirit of Revolution. As he went to close the gates behind the carriage, a slender form slipped from the shadows and moved toward him. David shrank in fear as the man clutched him by the arm. A firecracker went off in the sky, affording him a glimpse of the pale face—the sea-green eyes of Maximilien Robespierre.
“We must speak, citizen,” whispered Robespierre in a soft, chilling voice as fireworks sparkled across the evening sky. “You missed the arraignment this afternoon.…”
“I was in convention!” David cried in a frightened voice, for it was clear whose arraignment Robespierre was speaking of. “Why did you jump out of the shadows like that?” he added, trying to mask the real cause of his trembling. “Come inside if you wish to speak to me.”
“What I have to say must not be overheard by servants and keyhole peepers, my friend,” said Robespierre gravely.
“My servants are given leave tonight for Bastille Day,” David said. “Why do you think I closed the gate myself?” He was shaking so, he was grateful for the darkness that surrounded them as they crossed the courtyard.
“It’s unfortunate you couldn’t come to the hearing,” said Robespierre as they entered the darkened, empty house. “You see, the woman they arraigned was not Charlotte Corday. It was the girl whose drawing you showed me, the girl we’ve been hunting across France these many months. My dear David—it’s your ward Mireille who assassinated Marat!”
David was deathly cold despite the warm July weather. He sat in the small dining room across from Robespierre as the latter lit an oil lamp and poured him some brandy from a decanter on the sideboard. David was shaking so badly he could scarcely hold the cup in his two hands.
“I’ve told no one what I know, until I could speak with you,” Robespierre was saying. “I need your help. Your ward has the information I want. I know why she went to see Marat—she’s after the secret of the Montglane Service. I must know what transpired between them in their interview before his death, and whether she’s had the opportunity to smuggle to others what she knows.”
“But I tell you I know nothing of these awful events!” cried David, looking at Robespierre in horror. “I never believed the Montglane Service existed until that day when I left the Café de la Régence with André Philidor—you recall? He was the one who told me. But when I repeated his tale to Mireille …”
Robespierre reached across the table to grasp David’s arm. “She’s been here? You spoke with her? My God, why haven’t you told me?”
“She said no one must know she was here,” moaned David, his head in his hand. “She arrived four days ago from God knows where—dressed in mufti like an Arab …”
“She’s been to the desert!” Robespierre said, leaping to his feet and pacing up and down. “My dear David, this ward of yours is no innocent schoolgirl. This secret goes back to the Moors—to the desert. It’s the secret of the pieces she’s after. She murdered Marat in cold blood for them. She’s at the very heart of this powerful and dangerous game! You must tell me what else you learned from her—before it’s too late.”
“It was telling you the truth that caused this horror!” cried David, nearly in tears. “And I’m a dead man if they discover who she is. Marat may have been hated and feared when alive, but now that he’s dead, they’re going to place his ashes in the Panthéon—his heart’s been enshrined as a sacred relic at the Jacobin Club.”
“I know,” said Robespierre in the soft voice that sent chills down David’s spine. “That’s why I’ve come. My dear David, perhaps I can do something to help you both … but only if you help me first. I believe your ward Mireille trusts you—she’ll confide in you, whereas she wouldn’t even speak to me. If I could get you into the prison in secrecy …”
“Please don’t ask this of me!” David nearly screamed. “I’d do anything in my power to help her—but what you suggest may cost us all our heads!”
“You don’t understand,” said Robespierre calmly, sitting again, but this time beside David. He took the artist’s hand in his. “My dear friend, I know you’re a dedicated revolutionary. But you don’t know that the Montglane Service lies at the very center of the storm that’s sweeping away the monarchy throughout Europe—that will cast off the yoke of oppression forever.” He reached to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of port, then continued:
“Perhaps if I tell you how I came to the Game, you’ll understand. For there is a game going on, my dear David—a dangerous and deadly game that destroys the very power of kings. The Montglane Service must be united under the control of those—like us—who’ll use this powerful tool in support of those innocent virtues espoused by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. For it was Rousseau himself who chose me for the Game.”
“Rousseau!” David whispered in awe. “He sought the Montglane Service?”
“Philidor knew him, and so did I,” said Robespierre, extracting a piece of letter paper from his pocketbook and looking about for something to write with. David, fumbling through the litter on the sideboard, handed him a drawing crayon, and Robespierre continued as he began to draw a diagram.
“I met him fifteen years ago, when I was a young lawyer attending the States General in Paris. I learned that the revered philosop
her Rousseau had fallen gravely ill just outside Paris. Hastily arranging an interview, I journeyed on horseback to visit the man who, in his sixty-six years, had produced a legacy that would soon alter the future of the world. What he told me that day certainly altered my future—perhaps yours will be changed as well.”
David sat in silence as firecrackers burst like unfolding chrysanthemums in the deepening darkness beyond the windows. And Robespierre, his head bent over his drawing, began his tale.…
THE ATTORNEY’S TALE
Thirty miles from Paris, near the town of Ermenonville, lay the estate of the Marquis de Girardin, where Rousseau and his mistress, Thérèse Levasseur, had been staying in a cottage since the middle of May in the year 1778.
It was June—the weather was balmy, the aroma of freshly cut grass and full-blown roses wafted across the deep lawns surrounding the château of the marquis. There was a small island, the Isle of Poplars, at the center of a lake on the estate. I found Rousseau there, dressed in the Moorish costume I’d heard he always wore: loose purple caftan, green shawl dripping with fringes, red Moroccan shoes with curling toes, a large satchel of yellow leather slung across one shoulder, and a fur-trimmed cap framing his dark, intense face. An exotic and mysterious man who seemed to move against the dappled trees and water as if to an inner music he alone could hear.
Crossing the little footbridge, I made my greeting, though I was sorry to disrupt this profound concentration. Unknown to me, Rousseau was contemplating his own meeting with eternity, which was to be only a few weeks away.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said quietly in greeting. “They tell me, Monsieur Robespierre, that you’re a man who embraces those natural virtues I myself extol. At the threshold of death, it’s comforting to know one’s beliefs are shared by at least one fellow human being!”
I was twenty at the time, and a great admirer of Rousseau—a man who’d been driven from pillar to post, exiled from his own country, forced to depend upon the charity of others despite his fame and the wealth of his ideas. I don’t know what I’d expected in coming to see him—perhaps some deep philosophical insight, an uplifting chat about politics, a romantic excerpt from La Nouvelle Héloïse. But Rousseau, sensing the close proximity of death, seemed to have something else on his mind.
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