There was a yearning in the softly spoken promise that made Fleur glance back swiftly over her shoulder and read the question in his sad eyes. It had been there ever since he introduced himself; he was willing to do anything not to be turned out.
"Excellent." She unloaded Machiavelli back onto the bed. "Monsieur Bosanquet particularly requested me to ensure you and Citizen Python here remain as boarders."
The gentleman dropped to his knees and lifted the hem of her black gown to his lips. "Your servant, madame, your most obedient servant."
This sort of fulsome adoration from such an elderly creature was a new experience and Fleur found it necessary to examine the room again. She blinked in astonishment at the superb painting of David and Jonathan gazing in fraternal admiration at each other. Could it be a Greuze? As for the bronze Cupid on the mantelshelf, pah, she disliked it on sight. It reminded her of standing for hours as a child holding out an apple so a bad-tempered maestro and his pimply apprentice could make sketches.
"What exactly did my husband do for an income, monsieur?"
M. Beugneux draped Machiavelli across his own shoulders, stroking the python's skin. "Dear Matthieu had all manner of enterprises, madame, but I would have thought... I fear none of them have fared well since the Revolution, what with the nobility losing much of their income and so forth."
"What enterprises?" Better to be honest.
"You mean you do not know about the lace manufactory or the property in the Marais?" He was clearly amazed at Fleur's ignorance. "Did Matthieu not explain anything?"
"We did not see much of each other." She hastened to allay any suspicion. "You could say he was almost like a father to me rather than a husband."
"Ah." M. Beugneux smiled as if the thought pleased him greatly. Shifting the python's head, he took out his new acquisition, his face saddening as he ran a thumb across the timepiece. "Mansart, Matthieu's man of affairs will acquaint you with how matters stand."
"I shall need to purchase some... necessities, monsieur." Fleur ignored her aunt's sharp glance. "There is no maidservant I may send out, is there?"
"'P-partner in work', they are called now. No, I am afraid not. One of the neighbours comes in to clean. You could hire a fiacre to take you to the linen market tomorrow, perhaps." Fleur inclined her head. "Then I shall leave you to settle in." He indicated that the room was at her disposal.
"At least there is plenty of storage," observed her aunt. "I shall unpack later." She grandly bestowed her portmanteau in the bottom of the cleared wardrobe. It was all she had left of her once luxurious life.
"One moment, Monsieur Beugneux, is there a bedchamber for my aunt?" It was more a command than a question, but Fleur added tactfully, "I am sure that you do not wish to share with Citizen Machiavelli, Tante."
Her new acquaintance smiled. They began to understand one another.
Chapter 4
For the ostentatious, the arcades of the Palais Royal, maggot-like with hungry orators, ubiquitous jugglers and feather-fingered pickpockets, was a mecca. Which was exactly why, on his return to Paris, Raoul preferred to meet his old friend and fellow deputy, Marie-Jean Hérault de Séchelles, next afternoon in the Café Bancelin on the corner of the Rue Chariot. Even that establishment was crowded and Raoul was forced to circumnavigate twin girl dancers from Marseilles whose carmagnole jackets revealed more than they covered, a squat vendor selling wart cures, and a bony prostitute who trailed Raoul to Hérault's table and drew her skirt high above a taffeta garter.
"Very attractive, citizeness, but we're busy." Hérault, ex-President of the Legislative Assembly and Raoul's senior by several years, cast aside the news sheet he was reading and rose to embrace Raoul. Their friendship went back a sentimental distance that took in a coincidence of ideals and, beyond that, a pair of noble military papas.
Raoul slung his greatcoat on the back of the chair. Sitting down, he idly picked up the broadsheet, scanned its headline, and pushed it back across the table. "Dr Marat?" he asked with a curl of lip.
"That hack gets more profane. He uses vitriol instead of ink."
Raoul laughed."In '89 you said he was speaking the language of the people. What more can he do to shock us except grow crude and yap louder?"
"Oh, you are patted on the head, mon brave." Hérault poured him a glass of vin ordinaire from the carafe. "You have been zealously occupied. I, on the other hand, am accused of spending my time déshabillé in the foothills of Mont Blanc, amusing a certain former marquise."
"Marat wrote that? Show me."
"No, he said it to Catherine Evrard who repeated it to Elénore Duplay who told Max Robespierre. Your health!" They clinked glasses. "Not bad," murmured Hérault, testing a mouthful before he leaned languidly back. "So, did you have a satisfactory sojourn en mission in Normandy?"
Raoul grinned. "Not half so good as you in Haute Savoie." His friend's tanned, aristocratic cheekbones told their own account. "And was la belle Adéle amused?"
"Actually, I believe she was. We lived on love and fonduta." His gaze rambled appreciatively over the bosom of a girl on the next table."Where did you go, de Villaret? Just Calvados?"
"As far as Cherbourg. I set up committees of surveillance, and spoke in all the Jacobin clubs. Diable! In some places I might have been an Englishman for all the welcome I received. People are frightened of us, Hérault." He tapped his fingers on the broadsheet. "These poisonous tirades of Marat's are part of the trouble, but most of it goes back to last September."
"'Our country in danger'", eh?" That was Hérault's euphemism for the disturbances which had occurred after the Austrian and Prussian bayonets had pricked the French armies back into their heartland and seized Verdun. The disastrous news had panicked Paris. Hérault had made a fiery speech of patriotism in the National Assembly, but it was Georges Danton, roaring with angry passion, and placard writers like Marat and Fabre d'Eglantine, who had incited the Paris mob to drag the priests and aristocratic inmates out of the prisons and execute them before they could become traitors and saboteurs: "Let the blood of traitors be the first holocaust to Liberty!" Ordinary citizens still winced with the shame of it. So did Raoul. Only extremists like Marat gloated about the blood-letting.
"Go away!" growled Raoul, thrusting the cheap whore back as she tried to slide her arms round his neck. "I found a few passionate Jacobins in Caen but most people in Normandy do not want any more changes. They haven't come to terms with the King's execution either. The unrest in Brittany and further south is unsettling them."
"I suppose your rural ignoramuses think the present government is doing a fine job. Merde!" Hérault crumpled the broadsheet and launched it at the cleavage of the persistent prostitute. "This Girondin government could not even organise a game of boules. We have generals deserting daily."
Certainly, the new Republic seemed to be blundering riderless, but Raoul did not envy the inexperienced ministers. Given time, they might achieve much, except Marat was not giving them a chance and the people, still hungry, were growing impatient. The Revolution was falling to its knees like someone being stoned from all sides.
"We certainly do not need any more Septembers," he stated emphatically.
"You think I want that!" His friend leaned forward, cuffs clinking upon the oilskin tablecloth. "I am glad you are back in Paris," the well-bred voice lowered to a safer volume, "because we are going to have to overthrow the present government. Brittany, as you say, is tottering; the counter-revolution in La Vendée is infecting the rest of the country. The English refused us flour last year. That devil of a minister, William Pitt! His gold will soon turn the whole seaboard against us. I need you to recruit your friends from the Plain to side with us. We have to clean out the ministries before the house we have built with hard work and sacrifice topples in on itself."
Raoul listened, running a finger pensively along the edge of the table. Many of the Plain—the deputies who sat on the floor of the Assembly—had tried to avoid being part of a faction. Now it loo
ked as though they were going to be forced to choose between supporting the Girondins, who were running the government, or joining the growing opposition, "the Mountain" deputies like himself. He, Hérault and his old master, the artist Jacques-Louis David, were all members of the Jacobin Club, an institution on the Rue Saint-Honore where the issues of the day were vehemently discussed. Raoul had cut his political teeth there. Now there were Jacobin Clubs in most of France's major towns. The participants ranged from moderate ex-noblemen to rabid enragés like Deputy Marat. Well, it would be an interesting year and Raoul wondered if he would be alive at the end of it. Not if France's enemies prevailed. Hérault was right. Something had to be done soon.
"Bof!" his friend exclaimed. "These fools running the country may be able to burble Cicero and hold intellectual dinner parties, but when it comes to putting bread in the people's stomachs or getting supplies to the army, they are out of touch with reality. They talk but they make no decisions." Hérault in full flow was like a hot-air balloon; it was no use interrupting until his flight of oratory was over. "Here we are at war with most of Europe and who is giving the orders? Manon Roland, the ex-minister of war's wife, a convent-bred bitch who wouldn't know one end of a musket from the other, for God's sake! Has old Roland nothing in his breeches? Pathetic, hein!"
"Quite true, you cannot fight a war with fans and rattles," Raoul agreed. The wondrous ideals of '89 that had united everyone in hope and fraternity seemed to have dissipated. "What are you proposing, Hérault?" he asked quietly, downing the last of his wine.
"That we find competent, experienced administrators to run the war and nominate them to this new committee on public safety."
"I'll certainly support you on that." It might mean the Committee of General Security which Raoul was on would lose its pre-eminence, but saving France was more important than any personal glory.
"And I was wondering if you could give me a hand with drafting a constitution?"
"What's wrong with the one that old Condorçet's drawn up?" Raoul asked.
"It has three hundred and sixty-eight articles. Imagine the pique-nique the Girondins will enjoy, discussing each clause for hours on end."
"Ah. Of course, I'll help you. I'm honoured you asked me."
Hérault sat back satisfied. "Good!" He summoned a waiter and ordered coffee.
"This is part of the trouble," Raoul said cynically as the cups were set before them. "Everyone wants coffee."
His companion ignored the irony and changed the subject. "So, did you find any remnants of the Montbulliou family reduced to growing cabbages in Normandy? No fat derrières you recognised?"
Raoul shook his head. "Too busy." He had given more thought to the pretty curves of Madame Bosanquet than to finding the youngest Montbulliou girl. "I'd still like to know if the chit survived."
"Guilt?" probed Hérault.
"No," replied Raoul honestly, "just curiosity. Closing the file, if you like. I did discover that one of the Montbulliou girls boarded at the Trinité School in Caen until the convent was closed down. Oh yes, and that an uncle on the mother's side, one of the Thury-Estry family, was arrested in Bayeux for counter-revolutionary activities."
"Have you questioned him? Or has he paid the price?"
"No, this was a couple of years ago. He ran away to Coblenz and all his property was confiscated. The rest of his family fled before they could be arrested. Nothing has been heard of them since."
"In your girl's shoes, I would have bribed my way onto a boat out of Cherbourg."
"Well, I'm waiting to hear further but there is talk that one of Montbulliou's four daughters died of inflammation of the lungs in London. That could have been her. A third sister died in a riding accident. Which leaves one daughter and the son unaccounted for. He would be about twenty-two by now. It is assumed he is in Coblenz as well."
"And you are positive the ci-devant Duc de Montbulliou is dead?"
"I know he is. Montbulliou and his eldest daughter, Marguerite, the Vicomtesse de Nogent, died in the disturbances in September." He swirled the last drop of wine before he emptied the glass.
"Ah, but I think you have found another quarry, you sly rogue."A finger briefly jabbed his shoulder.
"Maybe."
"So did you seduce some lovely Norman innocent, or have you abandoned her among the apple trees utterly ignorant of your lusty thoughts?"
"I had little time for an affaire." Raoul pushed his coffee cup aside. And certainly not with a suspect who might have planned her elderly husband's death. "Drink up, Hérault, if you are going to walk back to the Rue Saint-Honore with me. I have a report to finish for tomorrow. Are you likely to be presiding at the Convention?"
"Tomorrow, no, and just as well, I have to get on with drafting the new constitution and then attend a memorial service at a temple of reason."
"Anyone I know?"
"No," smiled Hérault. "Someone who tried to put a few investments my way. I may have a few debts to collect."
Raoul's chair scraped the flagstones. "May the Supreme Being smile upon your enterprise."
His friend responded sweetly with a finger and led the way out.
* * *
"Oh my!" Fleur paid off the hired fiacre and turned to join her aunt on the corner of a road off the Rue de Sévigné. The Marais, with its narrow streets and antiquated mansions hidden behind high walls, had lost the glory it had enjoyed in the days of Henri of Navarre and Louis XIV The rich had rebuilt elsewhere. Now the section wore a confused air. Artisans had invaded the streets closest to the river; the revolutionaries had set up the two prisons of La Force. The boulevard to the east with its Chinese baths, cafés, a choice of theatres and Dr Curtius's Waxworks (oh yes, the fiacre had brought them the long way round) was slowly scratching into the Marais's genteel polish.
Tante Estelle was gazing open-mouthed at the facade above the doorway fronting the alley. Large letters of faded black proclaimed "Le Chat Rouge" and alongside them was a weathered painting—a saucy, peeling feline licking a paw and glancing provocatively down at likely customers.
"A café!" Fleur nearly whooped. Oh, she would write to Bayeux to her friend Thomas, her father's sous-chef, without delay.
Her aunt glanced round nervously. "We are conspicuous enough as it is. Try the keys that dreadful creature gave you."
"He is not a dreadful creature," argued Fleur, withdrawing the house keys from her pocket.
"B-B-Beugneux," sneered her aunt. "I have strong suspicions about him."
"I do not know why you should think him improper. He behaved impeccably towards us and it is evident he cared deeply for 'mon cher Matthieu'."
"Exactly," muttered the older woman as the lock obligingly withdrew its tongue.
Fleur let herself in and wrinkled her nose. The interior smelled like an old kitchen cloth. The table linens covering the five long trestles were clean but marred by old stains and wax dribbles from the candlesticks. To the right of the entrance was a serving area and a shelf ornamented with vases and dusty, long-stemmed glasses. Beyond, a large fireplace dominated the wall with a variety of coffee pots standing stoically along its generous hearth waiting for someone to light the fire to keep them warm.
It really required a stove rather than a wasteful hearth to warm a chamber this size. Afternoon light poured in through the small panes of a long window to her left, illuminating pairs of painted laurel garlands interweaving up the sepia walls. Glancing around at the cracks in the plaster and the powdery paint, Fleur was reminded of the tired, blemished old courtesan she had glimpsed earlier from the fiacre.
But in kindly candlelight with the firelight dancing? Oh, this could be a haven of warmth and laughter. A laughing, joyous mistress to the men of Paris. Fleur blushed. Whatever was she thinking!
"Dreadful! Bosanquet must have been running this on air," sniffed her aunt as if she smelled the immorality too. "No lighting to speak of, either. I will wager no one respectable ever came near this place." Only a few sconces decorated t
he walls, and most of the candleholders in the central wooden candelabra were empty. "You would be lucky to see the faces of your neighbours if you supped here." She swished up a corner of the tablecloth and rattled a bench. It wobbled. "Poor quality. All of it. Besides, the risk of fire is gargantuan. There can be no question of you keeping this."
"But we have not investigated it thoroughly, Tante Estelle."
The groan was middle-aged. "Must we?"
Fleur's attention had been snared: a row of candle stubs sentried the edge of a meagre platform centred in front of the far wall with a proscenium painted with garlands of flowers built out around it. A small stage with no curtain, merely a screen of sporting wood nymphs separating it from a door behind. A stage. A tiny stage!
With a scream of delight, she sprang up onto the blocks and whirled, arms outflung.
"'How can I ever forget the dreadful danger which first brought us together, your noble courage in risking your life to snatch me from the fury of the wave, your tender solicitude when you brought me to the shore, and the unremitting ardour of your love which neither time nor adversity has diminished, a love for which...'" She broke off laughing. "Act one, The Miser. Where have you gone, Tante?"
"Actresses rank but a fraction above whores in polite society. Kindly stop behaving like one."
"You never said that when we put on plays during your visit to Clerville or when Charlotte and I read Tartuffe to you in Caen."
"Totally different circumstances."Tante Estelle's powdered head reappeared from below the serving bar. "Well, there are plenty of napkins and glasses," she called out, but her niece did not answer. Fleur had unlocked the door behind the screen and was gazing with utter rapture at a rack of costumes. The pre-1780 ones were rather worn, but the more recent were of surprisingly fine quality, as good as she and her sisters had worn—such a bevy of silk and brocade as she had not seen in years.
Some costumes were disgustingly scandalous: wicked flesh-coloured stockings pinned to gauzy, gold-spangled Greek draperies sewn with glass beading, and metallic breast cones that would have been Sunday clothing for an Amazon. Indeed, some of the men's clothing was just as scanty. Not the two creamy togas edged with purple but the Roman kilt made of gold-painted leather straps and an Egyptian loincloth gathered beneath a central flap of stiff brocade. And there were all the accessories an actor might dream of—sandals, boots, spurs, helmets, pikes, musketeers' plumed hats, torques and breastplates fit for heroes. Fleur slid a medieval cross-hilted sword from its scabbard and thrust the tip at her image in the looking glass.
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