"They look like a pair of putains to me," muttered Tante Estelle from behind her. Fleur inclined her head to them and the women bobbed, spreading their skirts. One of the men, the owner of some stunning whiskers, clasped his hat to his chest in reverence and bowed, but the little group still made no move to bestow their condolences.
"Citizen? Ouch!"A gloved hand fastened itself about Fleur's wrist as she proffered it, and squeezed painfully.
"Why, Tante Fleur, I have heard that the wives of Indian rajahs throw themselves on the funeral pyre. It's an admirable custom, don't you think?" There was no mistaking the venom in that whisper. Fleur tried to free herself but the man who had sat in the chair next to Hérault held her fast. "Think you can cheat me, do you?"
As M. Mansart started to intervene at her cry of alarm, her assailant released her and stepped back.
"Introduce us," requested Fleur coolly.
"Save your breath, Mansart. I can introduce myself to this little cheat. Felix Quettehou, Matthieu Bosanquet's heir." He removed his tricorne hat mockingly and, turning, bestowed an ugly smile on M. Beugneux."Lost your share as well, have you, you old pede?"
Even disregarding his disgusting behaviour, Fleur instantly disliked the ferret eyes glinting behind the knobbly bridge of a thin nose. He looked to be scarcely thirty, but while some balding men might retain a debonair handsomeness, the skull and forehead emerging from the sparseness of Quettehou's sandy hair looked to be unpleasantly bony. Added to which, his complexion lacked any colour to redeem it.
"This is hardly the t-ti—" M. Beugneux protested, the large hands aflutter.
"No, indeed," snapped Fleur, reassured that M. Mansart was still beside her. "Have you no respect, citizen?"
"Adventuress!" Quettehou snarled, jutting his neck forward. "Imposter! I will see you damned, you lying trollop." He adjusted his grip meaningfully on his walking cane and looked as though he would have liked to have laid it about her shoulders.
Fleur recoiled but M. Mansart stepped between them. "Your manners, sir, are wanting!"
"The will is a fake, you fool. The whole world knows it."
Too old to fight a duel for such an insult, M. Mansart stood his ground, pushing his spectacles firmly up his nose. "Are you calling the worthy citizens who witnessed the will liars as well, Citizen Quettehou?"
"A sabot-maker and some rapscallion priest! It's no more a will than this creature here is a real man." A bony forefinger stabbed into M. Beugneux's waistcoat before he swung back to Fleur. "As for you, Widow Bosanquet," his lips curled back to show his predatory, yellowing teeth, "you will wish you had never been born by the time I finish with you. I will ruin you and anyone else who takes your side!" The entire graveyard hushed. Only the birds were not embarrassed.
"I rejoice to see I have acquired such delightful relations," she declared sarcastically. "You really must come and see if there is any bric-a-brac you want."
"Why, you—"
Years of breeding compelled Tante Estelle to intervene. "A word, if you please, citizen." Quettehou, scowling like a schoolmaster thwarted in midthwack, permitted her to draw him away through the shocked crowd.
"La Veuve Bosanquet?" A familiar voice, redolent with charm and bonhomie, issued from the porch, deliberately patching the uncomfortable atmosphere quite as if he had anticipated it, and everyone respectfully hushed to watch the most distinguished mourner take Fleur's hand. Why had Hérault lingered in the church? To make inquiries or merely to execute a dramatic emergence on the steps?
"Forgive me, citizeness," he was saying, "but I did not know until today that Monsieur Bosanquet was married." He bestowed a nod of recognition on Mansart, who replied on Fleur's behalf: "Monsieur Bosanquet preferred that madame should remain in the country."
"Ah."
"Were you a friend of my husband's, Citizen Hérault?" Fleur asked, unsmiling.
"A fellow investor, and a patron of one of his establishments," the deputy added with a lowering of voice. Aware that his flamboyant presence seemed to be arousing further comment and that the feathered blonde was cocking her head provocatively, he gave the woman a fast, furtive glance before returning his attention to Fleur. "Your husband was a versatile man, Citizeness Bosanquet," he continued." He dabbled in all sorts of enterprises, but I understand he was not doing so well of late. The property near the Rue de Sévigné—you know about that? A drain, of course. There are too many similar establishments now. And it is a pity his lace-making investment in the city proved disastrous, but one sees so much competition elsewhere, Brussels, eh? And of course, as with many luxury manufactories in France in recent years, the market has dried up."
"Decapitated," murmured Fleur into her handkerchief. At her elbow, M. Beugneux broke into a fit of coughing.
Unable to see her face, Hérault was evidently not sure how to take the remark, for he busied himself genially nodding to the other mourners. "Forgive my impertinence, citizeness, but have you considered what you are going to do about the café? You have informed her of her circumstances, I take it, Citizen Mansart?"
"No, Citizen Deputy, we have hardly had time to go into details. I have yet to show her the ledgers."
"Then I assume you will be selling it, citizeness, as soon as possible."
"No, Citizen Hérault," Fleur answered calmly, resolving to be rebellious. "I am considering the appointment of a new manager." Amazement altered both men's expressions. She glanced away modestly. How pleasant to see one of the haughty heroes of the Revolution speechless.
"A risky enterprise for a young widow," Hérault exclaimed at last, exchanging glances with Mansart."You are a woman of hidden parts."
"An extremely courageous lady, if I may say so, citizen," declared Mansart, adapting quick-wittedly to his client's viewpoint.
Hidden parts! Behind her veil Fleur frowned, for Hérault's gaze had grown once more overfriendly. Could he have concluded she was a provincial actress and therefore fair game? Embarrassed, it was her turn now to glance about, her fingers tucking back a loose curl.
The worldly Jacobin set a hand on her arm. "Pardon me, but may I have a private word with you, citizeness?"
She was reluctant to permit this traitor to draw her to one side amongst the graves, but it would have been impolite to refuse and, to be charitable, he had rescued her yesterday.
"You will have to forgive my candour, but, well, if you are intending to make a go of things in Paris, citizeness, may I offer you some counsel?" Fleur inclined her head with deliberate awkwardness, relieved he had not recognised the signs of a fellow aristocrat. "I suggest, citizeness, that you find a way to reduce your late husband's debts as soon as possible. Most of these people are creditors come to assess your means of repayment. To be honest, I daresay I am come here for that purpose too." Fleur swallowed. This was the last truth she had expected. "Indeed," he added, "indelicate as it is to raise the matter here, I think you should know that your husband borrowed more from me than anyone else."
"I see," she said uncertainly. "Forgive me, but I have not been apprised of the extent of money owing to you or indeed anyone. If you would give me a little time to look into matters and decide how I should best proceed, I shall do my best to pay you back."
"I am prepared," he was looking down, rubbing a thumb over the shiny knob of his cane, "to waive the debt for certain considerations."
Alarm bells were sounding in Fleur's mind. "Considerations?" she echoed.
"Yes." The man's warm glance rolled upwards, lingering appreciatively on the curves of her breast. "Favours."
"Of course, favours," she repeated with feigned puzzlement. It was a small satisfaction to see him redden at the virginal non-comprehension in her face. "Well, I shall discuss your proposal with Monsieur Mansart and see what he thinks."
"No! I mean, no, do not raise the issue with Mansart. You and I can perhaps discuss this again."
"When I am less ignorant, you mean?"
He did not know she was playing with him. "Yes," he sai
d, letting out a breath and observing his shoe buckles. Her silence embarrassed him further before he added: "May I give you some friendly advice?"
"From so illustrious a person as yourself, of course." And I would very much like to slap your face either now or some time in the future.
"As you... as you are obviously a young woman of respectable breeding..." She waited, but no irony gleamed down at her. "I-I urge you to distance yourself from any matters of business, citizeness, especially the café." Sure of his superiority again, he continued: "People respect virtue and patriotism these days. You may have already observed how volatile this city is. It is easy to make enemies and it is easy for your enemies to find new friends." He glanced meaningfully towards Felix Quettehou, who stood apart, glowering at them. "I think you need to choose your company and choose it well."
"Yes," said Fleur, wondering how he classified himself. "I understand what you are saying, Citizen Deputy, and I thank you—both for your assistance yesterday and your good counsel today. I intend to become a model of propriety."
"Oh." The gentleman's face coloured slightly. "Excellent, a woman of good sense. Now, perhaps I should go and trickle a little oil onto troubled waters for you. I am about to be appointed to the Committee of Public Safety, and Quettehou will not want to fall foul of any member of that, I assure you, even if he is a friend of Deputy Marat."
"Marat? The Marat?"
"Yes, Quettehou used to print some of Marat's works. Indeed, I marvel your husband did not inform you."
Ignoring the remark, she set a hand upon his lace cuff, displaying the manners of a bourgeois rather than an aristocrat. "Pardon my ignorance, but this committee you mentioned, Citizen Hérault, what exactly is it?"
He did not seem to mind the gesture or the question. "A new committee, citizeness. It is being urged upon the government. It will be elected mostly from the Montagnards—the deputies that sit on the sloping seats in the hall of the Convention."
"The Mountain. I have heard of it." Yes, mentioned in a pamphlet Charlotte had shown her with disgust. The Montagnards certainly seemed to be louder and far more extreme than the Girondins, who were in control of the government.
"Then you may know that while we are not exactly a disciplined group, we do have a club at the old order of St James's monastery in Rue Saint-Honore, not far from the Eglise Saint-Roch. That's why we call ourselves the Jacobins.
"And actually, if you have the time, Citizeness Bosanquet, why not come along to the Convention when it is in session? We are a democracy now. The gallery is open to the people."
"And this Jacobin Club, is it exclusive?"
"No, visitors are welcome, but if anyone wants to join, he needs to be nominated by another member and the club has to take a vote." He! So it was exclusive. "There are some women who support us. I daresay you could call in at one of their meetings. Oh, here is Citizen Beugneux." The latter was bearing down upon them frowning—an odd knight in armour but perhaps she looked as though she needed rescuing.
"Your... your companion yesterday, Citizen Hérault," she asked quickly. "Is he also owed money by Monsieur Bosanquet?" This former noble might consider it bad manners to refer to yesterday's incident but it was necessary for her peace of mind.
"Oh, you mean Raoul deVillaret, citizeness. No, I have no recollection of them being acquainted and I have never encountered him at the Chat Rouge, but your husband had fingers in many pies.
"Citizen Beugneux, I believe." He nodded to the older gentleman, the courtesy rather tepid, and then turned once more to Fleur with an expression of greater interest than was acceptable. "Perhaps I may call upon you in a day or so." She inclined her head so sternly that he had to accept the gentle reproof. "Thank you, then," he murmured politely. "I wish your enterprise well, citizeness," and he sauntered off after Quettehou, who was striding away, angrily lashing his walking stick at the nettles adjoining the puddled path.
M. Beugneux sniffed. "Impressive and useful b-but I really think you should avoid his type, my dear," he sniffed. "The man's a roué even if his p-papa was noblesse, and he's a Jacobin. Detestable creatures! Still, I daresay p-poor Matthieu would have laughed to see him here. A P-President of the Convention! Oh dear me." Grief overcame him somewhat excessively again, necessitating the vigorous use of a silken handkerchief.
Ciel! She had just been propositioned by the President of the Convention! At least her companion's nose-blowing gave her a chance to recover her wits and refrain from laughing. "President!" she exclaimed, taking his arm.
"Oh, not all the time. A few of them rotate the office just as they do the committees."
"Citizen Hérault says he is to become a member of the Committee of Public Safety."
"Pah, not another group with a fancy name! They're cropping up like w-weeds, dear madame. The C-Committee for General Security, the Commune committees. Why bother with ministers of state? There will be a c-committee for stray dogs and a committee for investigating committees before the week is out."
Fleur smothered a giggle. "He suggested I should go along to the Convention and hear some of the debates."
"By all means, my dear, if you are truly interested in such matters, but I cannot understand why you should be, and there are some very d-dubious p-persons who have begun to frequent the p-public gallery. The Furies, I believe, is the current name bestowed upon them." He patted her hand. "No, no, a young woman like you should be seen in far better company." And that would not be easy, thought Fleur.
"However, now to contradict myself," M. Beugneux continued, "there are some p-people I think you should meet—our company of actors at the Chat Rouge." He discreetly raised his forefinger, obviously a prearranged signal, and the disreputable little troop of four approached. So the café stage had been used. How wonderful, Fleur thought wickedly, her own group of actors! And she could not resist bestowing her own nicknames upon them immediately.
Whiskers's bow was flamboyant and fulsome. "Madame, we extend to you our deepest sympathies, the passing of a great spirit."
The little blonde nodded, the black feathers stuck in the back of her bonnet bouncing distractingly. "We shall remember dear Matthieu with the profoundest gratitude."
The exotic waterpot gulped and a burst of sobs gurgled forth. "Oh, what is to become of us now that our beloved Bosanquet is gone?"
The beanpole struck a tragic pose, his wrist pressed passionately against his brow. "One would have thought the gates of the citadel would have been flung open." Then seeing Fleur's blank stare, he added, "Shakespeare, English writer."
"Oh." All four were staring at her like fledglings waiting for her to open her beak. Fleur cleared her throat. "I expect you wish to hear my decision on the future of the café." Four heads nodded frantically. "I need to give the matter some thought but at present it is my intent to reopen it as soon as possible."
"You mean you still wish to employ us?" The stocky actor, Whiskers, stepped forward, studying her afresh with an expression of worldliness tinged with pity—clearly this convent-bred girl from the country did not understand what she was taking on.
"If I can, yes, and I expect you to honour your contracts. Come to the café this time next week and I shall answer all your questions. Now, I see that my husband's agent is waiting to speak to me. Au revoir."
"See," she heard one of the actresses remark as she walked away on M. Beugneux's arm, "there still is a god."
"A goddess!" corrected the beanpole, kissing his fingers loudly. "We are saved, mes amis. Who would have believed in such a miracle?"
Fleur wondered what in heaven she had got herself into. The other cluster of mourners were still eyeing her but there was not a handkerchief among them. Distant relatives, perhaps?
"Who are those people?" she asked, summoning Mansart to join her.
M. Bosanquet's man of affairs sucked in his cheeks and ran a hand across his chin. "Those?" he echoed ominously. "Those, I am afraid, are your husband's creditors."
"All of them?"
"Yes, citizeness, all of them."
Chapter 6
"Oh, but this is terrible, Monsieur Mansart!" exclaimed Fleur next morning, her chin nesting in her hands as she stared at the sheaf of billets fanned out in front of her. "I can understand about the lace manufactory but these other ventures. All failed!"
"I fear so, madame." They were sitting side by side in front of the let-down shelf of M. Bosanquet's secretaire like harpsichordists playing a duet and, as if the performance was over, M. Mansart closed the ledger before him. "I thought it best to terminate the leases since all the premises were rented, that is, except for the café. The workers have been paid off but the suppliers are another matter."
The doorknocker resounded for the umpteenth time that morning, echoing throughout the apartment. Fleur pushed her chair back and walked across to the window to peer discreetly out. Another bill being delivered! Worse and worse. She hesitated before she swung round, wondering how much she could rely on Mansart.
"Straight as a governess's backbone," her husband had told her, and certainly he seemed a gentleman, neat in clothing and manners and, to judge by his frown lines and eyebrows not yet grown bushy, still in his forties and past the fire-in-the-belly ambition of young men like de Villaret. Mind, she wondered if the head beneath the brown wig had ever enthused about anything save accounting. What was black in her ledger was the fact that Mansart had accepted her husband's final will unquestioningly, and not pressed her for any payment in cash or "favours".
"This is just the beginning, I am sorry to say, madame." He stood up to face her. "Your creditors will probably allow you a week's indulgence since you are newly widowed, but then they will be all out in the courtyard clamouring with a vengeance. I should hide away any valuables if I were you. The bailiff will be round in no time."
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