Oh, yes, that was if you ignored the ministers of state, the Cordelier Club and its notorious Danton, the Paris Commune dominated by the odious writer Marat, not to mention all the city sections and whoever made the most noise in the national guard! Fleur had not spent the last year in utter ignorance.
"If you are anxious to have your say, citizeness," prattled her neighbour cheerfully, thumping her knee, "you should come along there later today. Much more interesting than here." DeVillaret had finished his conversation and as he straightened and turned round, the woman behind Fleur sprang to her feet. "Hola, Raouly darling."
Before Fleur could duck out of sight, Raouly darling glanced up. What man wouldn't at such a hollering? He touched a gloved hand to the brim of his beaver, acknowledging his agitated admirer, and then his gaze fell upon Fleur, conspicuous in her black. He stared openly and then with a flash of teeth bestowed a smile upon her and the glowing woman behind her.
Zut, she swore inwardly, her face warm behind the veil, but surely there were plenty of widows in Paris. He might not have recognised her.
"Ah, there's my other sweetheart." Her new companion annoyingly bounced with excitement as a beefy, pockmarked fellow set his ploughman's hands upon the lectern. The man's voice carried excellently and his well-delivered cadences would have not disgraced the senate of ancient Greece or Rome.
"Isn't he wonderful? A real volcano, our Danton. Are you all right, ma chere? You look a trifle queasy to me."
"The h-heat. I feel queasy." Fleur thrust a handkerchief to her mouth in an effort to hide her loathing. Georges Danton! The infamous, venal, bloody degenerate who had instigated the September massacres! Fleur shuddered. Had the woman beside her cheered on the butchers that murdered Papa just as she was cheering now? "Pardon me, citizeness, I need some air."
"Baby on the way, hein?"
No, she was not with child. Against a barrage of protests, Fleur squeezed her way between the rail and the row of feet; one pair kicked her viciously for ruining the view and she almost tumbled across several impatient knees with the pain. The air of the corridor—deserted, thank heaven—was at least less contaminated. She leaned against the marble balustrade of the staircase with a deep sigh, her eyes closed.
"I hope you are not going to be sick, citizeness."
Fleur snapped to attention. Of all people, it was Raoul deVillaret who stood below, left arm across his chest supporting his right elbow. He was stroking his jaw thoughtfully. What might have passed for a grin curled his mouth.
"Stay there and I just might be," muttered Fleur beneath her breath, annoyed that she was not even permitted to feel faint without his interference. Why was he suddenly running up a friendly flag? Did the arrogant bastard think she had left in embarrassment because he had caught her watching him? Damnation, she thought in panic, maybe she had better let him think just that. With a deep breath, she straightened up and slowly descended the staircase with as much grace as she could. What mischief was brewing for her now? Out of the cauldron to a waiting fire? With a mind full of misgivings, she reached the last few stairs.
"Citizeness Bosanquet? Are you grown so coy of a sudden? I presume it is you hiding behind the black lace." Insolent devil!
"Citizen," she greeted him with a pretence of shyness, resisting the strong temptation to sweep past him dismissively like a former duchess.
Raoul deVillaret deliberately stepped in front of her and Fleur found herself halted, disconcertingly, at eye level with him. The man was arresting—in more ways than the obvious! If he had been an aristocrat in a pre-revolutionary salon, she might have teased him, she conceded; but with or without the artillery of handsome looks, he was a revolutionary and dangerous.
"You are exceedingly active for a lady so recently bereaved, citizeness," he accused amiably, his dark eyes full of amusement. Did he think her a courtesan selecting her next lover from the power-hungry and the influential? Then, without permission, he outrageously set back her veil.
"You need sunshine, patriot." But then he frowned. "Has something made you unwell, citizeness?" His gaze flicked from her waist to her hips. Nom d'un chien! He too was trying to discover whether she might be breeding.
Reddening, she held her temper. The thought of any man's child ripening inside her was scandalous to her maidenly mind, but if he supposed her a widow, it was not an unreasonable assumption. Really, if the man were more civil, she would have thanked him for rescuing her yesterday. Now it required an effort not to slap him for his impertinence.
"It was hot and crowded in the gallery, citizen. Nothing more, I assure you." Why had she said that—as if her condition was any of his business! "As to being here, I find it best to occupy my mind." Her irritation was close to boiling over. "Do not let me keep you, Citizen de Villaret. Should you not be inside the hall listening to the great Danton?" It was an effort to keep the distaste from her voice.
She put up her hand to tug her veil back into place but he presumptuously set a hand upon her tight sleeve.
"A moment, please. It is fortunate to see you here, citizeness, since I desire to return something of yours." With a smile that was annoyingly enigmatic, he slid a hand into his coat pocket.
"I am sure you have nothing there that is of the slightest concern to me, citizen." A slight purr of flirtation sweetened Fleur's reproof but then memory jolted her. Her ring! Had this interfering upstart tried to trace the ring's provenance?
"Oh, but I have," he corrected roguishly, and possessing himself of her gloved hand, he pressed something far larger than jewellery into her palm and closed her fingers over it. "I am sure we shall meet again, citizeness."
Beyond words, she stood still as a bronze statue until the doors of the assembly hall closed behind his insufferable back.
Raoul deVillaret had found her catapult.
Chapter 7
Damn him! De Villaret had her on a leash and wanted her to know it, and Fleur, her emotions jumping grasshopper-like from fear to bravado, finally opted for anger. She arrived back at her inheritance in a scarcely controlled fury to find her aunt in an almost equal lather, waving a letter in one hand and smelling salts, lent her by M. Beugneux, in the other.
Since the gentleman tactfully disappeared up the stairs with surprising agility, Fleur was left alone to deal with her aunt's distress. It seemed the letter had imparted information guaranteed to threaten one's sanity, or so Tante Estelle informed her with fulsome agitation. Charlotte's aunt, Mme de Bretteville, had written to say that the Abbé Gombault had been arrested for refusing to take the oath of loyalty to the Republic and accept the edict of deportation, and was to receive the death penalty. To add to that horror, Guillaume had left Grimbosq and gone to Bayeux to evade the soldiers who had been seeking him for questioning over M. Bosanquet's demise. Fleur sank down upon the sofa in the parlour, Mme de Bretteville's neat writing dancing before her eyes. She seemed to bring disaster to all who knew her. And where was Blanchette? Had Guillaume taken her with him?
"And note the postscript from Charlotte," exclaimed her aunt. "After we left, that meddling lawyer, Esnault, went nosing through the Trinité School library for lists of pupils over the last five years."
"What's left of it. That would have taken him no more than a few minutes. He would have found nothing." Fleur read the postscript again. "I will hazard the republicans are looking for the estate records Charlotte and the abbess have hidden. They would not be bothering with the likes of me. Everyone knows they have been trying to find out the extent of the abbey's holdings for the last year so they can seize everything." Her aunt looked unconvinced. "Maybe they think an old pupil has them hidden. Oh, but this news of Abbé Gombault is heartbreaking."
"I have had enough!" fumed Tante Estelle, dashing her fists against her black skirts. "Last night you told me you intend to become a tradeswoman and reopen that revolting café, and now this morning you have been to the Convention. How can you have the gall to set foot among those regicides? And to think that rascal Héraul
t and his odious companion know where we live. They will be soon sniffing round asking questions, mark my words. That," she pointed to the letter, "is just too much of a coincidence."
She was probably right, but Fleur kept her own panic strapped down.
"Tante." She reached out a soothing hand but the older woman flinched, jowls and lace lappets quivering.
"I will not be pacified. And... and, furthermore, I have no intention of sharing a house with... with snakes, or mixing with actors and sodomites any longer." Fleur's eyes widened. "You and I are returning to Caen, niece, and there's an end to it. I have booked us two seats on tomorrow's diligence."
It was necessary to take a deep breath and be firm. "No, Tante."
"No! How dare you answer me so! You will do as I say, mademoiselle."
Fleur's spine stiffened at being addressed like some common serving girl. "No, madame," she retorted, risking the fact that her aunt looked angry enough to hit her.
"You foolish girl! I will not tolerate your disobedience!"
Her aunt's rare outbursts of fury never lasted long. Fleur glared back at her and made no answer. Eventually the older woman sat down, her mouth a cat's behind of sulky umbrage.
"Please understand, Tante Estelle." Fleur judged it timely to rise and cross to kneel beside her aunt's armchair. "Yes, you are right, you should return to Calvados, for you are not a Montbulliou, but I must stay in Paris. There are people here who are depending on me for a living, and if I can manage to reopen the café, I will be able to send you enough to live on. You must not mistake my disobedience for ingratitude. You have been so kind taking me in and seeing to my schooling."
"Oh, Fleur." Calmer now, the older woman's fingers sought her hand. "No, it is you who have done the looking after me since your uncle fled. I am afraid, Fleur. Paris is making a coward of me."
"Then you must leave Paris." Fleur pulled out her handkerchief from an inner pocket and her catapult tumbled free. "Oh," she whispered.
Tante Estelle glanced at it. "Thank you, you keep it. I could never even throw a cushion at your uncle to hit him properly."
Now was not the time to feel hysterical with laughter. "Oh, Tante Estelle, I am not expecting you to use it. It was given back to me this morning by de Villaret." Her aunt looked blank. "The odious companion, remember. It seems someone has been to Grimbosq."
"Oh." Trembling fingers flew to the older woman's lips. "Jesu, Fleur, wh-what are you going to do? You must leave Paris, darling. Now we have a little money, we could try to reach the border. Your uncle—"
"I intend to face de Villaret. You must see that to run away would surely inflame his suspicions further. Françoise-Antoinette de Montbuillou should be keeping her head out of sight, whereas the parvenu opportunist Citizeness Fleur Bosanquet is made of different mettle. He cannot prove I had a hand in Monsieur Bosanquet's death."
The tick-tock of the clock punctuated the silence.
"Oh," sighed her aunt finally, "I do not know what your uncle would say to such harebrained bravery. No, I will not have it. We must leave, both of us. Stay in this terrible city and you might as well invite the executioner to put your name on his list." Fingertips smoothed a curl back from her niece's cheek. "Poor, foolish child. You always were stubborn."
"You have not been listening, Tante." Fleur scrambled up from her knees. "Not only may it be impossible for us to get passes to leave Pans now, but the world has changed, forever perhaps, and I have to make my way as best I can. And it is more than that. You see, I-I think I have stopped being frightened."
Her aunt, matriarchal sentiments back in place, tossed an exasperated gaze to the plaster garlands embellishing the ceiling. "More's the pity then. Fear might jiggle some sense into you. Oh, how can you talk so stupidly? The bloodthirsty rogues out there can arrest us merely for being related to counter-revolutionaries."
"Perhaps, but I am not going to sit in here like a milksop wringing my hands. I was meant to come to Paris. Go if you wish, but I am staying."
"But, Lord, child, we cannot remain here with that hateful nephew and now de Villaret scenting blood. Heavens!" A new thought had struck her. "Besides, there is no question of a young girl staying here without a chaperone. Your honour, your virtue, Fleur. You will never find a husband."
"I have found one, remember."
"But a proper one, Fleur, a living one."
"Dead ones are much easier to deal with." Any intimacy was inconceivable. Lovers and husbands asked too many questions. "I do not need a chaperone now I am a widow."
"In name only."
"Aunt, please understand I am not a child any more. If I can survive by my wits in the forest, then I can survive here. If de Villaret orders my arrest, so be it. I must do as much as I can while I can." She gathered up her hat and veil. "Now you will have to forgive me, I wish to be seen as a good revolutionary."
"But w-where are you going now?"
"To the Jacobin Club."
Tante Estelle crossed herself. "How can you flaunt yourself among those criminals," she spluttered. "You young people—Oh, I vow I no longer understand you. You used to be such a biddable child."
"It is like this, aunt. Remember Cecile was terrified of dogs after one of Papa's hounds bit her at Clerville when she was little?"
"And what is that to the point, pray?"
"Maman decided the only way to cure her was to give her a dog of her own." Oh dear, her aunt was still looking at her with pity." Well, aunt," she announced grandly as though it was a declaration of war, "I am going to show the dogs I am not afraid. I might even buy collars for some of them."
"And this de Villaret?"
No, she thought, one had to draw the line between common sense and folly.
"Oh yes, aunt, especially de Villaret!"
* * *
The Jacobin Club met in the old monastery of St James, which consisted mainly of a huge hall that lay at right angles to the Rue de Saint-Honore. A placard directed Fleur round the side to the main entrance, which opened onto a large courtyard containing a tall, healthy Tree of Liberty, encircled by a picket fence. Only a rose window in the end wall and the square turret straddling the steep roof hinted at the building's former use. An immense flag now hung at an angle from a broad wooden placard which proclaimed not only the Society of Jacobins but also its principles in painted capitals. Fleur rattled the great doors but they were locked, then a small door alongside it opened and she was beckoned out of the cold. Two artisans wearing red liberty bonnets stood waiting before a table where their papers were being officiously scrutinised; a brawny sans-culotte, legs astride, appeared to be guarding the doorway to the hall and the stairs to the gallery.
"Where do you think you are going?" he asked Fleur.
"I am just looking while I wait," she retorted, standing on tiptoes to see past his shoulder. The club was obviously in full session, for the hall was packed and warm with people. Oblique columns of April sunlight poured through the high dormer windows into a great chamber smoky with pipe tobacco. Draped down the west wall, between two huge, high windows made up of small square panes, was a painted cloth banner depicting a lifesize virile ploughman standing in the simplicity of a Rousseauist field of impeccably turned furrows. His muscled arm was blissfully flung round his pregnant, adoring wife, and a chubby infant clutched at his brown pantalons, staring towards some idealistic future.
Or was it the painted ploughman admiring the wall-hanging of the half-naked young woman opposite (in a Phrygian hat surmounted by a chicken) which showed where revolutionary aspirations were skittling? Despite the criss-crossing tricolore braid, the mademoiselle's Grecian draperies had been neatly peeled back by the artist's hand to reveal round, perfect breasts. Clearly, this nubile "new France" was not to encourage a state of relaxed déshabillé among the women who seemed to make up a quarter of the audience, but it certainly might distract the male listeners from the speeches.
The sans-culotte doorkeeper, who seemed to be meditating upon the painting's n
aked bosom, dragged his gaze away and stepped back to let the other visitors through.
"You there, sister, where's your membership card and ticket?" rasped the whiskered man behind the table.
Fleur turned, wondering how she might gain a temporary pass. Would she need to lie about her age? But then a chubby brown arm swept round her shoulders; her buxom acquaintance of this morning evidently had been watching for several friends to arrive and had sprung up like a friendly bitch to vouch for her. Within seconds she was inside the hall and the most recent arrivals were shuffling along the hindmost bench to make room for the pair of them.
"Feeling better, darlin'?"
"Much."
A workaday palm was proffered: "Emilie Lemoine."
"Hush!"A man in front of them swung round testily.
"I'm Fleur Bosanquet." They shook hands. "What are they debating, Emilie?"
"Well, we're doing assignats, but shortly we'll be onto education for girls. Have you read Olympe de Gouges's Declaration of the Rights of Woman?"
"No, but I certainly shall if you recommend it. Are we allowed down here?" Fleur could see that all the other females were up in the gallery, but Emilie tapped her own nose and giggled. "Not going to guillotine us, are they? Where's your pluck, Fleur Bosanquet?"
Her pluck was melting fast, but she supposed if she was going to face up to these people she might as well do it with trumpets blaring. The speaker on the rostrum was reaching the height of his argument. Fleur vigorously huzzahed him as he finished, for he proclaimed himself a disciple of the ci-devant encyclopaedist Marquis de Condorçet, who supported the view that women should be able to vote and hold office.
"Who's that?" whispered Fleur. A blotchy-faced fellow, wearing an ermine collar that clashed absurdly with the bandanna which tethered unruly hair darkly against his brow, had taken the stand.
"You don't know Marat! He's club president this week."
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