The deputy made no answer, his mouth tightening as he looked once more below. No doubt wishing to comfort her, he pointed. "That is where half our audience came from. The last refuge of the homeless and destitute."
A higgledy-piggledy, unpleasant tumble of boxes and canvas untidying the edge of the woods. Catching sight of the balloon, several women rose shrieking from beside their cooking fire. De Villaret waved to them in friendly fashion but one terrified pregnant woman fell to her knees and crossed herself.
"Try a blessing instead, citizen," chortled the pilot."Pitiful cow! Probably thinks you are the Second Coming." A crippled beggar crawled out and brandished his crutch skywards as though they carried a godlike responsibility for his impediment. Then a few barefooted children futilely gave chase; the balloon's shadow was moving faster.
"I hope that poor creature does not give birth before her time," whispered Fleur, her own spirits seesawing between euphoria and terror. If God existed, they would soon find out. "Was... was Citizen Boissy expecting to make the ascent?" She was trying not to scan the green and red seams above her for weakness. Better to force herself to admire the scatter of clouds and identify the snowy owner of each shadow dappling the fields. The balloon was floating far, far too high.
"Poor Boissy," said the man beside her. "He was hoping to impress the Academy of Science."
A whistle from the pilot made them turn to stare to where his grimy fingernail pointed. Beneath a purple-brown haze, the city of Paris stretched across the western horizon from the northern grassy hill Fleur guessed to be Montmartre, south across the clutter of roofs to the neat rectangular baroque palaces of the north bank. The Cathedral of Notre Dame and the silver-grey pepper-pot turrets of the ancient palace of the Valois kings rose from the island heart of the city. To the south of the river she identified the glinting domes of Les Invalides, the veteran soldiers' home, and the Pantheon, where the famous philosophers, Voltaire and Rousseau, were interred.
"The gloire de France!" de Villaret murmured, his face alight. "I swear I will die rather than see Austrian and Prussian flags over our city, eh, Robinet?"
The sans-culotte rubbed a hand across his rough cheeks. "Well, I do not give a toss if I do not see tomorrow's sunrise, citizen. I would not have missed this for anything."
"Nor I," echoed Fleur.
"I am very glad, Citizeness Bosanquet," murmured the revolutionary beside her, "for I think it is time for confession, don't you?"
Chapter 11
Feeling like Faustus with a few last moments to fathom Helen of Troy, Raoul stood before the unsuspecting La Coquette, his white sleeves flaring, his hair pirate wild. His hand itched for his sketchbook, and the bit of his brain that had any sense left was praying that they would not end the day tangled in a tree or spiked like paper billets on the desk of God.
The young widow was not praying. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement; the morning burnished her hair, and her eyes were wild and bright. A magnificent way to die?
"Confession?" she flung back courageously."Have we the time? It could take hours."
He could have pressed her on Bosanquet's murder, instead he dragged the crumpled paper from the pocket of his breeches. This meddling actress did not realise what her mischief had cost. The broadsheet hacks would label this enterprise a frivolity and accuse Boissy of wasting money that could have been donated to the state coffers.
"This was to be a quiet launch," he informed her coldly.
Citizeness Bosanquet tugged the wrinkled paper balloon into visibility. "While you seduced La Coquette? Sacre bleu! Citizen, we are thousands of feet up and you still want to play the inquisitor!" She looked as fierce as an Amazon; a pity she was not dressed for the part as well.
"We are going to be flying across the Seine if either of you could be bothered looking," threw in Robinet.
"Was this done with malice, citizeness, or just for notoriety?" Raoul hit the paper with the back of his hand."Come now, admit it. The boys were paid to cause a diversion while some hireling released the balloon."
She swallowed and found a scathing answer: "Eggs à la ballon for the masses? We only have a small kitchen at the Chat Rouge, citizen. One has to be practical."
He was close to shaking her. "Citizeness, I have no doubt we shall all be omelettes shortly. Will it hurt to tell the truth?" Somehow honesty between them mattered, but she turned from him, cradling her shoulders and glancing up uneasily at the coloured globe above her.
"Is the truth important any longer, Deputy de Villaret? It seems to be getting colder by the instant. Are we going to freeze, do you think?"
Had she been merely a widow, he would have observed the proprieties, but she was also an actress, and Raoul was an opportunist—a swiftly cooling opportunist. Wrapping his arms about her from behind to warm himself was infinitely tempting but the back of the girl's skirt was fashionably padded with a bustle.
"You are right." He drew her from her corner. "Stand behind me," he insisted and, finding her wrists, dragged them about his waist. The citizeness shivered, but she lay her cheek against his shoulder, and he gradually felt her resistance give way and her soft breasts press against his ribs. Had they been alone, he would have eased her into his arms and tasted her; making love to her in a balloon might indeed be a magnificent way to die.
"You must be cold, citizen," she taunted him through gritted teeth, her warm breath moistening his shirt. "And during an interrogation too!" The broadsheet fidgeted angrily in her fingers, annoying the tiered ruffles of his shirt.
Devil take her! "If demanding a reasonable explanation—" he began.
"Reasonable!" Before he could stop her, the annoying chit began to rip the paper and would have flung it over the side had he not seized it. "I wish I had brought my late husband's encyclopaedia along this morning," she exclaimed, struggling delightfully to free her wrists, "so I might find sufficient words to describe your unspeakable behaviour. Let me go! I am not a human warming pan!"
"Take his republican arse before a tribunal, citizeness," jeered Robinet."Besides, he's only bellyaching because he owns half this bloody thing."
"Unfortunately for you, citizeness," declared Raoul, releasing her with punctilious politeness as though it were an act of mercy, "I make it my business to recognise the peculiarities of our printing presses. It's a useful pastime." He was facing her now, brandishing the broadsheet. "Your nephew Quettehou printed this." His gaze did not leave her face, as his fingers crushed the paper theatrically and dismissed it to the floor of the gondola. "Pass the knife, Robinet!"
His antagonist gasped as though he had already drawn blood. "W-what are you going to do?" she demanded, recoiling, her eyes wide.
Raoul revelled in her discomfort. She might be an excellent actress, possibly a murderess and a pretty liar, but the wicker was against her back now. Cornered, well and truly!
"Do? Lighten the load, of course," he retorted witheringly, then turned away to lean over the leathered rail and saw loose the sandbags on their side.
The first hurtled to the river with a frightening celerity. Fishermen boating in the shallows grabbed their oars, two ducks went airborne and a gaggle of washerwomen took to their heels squawking. Frowning, Raoul cut the second bag free. Significantly, the balloon did not rise further. Words were unnecessary as he grimly passed back the blade to its owner.
Robinet severed the bags on his side of their small wicker republic and then, with his back turned, relieved himself over the side."Lightening the load," he explained, rebuttoning his trousers flap.
Raoul folded his arms, trying not to shiver. Was this what it felt like to stand in shirtsleeves on a tumbril in the frosty air waiting for death? Did the girl realise how close they were to it? Aloud, he said, "Well, citizeness, I believe it's your cue."
"I told Quettehou about the balloon launch, yes." The girl's aqua eyes were angry slashes of fury. "But two rogues in the crowd tried to kill me this morning and... and... I do not know what it all means." The sigh wa
s excellent, the sudden change of mood impressive. Her despairing gaze slid over the innards of the balloon as though she expected to see the outside air thrust through it like a fist. Then she looked once more at Raoul and rallied—a peroration delivered through clenched teeth. "I do not care whether you think me a gold-raking murderess or not. I will see you in hell, de Villaret!"
"Bravo!" muttered Robinet as she bestowed a furious back on them. "Is this the interval? If I had known I was to have entertainment as well, I'd have done this for free. Better tell her you know she is La Coquette and we'll be into act two."
The actress's eyes became gems of aquamarine. Only the blush of rose stealing back into her pale countenance betrayed her.
"Are you?" Raoul asked.
"In mourning?" She drew a mocking hand down between her breasts. It seemed unintentionally seductive.
"But out of mourning?" he drawled and watched her moist lips part. Oh, there should have been champagne and wine, a slow, lazy luncheon. "You may not realise that balloons," he continued, choosing new weapons, and glancing down at the earth before he satiated his appetite on the gorgeous-lashed eyes warily watching him, "balloons such as this were invented for a brief assault on the enemy defences," and he straightened, allowing his gaze to saunter slowly up over the closely buttoned black jacket to linger on her lips, "sufficient only to get a man over the battlements."
"The wind's changing," muttered Robinet, launching spit over the side for emphasis and watching how the air moved it.
"I do not want a liaison with you." The insistence was gently done; like Raoul, she was conscious of the sans-culotte listening beyond his shoulder. "It would be supping with the Devil and I do not have a long spoon."
"That is a pity. You may live to regret it." Raoul's smile was bittersweet. She might think the rapiers were set back on the wall but... He checked upwards and caught his breath. The green and red stripes were rippling dangerously. Time for a peace treaty if there was a heaven. He swallowed and told her, "You have my apology, for what it is worth, citizeness." Behind her, Robinet, pale as ashes, crossed himself. Towards the west across the sling of the Seine, the forest flanking the Chateau of Saint-Germain waited like a stack of bayonets.
"Thank you at least for the experience. I do think that this," the citizeness gestured nobly to a field of sheep below them, "is wonderful."
"The sheep?" Raoul asked dryly. The fields were getting larger by the second. Oh God! There might be squashed mutton for dinner.
"No," the citizeness spluttered, tears and rash laughter battling within her as she realised what was happening, "...d-don't think me ungrateful, to be c-courted in a balloon. Oh Christ." She crossed herself, gripping the rail with her free hand.
"Get down!" he shouted, shoving her to her knees. "Brace yourself! And you, man, get down!"
"Merde!" Robinet grabbed the slackening ropes.
Raoul's stomach was trying to change places with his heart. He crouched, jamming his soles against the outside frame, cradling the girl's head against his chest. The feel of her hair soft beneath his fingers might be the last sensa—
The gondola hit the field with a violent jolt and spewed out the humans like used flowers shaken from a brisk housewife's vase.
* * *
De Villaret took the impact against his shoulder with the other two stacked pancake-like upon him. For an instant Fleur thought she had squashed the life out of one revolutionary at least for he lay so still beneath her, and then when Robinet rolled off her back and the load upon the deputy's chest lessened, the maddeningly golden-brown eyes opened. The exuberant grin told her nothing was broken; his concern was for her.
"Are you unharmed, citizeness?" he asked as she unpeeled herself rapidly from his arms.
Yes, she was. A silly black hat tipped over one eye, the Duc de Montbulliou's surviving daughter was on her hands and knees in the mire, and close to mirthful hysterics.
Like de Villaret, she became aware of moist large brown eyes, generously lashed, and a lugubrious muzzle from which a bunch of half-chewed grass suspended motionless. The large physiognomy was swiftly joined by other astonished faces, slightly whiskered, as a herd of milk cows gathered to see the greatest event since the arrival of the summer bull. It was not so different from the Bois de Boulogne.
He swivelled his head with difficulty and groaned at what filled his narrow view. "Cow pats!"
"Oh Lord!" exclaimed Fleur, weeping with laughter at the steaming dung inches from her muddy hands."Some things don't change."
* * *
Raoul took charge. It was natural to him, an old habit not easily broken despite the infant democracy enveloping him. The bespattered little widow accepted his hand. Tugged upright, she swore beneath her breath and then permitted him to assist her out of the mud. At least she was not screaming at him. Furrows of cocoa-coloured mud sucked at Raoul's bootsoles as he, enjoying the curl of smaller fingers in his, conducted her across to the grass. He could have accused the girl of being gleeful but she now had her lips tightly pleated. It seemed they had landed near a gate, which flanked a water trough. It explained the milking shed on the horizon; it also explained the excessive mire. A fly caught in a doughball would have been sympathetic. The soft mud had saved their lives.
"Well, Citizen Gensonné won't find us." Robinet squelched ashore, hiding something behind his back. The lady untangled her fingers.
"I'll hire a cart from the farm," Raoul announced, though he did not feel too certain.
"Your poor balloon." The chit's amusement was scarcely masked as they gazed upon the mess of rigging. The cows were still standing around it in fascination.
"Your poor balloon," echoed Robinet, sniggering at the mud neatly caking Raoul's back from hair to heel. "Mon Dieu, citizen, you look like a half-dipped chocolate bonbon. A marvel this survived." He held out the champagne as a peace offering.
Raoul crouched and rubbed the bottle clean on the grass. "It is de rigeur," he explained exuberantly to the mud-splashed citizeness. "Standard equipment. You offer it to irate farmers, and if they are not appeased, you use it to fight your way out of a difficult situation."
"But it wasn't a free flight," she pointed out.
"Ah." His smile might have charmed Marie-Antoinette into feeling secure.
"Nothing is free these days, citizeness," snickered Robinet. "You'll be paying later."
And what did that mean? Fleur's good humour at being alive plummeted. The deputy gave her a slow, roguish stare as he dragged the edge of his boot along the long grass. It was as if she had been bargained for and the paperwork finalised. But if her mind rapped out a frantic call to arms, the rest of her was trying not to listen. He was so deliciously debonair about the whole business. At least the front half of him was.
"So shall I stay with madame here, or don't you trust me?" Robinet was asking.
De Villaret's wicked gaze released her. "No, damn your eyes," the deputy answered, "but I'll go nevertheless. See if your parasol has survived, citizeness, and hit him if he tries anything."
Fleur managed to breathe again. "Will you?" she asked Robinet mischievously.
"Yes, given encouragement, ma fille."
"Try packing this up first," drawled de Villaret, and then, with a mocking salute, he climbed the gate and set off whistling up a milking track towards the sprawl of buildings untidying the fields. Halfway across the meadow, she saw him check his step for an instant and lift a hand to favour his shoulder.
"He's hurting. Why did he not just unlatch the gate?"
"Likes to do things differently. Don't you?"
* * *
Like playing tribunals in balloons, thought Fleur, licking her fingers clean of honey an hour later. The airborne champagne, couriered by a deputy of the Convention, had certainly opened helpful doors and cupboards. The local peasant farmer and his vast tricoteuse of a wife would be able to boast about this for the next twelve months, and in return for providing such an extraordinary spectacle, the aviators had been
rewarded with a patriotic meal washed down by frequent cidery toasts to increasingly blurred republican ideals.
When the men finally staggered off singing across the fields to salvage the remnants of the balloon, Fleur leaned against the outside wall of the farmhouse and tried to tilt her lurching mind in a sensible direction. Misguided or otherwise, she reached the conclusion that she should return to Paris unobtrusively without de Villaret, so she set off east down a cart track that had looked drier, shorter and less meandering from several hundred feet up. Had she been less inebriated, she might have remembered she was not in breeches and jacket, nor armed with a knife and pistol, or that acquiring conveyance into the city once she reached the road from Dreux might cost more than her pocket or virtue could permit. The air was still and warm enough to make her wintery skirts a confounded nuisance, and the puddled, furrowed ground moved unsteadily beneath her feet, due to the balloon, the cider or perhaps both. All in all, she found the trudge exhausting and was neither surprised nor disappointed when a peasant cart drawn by two oxen eventually overtook her.
"What the Devil are you doing?" yelled de Villaret, springing from the driver's board.
"Exercising..." Fleur beamed in happy rebellion, squaring up to him. "Ex-exercising my rights as a citizen of the R-republic, D-deputy," and she saluted.
The man was utterly sober. "Well, I regret to inform you that women, particularly foxed ones, have not yet been granted any rights." His scowling, taunting face deserved at least a verbal swipe but before Fleur could think of a perfect retort, he swooped. She landed unceremoniously on the plank seat like a sack of flour dropped from a derrick. "Drive on!" he ordered imperiously. "And you, citizeness," he added, climbing back on board with a grimace, "are worse than all the plagues of Egypt. We were scouring the fields for you."
"Some of us were," yawned Robinet from behind. He was sprawled upon the sad remains of the balloon ropes, eyes shut.
"I am not foxed." Fleur primly straightened her shoulders, swishing her skirts free of contamination from male thighs. "Deluded, p-possibly, but not f-foxed. I have never been f-foxed in my entire life."
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