Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  Well, what was a good Jacobin to do in such a situation? Ask his colleagues for an extra day to say farewell to his new treasure? A fine lead balloon that would have proved.

  So now he was rushing back to his lodgings in a sweat, wondering where Fleur might be and whether he had time to see her. He could hardly expect a sensitive new mistress to be satisfied by a few scrawled lines. For the first time he actually felt like damning the Revolution; initiating his beautiful Fleur further in the field of love had been consuming most of his thoughts all morning.

  "Mon Dieu, man!" he swore, almost colliding with Robinet as the latter materialised on the bottom stair in the hallway. "What in hell are you at?"

  "You have a visitor," muttered the sans-culotte, jabbing the mouth of his pipe towards the ceiling. "I heard someone moving around in your room and I think they are still there. No one has come past."

  "Diable! Not Thérèse!" Of all days! Raoul's model and previous mistress had never returned her key but he hadn't seen her for months. Damn! He needed a staircase scene with Therese like he needed a bullet hole in the head. She had the face of Helen of Troy and the voice of a town crier.

  Robinet shrugged. "I knocked. Thérèse always used to answer the door if it was her. I reckon you've got a thief." The gleeful look that accompanied this conclusion was not at all helpful.

  "Well, I'm not in the mood for fisticuffs," muttered Raoul. "Hell, I've got to leave for Normandy this afternoon. Lend me your cudgel and fetch the national guard, hein? There's a patrol just around the corner."

  Cursing silently, he was careful to tread on the sides of the stairs as he climbed and to avoid the especially creaky ones close to the landing. Tomfoolery! He would be lucky to have time to write to Fleur, let alone kiss her goodbye. Damn it, he wanted to feel her soft, sweet body against him and breathe in the perfume of her hair against his cheek. He could almost smell the fragrance.

  Shaking such thoughts away, he tightened his hold on the cudgel, unlocked his door and pushed it back slowly. It pressed against the laundry pannier behind it. Well, that was reassuring, but the room was dark, the curtains drawn. Surely he had...

  "Bon Christ!" He smelled the ashes before his mind took in the escritoire with its drawers all open and plundered. Foolishly, he took a step towards the window, irritated that he must deal with this intrusion now, and then he heard the door close behind him. Oh God, the scent of honeysuckle was not imaginary. Only a darling sylph like her could have fitted between the pannier and the doorjamb but what...?

  "Fleur?"

  The answer was a bitter laugh.

  "No, I'm not Fleur. You know that. I am the daughter of the Duc de Montbulliou whose death you ordered and witnessed. I am the sister of the Vicomtesse de Nogent whose death you ordered. I am the sister of the émigré, Philippe de Montbulliou, whom you want to send to the guillotine. I intend to go to the guillotine, too, Raoul de Villaret, just as you planned, but unfortunately you won't be alive to see me mount the scaffold because I am going to kill you."

  His back to her, Raoul slowly set down the cudgel. "Would you like more light so you can relish my dying spasms better?" Raising his arms languidly, he slowly pushed one of the curtains back. Inside, he was shaken, ill-prepared. This ugly discovery was too precipitant. He had imagined enlightening her between caresses, easing the dream out into reality when she was languid from his lovemaking. But, now, yes, he could believe her hurt, but how...?

  "Fleur." He made her name a soft sigh of entreaty as he turned, his leisurely calm a mask, and froze, slack-jawed in horror.

  An urchin stepped out to confront him, a pistol in either hand—Raoul's delightful mistress of last night in yet another guise. But now contempt and loathing disfigured her lovely face, and the contempt was for him. Oh, God, thought Raoul, she means it! She really means it.

  With his hands lifted in surrender, he struggled for words to defend himself. "Yes, I guessed who you were, my darling, that evening at the Palais-Royal, but as for the rest, you are mis—" He broke off, his breath painful as he glimpsed the ravaged notebook and the ashes scattering his opened escritoire.

  "I'm not mistaken."

  At Clerville she had been fifteen years old. She had fired at him and missed; this time she was nineteen and her hands were steady.

  "I want you to leave here, my darling," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "The guard are on their way. Robinet has gone to alert them. I didn't-we didn't-know it was you." She didn't respond. "Give me the pistols, my darling." He took a step closer.

  "Stay where you are, you unspeakable monster!"

  "Fleur, please." Oh God, he could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulderblades. "Please, my darling, I swear I will answer any questions where and when you choose but not here. You have to leave here now."

  "Don't you understand, you Antichrist, I don't care whether I die or not."

  "But I do," he said, "I care if you die." He had seen desperation in many forms; linked to courage, it was invincible and deadly, and Fleur had courage.

  He had to give her something to live for but what could he—the revolutionary she despised—offer Françoise-Antoinette de Montbulliou?

  "You can't shoot a dream, Fleur. I'm your thief." He had to disarm her now before they came. He would not be able to protect her from the questions afterwards. "Your thief at Clerville. You shot and missed, remember. And we went through the tunnel." The sound of heavy boots reached him from the street, the soldiers were into the hall, mounting the stairs. "The donkey, you must remember the donkey." A lift of cynical eyebrow in her tense face merely sneered at his pathetic squirming. "Oh Christ, Cupid! For God's sake, shoot me and be damned!"

  Her eyes widened, like a wounded animal's, and then she sagged, arms dropping to her sides, as Robinet burst in.

  The sans-culotte halted, gaping. Behind him, three soldiers primed for violence braked, cramming the doorway.

  "Deputy!" Robinet recovered first. Behind him, uncertain now, the soldiers straightened, saluting.

  "Patriots." Raoul inclined his head in stern courtesy. "As you see, someone has searched my papers. I thought the rascal was still here but if he is, he's hidden himself damnably well."

  "Who's that then?"The officer insinuated himself to the front, his expression like a mastiff bailing up a kill. Raoul sucked in his cheeks. How did one explain a girl dressed as a sans-culotte with cocked pistols in her hands?

  "This... this is my... my new model. I was considering painting her as—"

  "Gallant France," Robinet cut in helpfully.

  "Yes," Raoul agreed, his suavity precarious, "Gallant France."

  Gallant France was gripping his guns. Even if the fanatic despair had vaporised, she could still kill two of them before they overpowered her and he headed her list.

  "Why's she holding them pistols at the ready?" asked the officer suspiciously.

  "To shoot the thief," she answered for herself. Her voice was poisonous honey. "Hadn't you better find him, patriots?"

  "Do put the small arms down, my dear," drawled Raoul, "or at least put the safety catches on. You are making these fine fellows edgy. Patriots, let me introduce you to the famous actress and aviatrix, La Coquette." He watched displeasure tighten her face. The soldiers' stares slid downwards.

  "Enough of that," growled their officer. "We'll search the premises right away, Deputy."

  "Citizens," Raoul murmured, delaying them further, "I value my neighbours' goodwill. No bayonets in the dirty washing, hein. They like their clothes unslashed. If you find the rascal, bring him to me first. I'd like to set eyes on him." He saw them to the door and leaned against the doorjamb, watching them disperse.

  "I'm going downstairs," he announced, trying to reduce the atmosphere in the room to normality. To glance back at the girl might be to destroy the brittle calm. "Wait until the soldiers are gone, Robinet, then take the citizeness back to her house if she'll let you. My pistols can go too. They're glued to her palms. She can keep them for the
time being. And don't ask her questions, Robinet. I'd prefer a quiet funeral but let's not make it a double one. Oh, and you'll need to order a coffin for me. There's been rather a high demand of late."

  As he reached the doorway, he braced himself for her shot.

  Chapter 16

  Gallant France was tense and pale as Robinet, whistling nervously beneath his breath, escorted her back to the Rue des Bonnes Soeurs. The pistols were in her belt, and her sullen silence had forestalled any advice on his part, but by the time they halted outside Blanchette's stable, he could not resist any longer.

  "I wouldn't shoot the deputy if I were you," he cautioned her. "If it's a crime of passion, kiss and make up. There are plenty of worse culs than him. He'll make it up to you when he gets back from Caen."

  "Caen!"

  "Yes, leaving this afternoon. What have I—?" Appalled to see she had one of the pistols out and cocked in a flash, Robinet's jaw sagged.

  "Go home!" Fleur's voice was a low growl of warning.

  "I know he said you could hang onto 'em but they're not toys, you kn—"

  "Robinet, the way I feel at this moment, I am quite capable of putting a shot through anyone and you're the easiest target. Go!"

  Fleur let herself into the stable and pushed home the bolt. Wrapping her arms around her donkey's neck, she wept silently against the dark cross. Blanchette nuzzled her, hoping she would fill up the corner manger; one of them had to have some thought for the future and a full stomach. Fleur shook the donkey's feed out for her and then sank down onto the straw in a miserable knot of arms and elbows.

  Now that revenge had clawed its way into her mind, it squatted there filling every cranny like a malodorous evil crushing all reason.

  Shame and misery flayed her, but above all, guilt. When the news of Papa and Marguerite's deaths had reached her in the forest, she had been young and resilient, preoccupied with the urgent need to keep herself and her aunt from starving. The royalist agent who had managed to flee to Caen with the intelligence had been uncertain of his facts, and the terror in faraway Paris had seemed unreal. Fleur's family had been among hundreds of victims and it had felt almost like a natural tragedy, as though they had been caught in a flood, distant, inevitable and unavoidable. Nor, happy in the enclosed world of the Trinite School, had she ever truly mourned Henriette, a sister she had not seen for years.

  But now all her half-sisters were dead. And she was dishonoured by her lack of feeling. Doubly so, since she had even lacked the courage to kill Papa and Marguerite's murderer. Fleur drew out de Villaret's flintlock and ran her fingers over the brass barrel. Why had he stalked her family like an angel of death? Was it some insult by her father in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles? Kisses refused by a teasing Marguerite while the Queen watched? How very small of him! And to think she had believed there was an honourable man within this murderer, that she could forgive him anything for love.

  Love! God forgive her, she had fallen like some easy dove brought down by the talons of this hawk. Two-faced bastard! And to be going off to Caen today without even telling her!

  Thief! Never! How could de Villaret be her thief? Thomas must have foolishly told the story but... Ah, bon Dieu, what if he was? Thief? No, murderer! And her dreams were now in shards.

  The bell of the Eglise Saint-Roch shook her back to practicalities. Quickly she changed into her black skirt and clawed her fingers through her hair, trying to think straight. She must speak with Philippe but not yet, for she was hurting so much inside. She just could not face him with her wounds so raw.

  "Patronne?"

  Thomas was back. Fleur held her breath, hugging the pistol against her heart. Go away, Thomas! Leave me alone! I despise humanity, I loathe myself and the only dignity I have left would be to pull this small piece of metal back and make an end to it all.

  His footsteps disappeared inside the house but a few minutes later he was back and the latch rattled."Are you in there, patronne? I've just seen Emilie. She's been at the celebrations for Marat. I thought you'd have been there. Are you all r—"

  "I don't give a damn about wretched Marat!" Fleur pushed back the bolt and flung open the door.

  Her massive friend sucked in his cheeks as he set eyes on her and then leant forward and plucked a straw from her skirt. She must look as though she'd escaped some filthy madhouse; wood-curls and hay clung to her bustle and dusted her hem. "Marat!" she spat out. "Marat will end up smelling of roses whatever happens." Realising her hasty words, she clapped a èhand to her mouth.

  "Not a good joke, patronne," chuckled Thomas, glancing back over his shoulder in case anyone had heard. "Nor a good day by the look of you." He swept a huge arm about her shoulders. "What's it to be? A dose of laudanum and a good lie-down or some cutlets and a vin extraordinaire?"

  "Oh, Thomas."The comforting aromas of the Chat Rouge that clung to him filled her breathing as they entered the house together. Her heart ached but she was still alive.

  * * *

  At the Messagèries Nationale, Raoul eyed the hired two-wheel cabriolet with irritation. Was this mission so urgent they couldn't find him a better vehicle? And the weather had turned foul. Cursing inwardly, he slung his bag to the porter and took shelter out of the rain beneath a gateway. Unslinging his writing compendium, he leant it upon his knee and flicked open the inkwell.

  "Citizen, the post-chaise is ready to leave," insisted the driver, coming up behind him.

  "Moment," murmured Raoul, swinging round. The man gaped at the tricolore sash, which had been hidden by Raoul's coat, and snapped to attention.

  "Deputy." He touched his forehead in salute.

  "Is there something else?" Raoul waited pointedly for the fellow to give him some privacy.

  "No, Deputy. Of course, Deputy. My apologies." He retreated, red-cheeked, to explain the delay to the other government passenger.

  Raoul closed his eyes for an instant, trying to clear his thoughts. He not only ached to hold Fleur in his arms and make her listen but he wanted her trust more than anything in the whole world. And to have to leave Paris when... Oh God, how could he make matters right? Another man might have let the coach leave without him, but the Revolution was more important than his personal business. Still...

  A haughty voice yelled out, "Infernal nuisance! How long are you going to keep us waiting?"

  "Yes, indeed," exclaimed a woman. "You tell him."

  Raoul jerked his head round towards the coach with an icy smile. "Convention business, citizen," he replied malevolently. The heavily jowled official took one look at his uniform and instantly hushed. Several of the nearby passengers who were waiting for public conveyances watched him as though he were a beast escaped from a circus intent on mauling them, but somewhere in the yard Raoul sensed some other observer and it bothered him. There was no face he recognised and yet the feeling would not leave him.

  He made two attempts at his message to Fleur—pride would not let him be abject—rejected both and stuffed the crushed papers in his pocket before he scrawled one line, folded the sheet and summoned an errand boy to take it.

  Then with a last uneasy glance about him, as though he were seeing Paris for the last time, he sprang up the steps of the carriage.

  * * *

  The bells of Saint-Eustache, which stood at the north-west corner of the Halles market, were striking three as Fleur repeated:

  "My Great-Aunt Sophie has the measles. I wish to buy some special fruit for her."

  Zut! she fumed, meeting the old stall-keeper's blank expression. She was sure she had come to the right stall... "My Great-Aunt—"

  "It's all right, madame." The mouth cracked open in a gap-toothed grin. "I think my friend up the street has just the thing, but first I need to make sure."

  In her present mood, Fleur was not amused at his teasing. "Then tell your friend I need to buy some fruit urgently." The stallholder shrugged, and waited until his apprentice had finished serving another customer before he whispered his instructions and
sent the boy off. With a leer, he offered Fleur a carrot. She took it with a sigh, wondering whether it was some kind of prearranged signal, and was still munching it when her brother loomed up, a leather apron around his thighs and a lumpy sack of beans over his shoulder.

  "You'd better have something important to tell me," he muttered, swinging his burden to the ground and unstringing the opening for her inspection. "Ciel! Don't blurt it out here, you foolish chit!"

  "I wasn't going to," hissed Fleur, leaning down to examine the produce."If you don't want to know—"

  His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her arm. "Behind you is a cabbage stall, and behind that a laneway. I want you to walk down it and stop at the second cart waiting there. Don't look round!" He hoisted the sack. "Go on!" he mouthed, and strode away.

  Fleur obeyed his instructions, puzzled that Philippe did not follow her up the alley.

  "Can I help you, citizeness?"The shaggy-haired carter lolling on the driver's board of the second cart took a pipe from his mouth.

  "I don't suppose you'd be interested to know that my Great-Aunt Sophie has the measles?" Fleur asked wearily.

  "Double doors up on the right, citizeness."

  Entering, she found herself alone in a small warehouse and surrounded by innocent crates of potatoes, a bland, exotic vegetable, still not very popular in Paris. This was not a company she or Thomas had dealt with and the café owner in her surfaced; she stooped over one of the boxes and burrowed her arm in, curious to see if the quality vegetables were merely on the surface, and froze. Her fingers had encountered metal. They were smuggling arms.