He adroitly caught the bucket before it fell.
* * *
He did not come to release her in the morning. One of the gaolers did that, slapping her on the derriere and telling her she was a lucky girl. She arrived home, rumpled and furious, to a message from Citizen de Villaret informing her that he was escorting her to the Comédie Française that evening. She sent a message back saying she was indisposed. The reply that came back was brief:"I doubt it."
Her fleabites could not be erased with water or with soap. Not that she had any soap—Paris had run out. With shiny, damp curls and a change of clothes, she marched off to the Chat Rouge only to be confronted with a couple of section officials out for pickings. Ha, so these carrion thought her wounded and vulnerable, did they? She disarmed them of their cudgels by the café door, and although she sweetened them with chocolate and a flirtatious mix of smiles, billiards and careful name-dropping, it was at least an hour before they bumbled off, leaving her free to head for Saint-Pelagie.
The gaoler led Fleur to an unlocked cell. The silence as he opened the door chilled her. The interior, clean and sparse, was bathed in sunlight, very different from the gloomy hole in which she had spent the night, but no brazen cheeriness warmed the air. Poor Emilie lay stiff upon the mattress for all the world like an alabaster monument except for the hideous contusions disfiguring her face. For an instant Fleur assumed the worst and then she saw the rise and fall beneath the coverlet. Untouched, a bowl of potage with vermicelli was solidifying beside the palliasse.
"Ain't stirred all night. Unnatural, ain't it?" Emilie's mother, Mme Lemoine, rose respectfully from her stool, the faded blonde hair and tired face an older echo of her child.
"You've made this homely," murmured Fleur after she had given the older woman a sympathetic embrace. She heaved her basket onto the table and emptied out two soft-rind cheeses, a platter of fruit and some perry liqueur. "Emilie will feel much loved when she awakes." It certainly did not seem like a prison. Fresh dressings lay beside a small vase of honeysuckle, which cascaded onto a bright red cotton tablecloth.
"Me do this, madame? God love you, no, not me. My poor head was running too wild to think of such things. It was the gentleman who sent all this."
"Gensonné?" Fleur spoke without thinking.
"Oh, not him. Some chance!" The woman spat dismissively. "No, the Jacobin deputy what's interested in education. Dark hair. Voice to make your insides melt. Seen you talking to him. Arranged all this, he did. Even sent a physician to 'ave a look at 'er. Good, ain't it, but—" She glanced round at her poor girl's battered face, her mouth a trembling arc.
* * *
Sad and chastened, Fleur returned to Rue des Bonnes Soeurs. Were there no rainbows in this wretched city? Oh Paris, Paris, what have you done to yourself? Emilie, with her sans-culotte dreams and plucky hope, had personified the goodness in the people, but now... A curse on Marat and his gutter rabble! And Raoul de Villaret! What use was honeysuckle when Emilie could not smell the flowers or even know they existed? Guilt had prompted the kindness. Kindness, yes, but too late, too late! The Convention should have protected them against those awful women.
Inside her door, she unfolded the strange letter that lay waiting upon the brass tray.
Hoarder! Filthy Harlot! Leave Paris before we hang you!
Each crude pasted word screamed at her as though a rabid beggar stood before her shaking his fist.
"Oh dear Lord," she whispered, reeling back against the wall.
"Patronne, is that you?" Thomas emerged from below stairs and, finding her in tears, took the paper from her fingers and read it.
"Come, ma petite. Envy, that's all it is." He tossed the paper onto the kitchen fire and poured her a brandy. "So, how's Emilie? Cursing like a sergeant, knowing her."
"No," Fleur whispered, pleating her lips, trying not to cry. "She won't wake up. Madame Lemoine says the physician holds no hope for her. He believes that if she does come to her senses she'll have no more brain than a cabbage. Oh, Thomas, it's not fair."
His huge arms enclosed her. Her nose encountered a jacket full of pantry smells."Things will settle down, patronne."
Eventually Fleur pulled away and sat down, mopping her tears. Scrunching her handkerchief into a soggy ball, she hid it in her fist and said resolutely, "I've decided I am going to sell the Chat Rouge." She watched the chef's shiny jowls quiver in appalled disbelief. "I'm going to send for Monsieur Mansart this afternoon."
"You have a buyer?"A huffy tone veneered the deep hurt she sensed beneath.
"I believe so." She reached across the table and patted his huge hand. "You! You may have it for... for a day's wages."
"Sacre bleu!" The blood washed from his healthy complexion. "But why?"
"Quettehou's going to try to bring me down somehow. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm sure that letter is his doing. He's just waiting for the right moment. But if you own the café, he won't find it easy to take possession. So if he tries to bribe someone to give false evidence that I murdered Monsieur Bosanquet and if I've already sold the café to you for a mere clip-clop, it gets rid of any motive I might have had for murder."
"Unless the bastard accuses me of being an accomplice, patronne. Have you thought of that?"
"But how could you be? You were selling sausages in Bayeux."
Thomas stuffed tobacco into his pipe while he digested the matter."It's not a bad idea, Fleur, but pulling a pistol on the filthy scoundrel in a dark alley might be better." His moustache wriggled. "Or I could brain him with a saucepan next time he comes sniffing around the café."
Fleur grinned. "Well, it might make him see sense at last. I've explained to him that you are the café, that it's your genius with the food, not four walls and a roof that makes the Chat Rouge profitable, but the man's too greedy to think straight."
"Tiens, it's not just the food, patronne. I've seen our clients watching you when you go from table to table asking if everything's to their liking. You banter with them and do it so prettily."
"Oh, I shall still do that, I promise you, but my mind's made up. We'll have the paperwork shipshape this afternoon before opening time. Promise me you'll agree."
"It makes sense," he said, striking a flint to the tobacco, "for now, that is. Alors, we'll work out an arrangement. As far as I'm concerned, you're still the owner."
"Thank you, Thomas." Fleur watched the smoke rise cheerily from the barrel of the pipe.
"Why don't you ask Monsieur de Villaret to deal with Quettehou?"
Fleur shook her head. The thought had crossed her mind but Quettehou was far too much in Marat's company for her liking. She was sure Raoul was quite capable of guarding his back, but Marat was the virtual ruler of Paris now. Besides she wasn't on speaking terms with a certain revolutionary.
"About time you brought the Jacobin up to scratch, patronne, if you'll forgive me saying so. You can't go wrong with old-fashioned respectability. Keep him out of the boudoir till he goes down on his knees and swears to make an honest woman of you."
"Oh yes, and they are going to put Marie-Antoinette back in Versailles," she flared. "Believe me, Thomas, he merely amuses himself. The Jacobin with his little captive mouse. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"He arranged everything for Emilie's care, did you know that? Asked me to send over some supper for her."
"To be sure the deputy's a hero. I've written to the Pope to canonise him. Oh, it's no use, Thomas, don't you see? He'll be risking everything by giving me his protection. If Marat finds out I'm a Montbulliou... Thomas?"
He had taken her forearms. "Listen, patronne, there's today and there's tomorrow. I know what I'd choose."
* * *
She both dreaded and longed for Raoul's knock on the front door and when it came, she listened behind her boudoir door. He did not disappoint her.
"Not see me! We'll see about that." She heard his feet on the stairs. The door handle turned.
"Please leave!" she
shouted. "I-I don't want to see you again, you overbearing republican b-bully."
There was an outraged oath from beyond the door and some deliberation on the landing. It seemed that M. Beugneux had become involved.
"Are you standing next to the door?" Raoul asked a few moments later.
"No, I am not that desperate. Go away!"
She did not expect the blast of fire as the lock exploded. Her boudoir door shuddered at a further blow and Raoul stepped in across the debris with a smile, his high-crowned hat tilted at a rakish angle and a huge box beneath his arm. He halted, not taking his eyes off her. Had she been more certain of her emotions, Fleur would have basked in his unconcealed appreciation.
"It was easier to borrow a pistol rather than a ladder," he drawled.
The calculating scoundrel! "Th-that was extremely theatrical and absurd of you, citizen," she exclaimed, swiftly recovered from her astonishment. "Look at my door! You will be receiving a bill for the repairs. I'll send it to the Palais de Justice marked 'Urgent'. But you can leave NOW!"
Having made such an entrance, her fearless Jacobin nonchalantly tossed the pistol onto the bed, and then spoilt the effect by shifting an uneasy glance from the bed cushions to the armchair before his gaze returned to her and he let out his breath in relief.
The self-deprecating twist of lips alone almost felled her. She would have been a fool not to appreciate the raven hair, the proud, recently shaven jaw above the crisp snowy stock, the finely tailored coat and breeches. Oh bon Dieu! He had clearly taken trouble to please her. The man's eyes were a devilish, sensual mirror of the desire Fleur felt just looking at him. The wonderful, slowly tightening arousal. Masculine revenge was clearly planned, a slow, tantalising siege.
"No pythons?"
Fleur drew a deep breath and tried to stay sane. He had made a brilliant entrance but she was not going to turn to liquid honey. Well, at least she was not going to let him see that she had turned to—Oh, zut, of all the men in France, why did she have to pick a Jacobin to fall in love with.
Raoul watched with satisfaction. Fleur's lovely eyes had gone quite dusky. Ah, so the little minx was putting him through his paces, was she? And then she blinked at him so wide-eyed and astonished that he was hard put not to kiss sense into her there and then.
"I'm alone, yes, citizen," she exclaimed, "and I think for both our sakes it should stay that way. The front door does open. You won't have to shoot it on the way out!"
Merde! He had been stupid in trying to appeal to the actress in her. And damnably impractical! When they made love later, it would have to be in his bed, not here with a door that no longer did its duty. Her words dawned on him. She was seriously giving him dismissal. He could walk out of her life with a shining conscience, except that he couldn't. Out of all the women he had ever met, Fleur stirred him in every way possible.
For an instant Raoul de Villaret looked utterly contrite. His eyes examined her compassionately. "I'm sorry, are you truly indisposed?" he began. "If you would rather stay at home..." The kindness almost severed Fleur's resolve.
"Raoul, please, please go. We never should have begun this."
"I see." Raoul clenched his jaw.
"I hope you understand. In a different world..."
"In a different world!" he echoed disbelieving. "The duke's daughter and the renegade. This is the only world, but if you haven't the courage..."
"...and you haven't the commitment..."
Raoul stared at her, perplexed. Every yearning inch of her was telling him she wanted his arms about her. What was he supposed to say? He glanced down regretfully at the immense cardboard package still beneath his arm, and reached out behind him for the doorhandle before he remembered it wasn't there any more."My apologies. I will send someone to repair the door." It was hard to believe he'd done that. He toed one of the splinters with his boot cap and had the grace to look rueful. "I hope you find someone who will adore you as you deserve, Fleur-de-Lis. Adieu."
His wonderful voice was forgiving, gentle and it almost broke Fleur's heart. "W-wait..." she exclaimed as she watched him swing round to leave."D-did your friend Gensonné get away?"
"Yes, finally," he answered, and perhaps it was regret that lent his voice a bitter edge. "Philosophy is the national malady, citizeness. We're going to inoculate against it one day like smallpox. Armand will need it more than anyone."
Fleur bit her lip and nodded, supposing that the strands of friendship, between the two men had almost been strained to breaking point.
"And Citizeness Lemoine has not recovered, has she?"
"No."
He barely heard her answer. Her aqua eyes were awash with despair. Damn it, why was she still staring so helplessly at him as though this decision was being forced upon her.
"Perhaps," he cleared his voice, "perhaps you should keep this." Striding to her bed, he dropped the large box in among the cushions. He should go. Instead, he straightened. "Give me this evening and I won't ask for more." Had he said that? "We could talk, just talk."With spread fingertips, he tapped the box."This was for you, by the way, to wear tonight. I wanted you to... Well, you might want to keep it... You can see if you..." Palms raised, he gestured as if the words he needed, but couldn't say, might become airborne of their own volition. Then he stooped to pull the string undone and, setting back the lid, forced her to listen to the tantalising rustle of tissue and taffeta.
Subjected to such exquisite torture, Fleur kept out of touching distance, but she watched-how could she not?—as his artist's hands arranged the shot-silk evening jacket, spreading the bodice across the coverlet. Then, with a stolen glance at her tormented face, he shook out the skirt. Instead of brandishing it like an arrogant toreador, he let the shimmering satin run through his fingers with reverence as though a saint had worn it. It was costly and unquestionably seductive.
"I won't be bought, Raoul."
His head jerked round at that. "How can I buy you?" Each wrenched-out syllable reproached her. "I who am prepared to die for liberty."
Gathering the beautiful fabric between his palms, he came towards her and draped the skirt sensuously over her shoulder as though it were a Grecian stole. "Keep it."And keep me, his golden-brown eyes warned her. For an unshielded instant, she glimpsed the ambition in his soul at war with an emotion far more powerful.
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
And the universe tilted. She foresaw the loneliness rusting the years ahead, with herself a hollow husk of a human aching for what might have been.
"Your terms," his light, splendid voice was saying, while his expression, vibrant, alive and yearning, mesmerised her. "Come with me tonight, my darling. We'll have a hundred chaperones. You may chain my wrists behind my back, blind me, gag me. I'll be as innocent as Adam before the Fall, as celibate as Saint Cecilia, as silent as—"
Her fingers touched his lips. Laughter flowered between them.
"You're being ridiculous," she told him gently, trailing a finger across his mouth.
"I know." He tilted his head at the splintered door, and then looked down at her with his heart in his eyes. "Oh, my dearest Fleur, I just want you to be happy." He framed her face within his hands, not touching but so close she could feel the warmth from his skin.
If she would not give in, Raoul decided, he would kiss her into surrender but outwardly he maintained a descant eloquence. I won't kiss you, he told her with his gaze. I'll worship your shadow, not even dare to look at you. But it is not what I want. The stoppering of desire for savouring later; that is what you will prefer, believe me.
A clock in M. Beugneux's room chimed.
"I'll wait for you downstairs."
With trembling fingers, Fleur gathered up the skirt. The fabric gleamed like gold beneath her fingers, so seductive, so beguiling, and the girl in her surrendered.
* * *
The salon door opened as she reached the lowest stair but it was M. Beugneux who came out. "Ravissante!" the old man
exclaimed, blowing a kiss from his fingertips.
Raoul, propping a shoulder against the doorframe, could only nod. Yes, she was ravishing and he wanted her as he wanted nothing else on earth. It was tempting to forget the theatre and steal her back to his apartment. He stared his fill, from the mischievous brown curls framing her face, down over the neat breasts highly thrust, the slender waist and gently flaring hips, to her feet in black morocco. He must buy her some heeled shoes to match her skirt.
"Madame," he murmured, reverting for once to ancien gallantry, and came forward to assist her down the last stair.
"Monsieur de Villaret." The lady's voice was cool still but her eyes were bright. He could tell she felt beautiful in the gown. He imagined himself already poised in the consummation of the evening game between them, with her thighs sliding like damp silk against his skin. A fantasy yet; they both recognised it must take a few hours to topple her pride before he seduced her with a slow finesse that would have her pleading to be satiated.
* * *
He planned to follow the Comédie-Française with supper. All evening she drew men's looks as the beauteous Helen must have done when she shopped for trinkets in the evening market at Troy, and Raoul, like Paris, feasted on more than food.
The conversation was finely balanced not to give offence: a discussion of the play, the tenderness of the viands, the quality of the Bordeaux, the music, the decor, the bombes glacees; but all the while their glances met, at first like the rasp of foils, parrying and thrusting, then offering and withholding; fingers stroked the stems and rims of glass, lips parted and closed.
Imagination primed his body. He had already choreographed the slow unlacing, how one by one each petal layer of her petticoats would loosen and slither down the black silk stockings. He would stand behind her, slide his palm down her satin skin, down—yes—over her mound of Venus.
Oh, God help him. It was an effort to keep his hands from touching her as he helped her into the fiacre afterwards; he had no intention of making love to her in this rattle of a carriage, but... Oh, Fleur... Her perfume filled his senses now as she arranged her skirts beside him.
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