“Is this about Saint-Régent? Is he doing better?”
“Our friend is making a full recovery, it would seem. This is not about him. I need your help with Francis.”
Blanche shuddered. “Francis?”
“Yes, Francis. He needs a new hiding place. The Convent of Saint-Michel will do perfectly. You are a great friend of the Mother Superior, and she will give him shelter if you ask her.”
“I can’t ask Mother Duquesne to do such a thing! It would be too dangerous for her, for all the sisters.”
“They are all friends of the cause, are they not? They should be prepared to take some risks.”
“I don’t want Mother Duquesne to take any risks.”
Limoëlan bent forward. “It is about time, Madame Coudert, for you to realize that what you want, or don’t want, doesn’t matter in the least.” His voice was down to a hiss now. “I am asking you to do something for the cause, and I fully expect you to comply. One would think you should be anxious to show your loyalty these days. I, for one, have begun to entertain some doubts in this regard. Those two fellows at the Prefecture should have been easy prey for someone like you.”
“What do you mean by someone like me?”
“Need you ask? I mean, of course, a person of your incomparable allurements. I am at a loss to explain your failure, to myself and to others.”
“But I told you they are wary. They are policemen, after all. I need more time.”
“How much more? You have been assigned that mission for months. I have come to rely solely on my own man at the Prefecture, and you know it is not the same.” Limoëlan shook his long blond curls and drew closer to Blanche. Now he was only inches away from her face. “I am running out of patience. Out of trust too. So tonight, dear Madame Coudert, you will convince the Mother Superior to hide Francis at the Convent, and you will convince him to stay quietly there. You should be extremely grateful for this opportunity to make amends. Be sure, however, that there be no dallying, no excuses this time. Let’s go. Francis is waiting for us.”
Limoëlan reached for the cord to signal to the driver to set forth, but Blanche reached out to stop him. “All right, I will ask Mother Duquesne to hide Francis, but let’s not go there in a hackney. It’s too dangerous.”
Limoëlan shrugged. “If you wish. Soaked as you are, a bit more rain can’t hurt you.”
He stepped out of the hackney, opened a large green umbrella and offered her his arm. They crossed the square and stopped in front of a carriage door in a neighboring street. Blanche recognized Francis Carbon in the pudgy figure huddled in the shadows.
27
Carbon had seized Blanche’s free arm. He was squeezing it through the velvet of her pelisse. She shook him off.
“I am grateful for the offer of your arm, Sir,” she said, “but you are hurting me.”
Francis let go of her. She pressed on. All that mattered now was ridding herself of this valet, this foul, hideous man, as fast as possible.
In five minutes they had reached the convent. The heavy front door creaked on rusty hinges, and Blanche engaged the elderly porter in a hushed conversation. She left her two companions in his lodge and crossed the courtyard to find the Prioress in her apartment.
Mother Duquesne was still dressed. A white wimple and black veil surrounded her full face, where an aquiline nose and square jaw were the most prominent features. When she opened the door, she let out a cry at the sight of Blanche.
“My dearest, look at you!” she said, pressing the young woman upon her ample breast. “Whatever happened to you? You are going to catch your death.”
Blanche let herself be pushed into a chair by the fireplace. She wearily removed her pelisse and her wet, chilly boots and stockings. She extended her feet, red and swollen, towards the hearth. The heat of the blaze hurt as the flow of blood returned to her toes. She felt more tired than ever before, and yet the worst was still to come. Mother Duquesne fetched a bottle of alcohol from her bedroom. Over Blanche’s protests, she knelt before her and proceeded to vigorously rub her feet and legs.
“What possessed you, child, to walk here in such weather?” mumbled the Prioress. “I wouldn’t throw a dog out tonight.”
Blanche could not utter a word. In Mother Duquesne’s presence, she was a little girl again. Within the walls of the convent, under the protection of the Prioress, no evil could befall her. She was still shivering, but a wonderful numbness was overcoming her.
Mother Duquesne pulled a comforter from her bed and wrapped it tightly around Blanche. She pulled another chair next to Blanche’s and sat down. “So now, dear, will you tell me why you are here tonight?”
“Mother, I came with Monsieur de Limoëlan and a friend of his, a man who has just returned from London without papers. He needs shelter for a few days, until his family gets his name cleared from the list of émigrés.”
“Can Monsieur de Limoëlan vouch for this man?”
“Certainly, he will.”
“And you, Blanche, can you vouch for this man?”
Blanche’s lips trembled.
“You cannot, can you?” asked the nun.
“No, dear Mother, I cannot.”
“And yet he must be very important to you, or you wouldn’t have come here tonight.”
“Oh, yes. I will be in great danger if he is caught. And yet I hate to ask you to help him.”
Mother Duquesne sighed. “I have heard strange stories lately, Blanche. About some Chouans being linked to the attack on the First Consul. You know that our little community here is only tolerated as a girls’ boarding school. The morning after the Rue Nicaise attack, I had a Te Deum celebrated in our Chapel on account of the First Consul’s quasi-miraculous escape. These days one cannot be too tepid in the display of one’s patriotic zeal. And this is the time you choose to ask me to give shelter to a man of whom you cannot tell me anything, at least anything I can believe.”
Blanche threw herself at the feet of the Prioress and seized both of her hands. “Forgive me, dear Mother. Yes, I lied to you. But I will tell you everything now. This man is not an émigré. He is—”
Mother Duquesne put her index finger on Blanche’s lips. “Be silent, child. I cannot hear your confession, nor do I wish to learn who that man is, or what he has done. The less I know of him, the safer for you, I suppose. All I want is an answer to this question: if I agree to give him shelter, will it put the Convent at risk?”
“Yes, I believe it will.”
Mother Duquesne stared into the fire. “This is what I feared. Not an hour passes, Blanche, without your being in my thoughts, and my prayers. I worry so about you. And I have much to reproach myself with. If it were not for me, you would not have met Monsieur de Limoëlan, and you would be much safer. Father de Clorivière and Mademoiselle de Cicé had always spoken so highly of him. Now I realize how little I truly knew that man. He seems to have dragged you into some terrible trouble, and that is in part my fault. Alas, what is done cannot be undone, no matter how bitterly I regret it.”
“Oh, but you did nothing wrong. How could you know? And if it were not for you, dear Mother, I would not be who I am.”
Mother Duquesne caressed Blanche’s cheek. “In any event, dearest, I cannot desert you now. I will receive that man here and trust in God’s mercy.”
Blanche buried her face in the folds of the Prioress’s habit. “Oh, Mother, how could I ever ask you to do such a thing?”
“It is done. Now rise, Blanche. Let me find you some dry clothes.”
Ten minutes later, Blanche, dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform, followed Mother Duquesne to the porter’s lodge, where Limoëlan and Francis were warming themselves in front of the fire. The Prioress frowned at the sight of Carbon, his striped stockings and beribboned breeches. She cast an alarmed look at Blanche and kept her hands folded within the vastness of her habit sleeves.
“Welcome to His house, Sir,” she said. “Madame Coudert tells me that you are in need of shelter. Because
she requests it, you may stay here for some time. We rent a room to an elderly gentleman boarder in our front building, and will be happy to extend the same hospitality to you. The only thing I request is that you respect the peace of this house, and not interfere with the education of our girls.”
Carbon grinned and opened his mouth wide, but Limoëlan promptly interrupted him. “In the name of my unfortunate comrade, Reverend Mother, let me thank you from my heart. But then I expected no less from such a devoted friend of the cause.”
Mother Duquesne fixed her dark blue eyes on Limoëlan. “Reserve your thanks for Madame Coudert, Sir. As for your friend, let him keep to his room, and remember that this is a place of prayer. Now Sister Ursule will show him the way.”
“With your permission, Reverend Mother,” said Limoëlan, “Madame Coudert and I will accompany him. We still have a few things to discuss.”
Mother Duquesne turned to Blanche and pressed her in her arms. “God be with you, child.”
She bowed again and left. Sister Ursule, candle in hand, led the three visitors up a flight of corkscrew stairs to a small room, simply furnished with a white bed, a chair and table with a wash basin. She knelt in front of the hearth to light a fire.
“This will do very well, thank you, Sister,” said Limoëlan. The nun bowed and retired in silence.
Limoëlan smiled at Francis and Blanche. “Well, you two must look forward to becoming better acquainted. I will let you do so at your leisure, and bid you a good night.”
Blanche flushed in anger. All of her weariness had vanished. “I am leaving too,” she said. “Francis must be tired, and I need to go home. My husband will worry.”
“Oh, your husband?” Limoëlan squinted at Blanche. “A half hour earlier or later won’t make any difference to him, will it? Surely you can spare a few minutes for our friend Francis.”
Carbon was gaping at her with a look of expectant imbecility. Blanche felt she might be able to handle him better if they were alone. She turned to Limoëlan. “If it makes Francis happy, yes, of course, I will stay a moment longer.”
Limoëlan, after a last pointed look at her, took his leave. As soon as he had closed the door, Francis approached with a broad grin. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pushed his tongue into her ear. She stiffened with disgust, but resisted the impulse to wipe the slobber away. It was out of the question to cry for help, for Limoëlan might be lingering around.
“Oh, my little darling,” Carbon whispered hoarsely into her wet ear, “I like you so!”
She giggled while pulling away from him. “How fast you are, Francis! Are you always like this with the ladies?”
“Well, you’ll be my first real lady, so to speak. But usually girls don’t mind my manners a bit, and they beg for more once they’ve tried me.”
“I am not in the least surprised, dear Francis. I hope you did not mistake my little show of reluctance in front of Monsieur de Limoëlan. I couldn’t give way to my feelings before him.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry ’bout Monsieur de Limoëlan. He knows you fancy me. Madame Coudert pretends like she’s givin’ you the cold shoulder, he said, but that’s jus’ the ways of a fine lady. Don’t let it fool you, Francis, I know she’s had her eye on you for a lon’ time. And me too, I’ve always fancied you. And tonight, in your little schoolgirl dress, I like you still better’n usual. You look like you couldn’t be older’n fifteen, Blanche. You like it when I call you Blanche, eh?”
Blanche forced her most winsome smile. “Yes, certainly, Francis.”
She drew closer to the door, but he pinned her against the wall. He was several inches shorter than she, but far heavier. She felt the bulk of his belly pushing against her thighs and stomach.
“Tonight,” he continued, “I was none too happy at first to leave my sister and my niece. I’m fond of those wenches, see. They’re family, and whatever people say, family’s family. But when Monsieur de Limoëlan said you’d make it worth my while to come here, then I agreed right away. Jus’ for your sake, little darling.”
Francis had wrapped one arm around Blanche’s shoulders and with the other raised her skirt and petticoat. He was kneading her buttocks forcefully. She whimpered at the touch of his calloused hands. This seemed to embolden him, for he inserted a fleshy tongue deep into her mouth. She fought back nausea and pushed him away firmly.
“Well, dear Francis, Monsieur de Limoëlan was right about my fancying you, but on one point I was not dissembling: I cannot tarry any longer tonight.”
His face became tense and his tone peevish. “Now don’t make me angry. You can’t leave me like this. Feel this?” He seized her hand and rubbed it against his groin. “See, I’m ready for you.”
Blanche wiggled to disengage herself and move ever so slightly towards the door.
“Well, Francis, there’s a thing you may not know yet about us ladies. When a lady loves a man passionately—”
Carbon was beaming at her. “So you love me, eh, little darling? Me too, and I bet you won’t be disappointed when I give it to you.”
“Not doubt about it. But, as I was telling you, no matter how impatient a lady is to yield to the ardors of her suitor, she does not want to surrender the first time in a hurried, awkward manner. It has to be perfect. So I want us to have all the time in the world. This can’t be tonight, but it will be tomorrow. We will have the whole day together. In this fashion—”
He pinched her buttock so harshly that she could not repress a cry.
“Oh, no, it can’t wait till tomorrow. We’ll do it in a jiffy right now, and send you on your way. Then you’ll come back tomorrow, and you’ll show me all of your fine lady tricks, and I’ll show you a few of mine too. In the meantime, jus’ turn around and hold your skirts up like a good girl.”
Blanche’s only chance of escaping now was to pretend to faint, and pray that Carbon would be afraid enough not to take advantage of it. She bent her knees and let herself slip against the wall.
Francis caught her roughly by the armpit. “Eh, what’s that? Blanche, you’re all right? Little darling?”
Suddenly the door opened. The heavy figure of a nun appeared in the frame.
“Madame Coudert,” said Mother Duquesne, “your husband is waiting for you downstairs. He is very worried.” She turned to Francis. “As for you, Sir, I suggest you take some rest.”
Blanche pulled free and dashed for the door. As she ran down the stairs, she wiped at last the spittle off her lips. Limoëlan would pay for this.
28
Back at the Prefecture, Roch resumed his review of the mail that continued to pour in. Inspector Alain came to report on his progress, or lack thereof. The search for Saint-Régent and François Carbon remained fruitless. Roch groaned. His visit to the Mayenne Inn had not brought the results he had expected. He remembered the first days of the investigation, when he had seemed to make headway so fast, so easily. Now, at the time of his father’s danger, nothing seemed to be happening anymore. It was already the 11th of January, the 22nd of Nivose, only two weeks away from the time set by Fouché for Old Miquel’s deportation.
The Prefect again had Roch called to his office. Maybe word of Roch’s visit to the Mayenne Inn had reached the Prefect. Dubois pretended to continue writing without taking any notice of Roch, who looked out the window. It was already dark outside. After a few minutes, the Prefect raised his head.
“Ah, yes, Miquel, here you are!” he said. “Chevalier’s case will be reviewed by a Military Commission tonight. You are to fetch the man from the Temple and take him to the Ministry at nine o’clock, and then to the place of execution.”
Roch felt a pang at the mention of the Temple. So now the Prefect was sending him to the place where his father was imprisoned. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “Chevalier?” he asked in a detached tone. “That engineer who experimented with an infernal machine?”
“Yes, of course, the same.”
Roch could not help asking, “And if Cheva
lier were acquitted by the Military Commission, should I take him home?”
The Prefect leered. “I told you already to be careful, Miquel. I am tired of your witticisms. Maybe your mood will be less jocular tonight when . . . anyway, be sure to bring Chevalier to the Ministry at nine o’clock.”
Roch bit his lip. He could ill afford to provoke his superior these days. He left the Prefecture at seven that night and went to a nearby tavern. Standing at the counter, he hastily swallowed a bowl of hot onion soup before hailing a hackney.
Why was the Prefect sending him on this pointless errand? Military Commissions, which dealt with matters involving the safety of the Nation, were the exclusive province of the Army. The attendance of a man from the Prefecture was not normally required.
The hackney stopped in front of the Temple. It was difficult to imagine that the place, so grim now, had been one of the palaces of the King’s brother before the Revolution. These days it housed, in addition to Old Miquel, scores of other opponents to Bonaparte. Beyond the former palace loomed the massive square tower. Tiny windows projected points of light from all of its stories. Roch asked the hackney driver to wait.
The prison clerk, Fauconnier, recognized Roch, whom he had met on occasion. The man’s greeting lacked warmth and his eye kept shifting to the far corners of the room. Roch could not take his thoughts off his father, so close and yet out of reach.
“Ah, yes, yes,” the clerk said. “The Military Commission, obviously. Yes, it’s about Citizen Chevalier. I received my instructions all right. I’ll take you to him right away, Citizen Chief Inspector. The soldiers should be here in a moment to escort you to the Ministry.”
Roch followed the clerk across the courtyard, lit by lanterns, and down a narrow stairwell to the basement of the tower. They found Chevalier, lanky, sullen, unshaven, standing in his cell. Roch was chilled to the bone, and the dampness oozing from the bare stone walls reminded him of the cold sweats of agony. He turned up his collar and tried not to think of Old Miquel, who was perhaps housed in a similar cell. No one spoke. Chevalier’s Adam’s apple kept moving up and down. He avoided Roch’s eyes and kept staring out a barred window, just under the ceiling, that opened at the level of the courtyard.
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