“Go,” he barked. “Now.”
Gaudet and William virtually threw themselves over Bastien’s straw bed and up the staircase into the living quarters as downstairs there was a flurry of noise. First came the heavy bolt, then two or three pairs of boots on the floor before that careful, quiet voice floated on the night air.
“Monsieur Charron,” Vincent Tessier said. “Where are they? Sanson cannot be left idle at the guillotine.”
“The window,” William told Gaudet. “We have to jump. Go first, I’ll throw the dog to you.”
“Someone else could take her place in the Conciergerie, on the scaffold, even,” Tessier mused quietly. “Somebody who knows something, who might tell what he knows.”
Gaudet shook his head and pulled William across into the room where he had spent his recovery. He opened the linen press, dragging out Sylvie’s collection of rags and piling them on the floor. William grimaced in distaste as moths fluttered up from the fabric, fascination growing when Gaudet reached into the cupboard and, with a click, the back panel swung open.
As boots reached the staircase, Gaudet nodded toward the barely visible passageway that had been revealed, gesturing for William to join him. With no choice, he did as he was bade, what light there was extinguished when Gaudet replaced the false panel and plunged them into darkness.
Somewhere in the world beyond he could hear the heavy footsteps and muffled voices of the guards. Gaudet gripped his wrist, the gesture oddly reassuring even as he encouraged them onward. William reached out blindly, a sense of panic building in his gut when his hands found what seemed to be rough fabric, then a wooden surface that felt less permanent than the darkness, a sensation of movement beneath his palm.
As the cupboard door swung open they were both propelled into a small room, falling onto the bare wooden boards. Gaudet’s breath escaped from his lips as though he had been punched in the stomach. Pap in turn let out a small woof of triumph, peering around the unexpectedly flamboyant bedroom.
It was like falling into another world, William decided and he looked about, half expecting to hear Tessier’s voice at any moment, to feel a hand on his shoulder. “Where the hell are we?”
Gaudet smiled then, mischief twinkling in his green eyes for a moment before he confided, “Sylvie told me this is a brothel, Monsieur. It was in their interests to leave the secret door in place, too. Sometimes prostitutes have to beat a hasty retreat…”
His life was, William thought, turning into something similar to one of Gaudet’s famed plays about which he had heard so much. “A brothel.”
“A molly brothel,” Gaudet confirmed as, from the bed, a rather pretty young man sat up and peered at them through bleary eyes. Quickly the playwright leaped to his feet and bowed deeply, saying, “Good evening, sir!”
“We aren’t staying.” William got to his feet with as much haste as he could manage. “Just passing through!”
“We have come from Monsieur Charron’s workshop,” Gaudet replied courteously, offering a nod of acknowledgement. “Via the linen cupboard.”
“I confess I have little to do with linens.” The young man’s eyes widened theatrically and he extended his arm with a flourish to indicate they were welcome to pass, his gaze sweeping over Gaudet. “Though I wish that I’d had a root through that cupboard if you were hiding in there.”
“Perhaps another time.” Gaudet bowed. “Thank you for being so understanding and so bloody gorgeous!”
“Pleasure,” the young man beamed. Then his gaze shifted to William and he sniffed. “Nice poodle.”
“It isn’t mine,” William was quick to point out. “I’m just holding it for him.”
“Is he yours?”
William glanced from the man to Gaudet and back again, managing a somewhat baffled, “For the foreseeable future, yes.”
“Adieu, pretty lady.” Gaudet dropped into a courtly bow, eyes widening as they alighted on a coat of rich red. “How much for that gorgeous garment? I must have it—look at these rags, if you could but see my usual—”
“Oh, take it,” the clearly enchanted young man told him. “Red isn’t my color, anyway.”
“An angel!” Gaudet picked up the coat and, with another bow, hurried from the room.
Utterly bemused, William followed. “We must get out of here.”
“Tessier is in the house next door,” an older man was shouting from the landing below, a flurry of movement all around the house. Clinging to the poodle, William followed Gaudet through the building, vaguely processing the nature of the establishment as they went.
“We’ve come from next door,” Gaudet told the older man. “Which way is freedom?”
“Take those stairs”—he gestured—“and out the back door. If you are fleeing Tessier, good luck.”
William didn’t need telling twice and, with Gaudet following, hurried toward freedom and the night visible beyond the open doorway. With relief, he gulped in the cool air for a moment before catching Gaudet’s arm, sure that to stay still now meant certain capture.
“Sylvie and her boy—” Gaudet blinked. “We—”
“We cannot.” William’s tone was harder than he’d intended and his grip tightened on Gaudet’s arm, pulling him on into the city.
“Give me my girl.” Gaudet reached for the dog, who strained toward him. “They helped me—gave me their home…”
“And what fine repayment it would be for you to end up dead?” William kept hold of the poodle, certain it was the only way to guarantee some control over Gaudet as he dragged him along. The city seemed too quiet, every footstep echoing to give them away, every beggar a watchful threat of betrayal. They could not, he realized, leave Paris that night—they needed somewhere to stay, to lie low until the morning.
“Give me Papillon,” Gaudet snapped. “Please!”
“Not”—William kept walking—“until we reach safety.”
“If we leave them, what will happen?” Gaudet’s voice betrayed panic and uncertainty. “The child…he is just a boy.”
“I will send word to someone who may be able to help,” William promised, cursing the playwright afresh for putting him in this position. “That is the best I can do.”
They pressed into the night, out of the fetid city and toward the open fields and, William hoped, somewhere they might hide for the night. A barn, a farmhouse, anything to put distance between them and Tessier’s search. He was silent as they went along, anger and frustration burning alongside a growing despair.
They would have to sleep in the woods, he knew. I was not safe enough to chance the roadside. Yet the thought of a night cold and hungry and listening to the playwright list his, no doubt, many complaints only added to his ill temper. Finally, lights were visible in the distance and William told Gaudet, “Look, there.”
“Another hovel.” Gaudet scowled, slipping his arms into the red brocade coat. “Do I look like a man who sleeps in rural taverns, Bobbins?” Despite Gaudet’s obvious temper the coat seemed to mend his manners somewhat and he twirled in the moonlight, the elaborate garment swirling around him with undeniable panache. “This is more like it… I am saving the suit for a special occasion but this, this is my sort of style.”
“Would you prefer a hovel?” William asked with a scowl of his own. “Or sleeping in a ditch?”
“This coat is exquisite.” Gaudet ran his hand over the red fabric, a delicate silver pattern catching the moonlight. “Perhaps a little less vibrant than I am used—” He froze suddenly, an expression of horror falling over his face.
“What?” William reached for the pistol he kept concealed.
“I forgot my rouge and powder!”
William found he could only stare, managing after a long moment, “Would you have us go back?”
“I am not an imbecile, Bobbins.” Gaudet set his chin defiantly, sucking in his cheeks. “Let us potter on.”
The lights belonged to a coaching inn that stood almost directly on the road and William frowned at t
he sight of it, gloomy in the darkness. A crowd milled around the exterior, drinks in their hands, yet they showed no interest in these new arrivals, this not being a place where questions were asked. As the men approached, the door opened and a customer was ejected by his unseen host, letting off a barrage of abuse from where he landed in the mud. From both the assembled drinkers outside and those within there came the sound of raucous laughter and voices raised in mirth. The promise of life spurred William toward it, perhaps too enthusiastic for some company.
“Here,” he told Gaudet. “We will stay here tonight.”
“Will we share?” The playwright clapped one hand to his mouth. “Will I be safe alone? I am a wanted chap.”
William pondered that for a moment before conceding. “It might be safer.”
“And Pap must have supper.”
“They’ll have scraps, no doubt…”
“Scraps?”
William rolled his eyes and pushed open the door to reveal an interior as busy as the yard outside and he paused, scanning the patrons. If the troublesome playwright was as chaotic as he appeared, then that meant he would have to be watchful for both of them. There was no doubt in his mind that Tessier would still be searching for his escaped spy. Still, it amused him that anybody could mistake this hapless, vain creature for Dee, as watchful and strategic in his decisions as Gaudet was flighty and foppish.
A few murmured words, coins were passed across, and a room was secured, not to mention a hearty meal for two, along with enough to fill the belly of the pampered pet that Gaudet carried beneath his arm.
In the minutes that had passed since they’d entered the inn, Gaudet had apparently already managed to ingratiate himself with a rather shapely woman who had abandoned her duties behind the bar to address him. She listened to the story he was spinning, with her head cocked to one side, wide eyes fixed on the handsome figure before her as though he were a prophet. The barmaid chewed at her rouged lower lip and lifted one hand to play absent-mindedly with the few strands of hair that fell from her bun to brush her cheek, everything about her positively screaming sympathy. She reached out to touch Gaudet’s arm and leaned forward on the counter to confide something, coincidentally displaying an extra inch or so of her pale bosom as she did so.
“We will need an early night,” William informed the playwright. “We must be away at dawn.”
“My husband calls,” Gaudet pouted, eliciting a laugh from the girl. “Adieu, beautiful lady.”
“Do you think,” William whispered, leading him away, “that you could refrain from drawing quite so much attention to us?”
“I have not been outside in a month,” Gaudet snapped. “I am simply enjoying a few moments before the next trouble.”
“There will be no more ‘trouble,’” William shook his head. “We will make our way calmly to Le Havre, collect your sister, and get everyone safely to England.”
“And will we walk all the way…?” Gaudet took a seat. “My nerves will not stand it. Might we pick up a carriage tomorrow?”
William sighed, sitting with a long, deep breath, not willing to admit that he had no idea how they would reach the coast. In Paris, things had been possible, plans could be made and the very geography of the capital had lent things a certain sort of sense, even though it was a maelstrom. There was protection in numbers there, safety in the fabric of the city from the catacombs of the Ossuary far beneath his feet to the buildings that rose overhead, pressing into the narrow streets from either side. If the spies of Paris could watch from windows or doorways, then here there was too much space for safety, an apparently unending expanse of land in which two people traveling to Le Havre would be either utterly anonymous or dreadfully, fatally exposed.
And with Alexandre Gaudet in his crimson coat, laughing with that shriek and carrying a white poodle, we cannot not hope to be invisible.
“Do you ride?” William asked Gaudet, hoping that the answer would be yes. “Horses will carry us to the coast, if so.”
“At Versailles, I was feted for my equestrian skills. I do not ride, I excel.” Gaudet preened at his hair for a moment. “And you shall see only my fine derrière, disappearing into the distance.”
“That is a delight,” he told Gaudet with a sniff, “that I shall manage to live without.”
“I will have you know that the fineness of my bottom has been discussed in parliament.”
“Well,” William stated, “they do tend to struggle to find matters of interest.”
The food arrived then, two bowls of rather worrying stew and a plate of meat scraps for the poodle. Both canine and master frowned at the offerings before Gaudet told William, “This will not do, not at all.”
“You are at liberty to eat it or go hungry,” William told him curtly.
“You wish us to starve?” Gaudet’s mouth fell open and he exchanged a look with the poodle, both turning their noses up as one.
“There’s hell on that road tonight,” an elderly man said as he hobbled to the table beside their own, his inconsequential weight leaning on a knotty stick of wood. William saw that his left leg had been amputated at the knee, a pale stump just visible beneath the frayed hem of his breeches. “They’re burning Gustave’s farmhouse—it’s up like a tinderbox.”
“They’d burn the land out from beneath our feet if they could,” the landlord agreed to a chorus of approval, heads nodding all over the inn. “And the Committee who fan the flames.”
“I’m not a man who loved his king and queen,” the old man went on, sucking at the stem of a long pipe, “but it seems to me that we’re as hungry under this lot as we were with the last. Pray for rain tonight, for Gustave’s sake.”
“It doesn’t do to pray these days,” the landlord warned with a smile. “Somebody might tell our Supreme Being.”
“Let them tell him.” He shrugged, a plume of gray smoke rising from his pipe into the night. “From what I hear, he’s buggered anyway.”
As William was distracted by the exchange, Gaudet snatched up Papillon and left his seat to return to the counter, where the barmaid once again welcomed him with a beaming smile. She had applied fresh carmine to her full lips and listened to his story with rapt attention, eyes wide with awe. Within less than a minute a second dish of food was produced for the poodle, this one hot enough to steam and giving off a rich aroma of beef gravy. Papillon devoured it greedily as her master watched in obvious adoration, stroking the dog’s head.
With a sound of annoyance, William turned away, the playwright’s utter lack of comprehension as to the seriousness of their situation starkly clear to him then. He forced down the food before him, appetite gone as he considered the days ahead, the weeks that would follow after his mission was completed, the danger of having time to think about his life and what it had become. Shaking his head, William pushed back his bowl, drained his glass and stood. He would heed the hour even if Gaudet would not and bed was the answer, he was sure.
“I must go,” Gaudet told the barmaid who emerged from behind the bar, summoning both men to follow along a corridor and up a steep, narrow staircase to the first floor.
The landing opened out and a hallway disappeared into the gloom, but it seemed that their destination was a little closer. Humming a gentle melody, she turned the key of the door nearest the staircase and pushed it open to reveal a room that seemed far too snug for two.
“It’s all we’ve got left,” she said by way of an apology, before the men had even seen the space where they were to spend the evening. “The cattle market brings in a lot of custom.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Gaudet replied, sharing a ghost of a smile with the barmaid. She bobbed in what seemed like an abandoned curtsey and handed the candle to him, hurrying downstairs before they had a chance to complain.
With Gaudet on the landing, William surveyed the room, though that seemed like a very grand description for what was essentially a slightly larger than usual cupboard. It held one bed and a chest of drawers
on which was a bowl and water jug, a threadbare armchair pushed up beneath the small window. By the light of the tallow candle, he could see that the dark green bedcovers had obviously seen far better days and were more darn than fabric, whilst the smell of previous residents still lingered on the air. The expression of disgust on Gaudet’s face amused William just a little and he wrinkled his mouth into a scowl then grimaced, shaking his head at these insalubrious surroundings.
“I cannot sleep here, Bobbins.”
“Then stay awake, it makes no difference to me.”
“Then I will,” Gaudet stated, opening one of the shutters to peer out into the darkness, the dog cuddled close to his chest.
William sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. There were several responses he could think of but he kept them to himself, realizing suddenly just how weary he was, adrenaline lessening now they were in relative safety.
Gaudet set down the poodle, who climbed up onto the bed and curled into a tight ball despite her master’s complaints. Leaving her to settle, he stripped off the red coat and poured water into the bowl from the jug that sat atop the dresser, sighing very deeply. For a second, he seemed about to remove his shirt but instead sat in the threadbare chair, lowering his head for a long moment.
“Sleep,” William told the dejected man. “Everything will look better in the morning.”
“I will let you have the bed.” Gaudet smiled faintly. “I sleep badly.”
“Do I have your word that you will not do anything stupid?” William peered at Gaudet. “You must not leave this room.”
“Do you think I would put my sister and her child in danger?” William saw the playwright positively bristle at the thought of it, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “I have been brought to the brink of death already, sir, do you believe I did so lightly?”
“I do not believe,” he decided after a moment, “that you knew what you were getting into.”
“I thought she would be in Paris,” was Gaudet’s quiet admission. “That I would bring her to London…”
The Star of Versailles Page 10