He groped for his handkerchief and dabbed unashamedly at his eyes. "All I want now is peace."
Belle reached out to cover his hand with her own. "And you shall have it, my friend, perhaps if Sinclair and I did go away now and leave Bonaparte alone. I cannot help but notice some of the sense of order, of well-being the man has brought back to Paris."
"That he has. The schools and churches are open again. We have a new code of laws. But peace?" Baptiste shook his head. "This Bonaparte, he is to France like the false spring of this day, a warm flooding of light you know cannot last for long. You saw him with his army today. He is not a man to be content with just playing soldier. Napoleon Bonaparte may bring France many gifts, but peace will never be one of them."
Brushing the last of the moisture from his eyes, Baptiste blew his nose loudly. "Non, I am still with you, mon ange. Perhaps we must surrender our plans for now. But there will come another day."
Shoving back his chair, he said, "For now, I have been away from my fans for too long."
Belle tried to protest, "For shame. And to think you were scolding me earlier for wanting to work upon such a fine day."
"Ah, but it is different for you and your Monsieur Carrington. You are still young. And Paris, she was once the best place in the world to be young. She still is. Maybe Monsieur Carrington can teach you how to enjoy yourself for an hour." The old man fixed her with a shrewd gaze. "He has already brought a sparkle to your eye that I am glad to see."
Belle could not help but blush under Baptiste's knowing gaze.
"Now, why do you blush so? Bah, you prim English. It is more than time you took a lover. This Sinclair, he has helped you at last to bury the past, hein?"
"I don't think anyone could ever do that," Belle said. A soft smile escaped her. "But, yes, Sinclair does make the past so much easier to bear."
"Then let him also help you learn to cherish the present. It does have a way of slipping away from one."
With that the old man deposited a kiss upon her cheek. He sauntered off down the street, leaving Belle to mull over his words.
A few moments later, when Sinclair returned to the table, he discovered Belle lost in thought. He approached her cautiously, as though he half-expected to find her still angry.
"Where is Baptiste?" he asked.
"Gone back to work."
Sinclair sighed. "And I expect you will say we should do the same. Look, Angel, I don't want to quarrel with you anymore. I know you have suffered a keen disappointment, how much the money from this mission meant to you, your little rose-covered cottage in Dorsetshire—"
"Derbyshire," Belle interrupted with a smile. "Forget about it, Sinclair. It so happens I don't want to think about the assignment anymore this afternoon, either."
She rose briskly to her feet, drawing on her gloves. "Let's play truant. We could go for a stroll down by the river."
She almost laughed aloud at Sinclair's look of astonishment. He regarded her as though he could not believe what she was saying. Indeed, she could scarce believe it herself.
"After all," she said. "We are only young once. And who knows how many such afternoons will be left for us?"
She knew from the glance he cast her that he understood she was talking about more than the unseasonably sunny weather.
"Yes, who knows?" he echoed sadly. He raised her hand to press a kiss against her fingertips before tucking her arm within the crook of his own.
However their mission ended, their time together in Paris was drawing to a close. Belle had never deluded herself that their relationship was a permanent one. They would be bound to go their separate ways. She was surprised to discover how empty that thought made her feel, and she was quick to dismiss it.
Arm in arm, they went walking along the quay by the Seine, the familiar wet-reed smell drifting to Belle's nostrils. The greenish-brown water had not yet risen to its winter height, leaving some of the quayside exposed. The river lapped gently against the rocks, casting a breeze upon the land, which made Belle glad of her shawl.
She and Sinclair wended their way among the bouquinistes, those booksellers who had ever displayed their wares along the stone embankment, many of the manuscripts quite ancient, threatening to crumple apart at a touch.
Over this section of river the Pont Neuf stretched out its stone arches, the ancient bridge reaching across to the Ile de la Cite, the oldest part of Paris. The bridge was crammed with many others enjoying the day, the hawkers, the artists, the flower girls, the lovers slipping beneath the shoreward arches to steal an intimate moment.
Even as the Seine waters sparkled in the sunlight, so did the city seem to do so today, sparkling with life as much as the man who strode by Belle's side. Her chief enjoyment came from observing Sinclair, how much he reveled in the bustle and activity about him.
He made her laugh as they wandered through the open air market, teasing her with the prospect that he meant to buy a plump, squawking chicken. He bandied words with the racoleurs, who were ever alert to recruit with a drink any healthy male into joining the army. He applauded a group of street tumblers, tossing them coin, paused to chat with some fishermen angling their lines over the end of the quay, tipped his hat to a saucy group of laundresses in their boats anchored just offshore.
Belle found herself seeing Paris through Sinclair's eyes as for the first time, experiencing the charm, the zest for life, the gaiety that had ever escaped her before. She began to have some inkling of why Baptiste so loved the place.
Lingering beneath a chestnut tree, its leaves a burst of golden glory, Belle and Sinclair stooped down to feed some bread to a flock of wild ducks gliding on the river.
Belle chuckled to herself. "I can hardly believe I am doing this."
"What? You mean you never took time before to invite these fine fellows to dine?"
"No. Do you realize that one November during the wheat shortage, I slept overnight on a baker's doorstep simply to be able to buy a loaf of bread?"
Yet somehow standing here beside Sinclair in the bright sunlight, the grim memory faded to become exactly what it was—a memory and no more than that.
"From some of the things you tell me, Angel," he said, "you make me glad I could not come to Paris before this."
As she watched Sinclair squinting past the Pont Neuf to the not far distant shore, she remarked, "Yet it seems so strange to me than an adventurer such as yourself never did so."
He shrugged, tossing the last of his bread down to the ducks. "My father was not exactly the sort of man to spend money on a grand tour."
"No, doubtless he was not," she agreed. Sinclair had never said, but Belle retained the comforting feeling that Sinclair's background was not so different from her own. Like herself, he was an adventurer who had never known wealth, rank, or respectability. There was not that social gap between them that had existed between herself and Jean-Claude. It was what made their relationship so much more comfortable.
Sinclair pointed to a distant spire across the river. "Is that Notre Dame?"
"It is." But when she saw the eager look cross his features, she said, "Oh, no. I have no intention of trudging all the way across the Pont Neuf to tour Notre Dame. You would be quite disappointed anyway. The cathedral was damaged during the Revolution, and I understand the repairs have not been completed."
"Don't distress yourself, Angel:" He favored her with a lazy grin. "Touring churches is not exactly my style, either. I am content to admire the grande Dame from a distance. But what are those ugly towers there in the foreground?"
Belle squinted toward four conical-shaped towers, grim and forbiddingly cast in stone.
"The Conciergerie," she said softly, looking quickly away.
Sinclair frowned. Gripping her by the elbow, he began to lead her in the opposite direction.
"The sight of it doesn't upset me that much," she assured him. "There is no need to run away."
"No, we have more a need to act casual," Sinclair said, slowing the pace. "I th
ink we are being followed."
Belle suppressed a startled exclamation, the immediate desire to whip around and look. "Who?"
"The man in the gray. Just over there by that last bookseller's stall. He—" Sinclair broke off. He had been in the act of taking a cautious look behind him when he froze.
Belle also stole a peek. The man in gray was making no attempt to hide the fact that he was coming after them. As he drew closer, he called her name. "Isabelle."
Jean-Claude. Although her eyes widened with incredulity, her heart didn't do its usual patter at the sight of him. She felt the tension cording her muscles. Scarce knowing what to expect, she waited while he caught up to them.
"Monsieur le Comte," Sinclair said, a hard edge in his voice. "We meet yet again. They tell me Paris is one of the largest cities in the world, but I am beginning to doubt it. The place has begun to seem too infernally small."
His face rigid with dignity, Jean-Claude looked through Sinclair. He fixed his attention upon Belle.
"I have been following you ever since you left the military review," Jean-Claude admitted. "I have been waiting, hoping for a chance. Isabelle, I must speak to you."
"Of—of course," Belle stammered, taken completely aback. After Jean-Claude's behavior at the reception, that he would seek her out again was the last thing she would have expected.
"Speak to you alone," he added pointedly. He glanced hesitantly toward Sinclair as though seeking his permission and despising himself for doing so.
"That would be entirely up to Belle," Sinclair said coldly.
Belle found herself in the awkward position of being stared at by two pairs of masculine eyes, both of them questioning, both of them hostile. But even if other ages-old feelings were not stirred in her by Jean-Claude, curiosity alone would have won out.
She placed her hand upon Sinclair's arm. "Sinclair, if you truly would not mind—"
"I can manage to amuse myself." But he took the sting from his harsh answer with an intent look. "You know where I'll be if you need me."
She understood what he was trying to convey and flashed him a grateful smile. As Sinclair stalked away, Belle turned expectantly toward Jean-Claude.
"Perhaps we could walk out on the bridge," he said. "Sit on one of the benches."
She nodded in agreement, further astounded when he offered her his arm. After a moment's hesitation she took it.
Sinclair watched their retreat from his vantage point by one of the bookseller's stalls. He noted the stiffness of Jean-Claude's gesture, but it was a gesture toward Belle all the same.
Sinclair felt the beginnings of that familiar hollow ache. He had once told Belle he did not mind her memories of Jean-Claude. He could live with them.
"It seems that I lied, Angel," he murmured. "I do mind. I mind like hell."
When he had said that, he had not yet known he was in love with Isabelle Varens. Yes, in love, he admitted at last. But it was the devil of a time to realize that as Belle vanished on the arm of Jean-Claude.
Sinclair glanced about him, his pleasure in the day, the city life teeming about him, suddenly gone. He wondered if the time would come when he would never want to come back to Paris, loathing it with the same bitter memories as Belle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Belle walked alongside Jean-Claude, her silence as rigid as his, two stiff figures jostled by the gay crowd that flocked over the bridge. Hawkers displayed their wares to pretty ladies shaded beneath parasols. Artists dabbled with oils upon their canvases. Street singers warbled their tunes, offering for sale the new sheet music.
It was strange, Belle thought. Only a moment ago with Sinclair, she had felt so much a part of all this color, this gaiety. Now once more she had the sensation of being removed, as though in the carnival of faces pressing past her, life itself were passing her by.
She glanced at Jean-Claude, wondering if he could feel that, too, but the stony set of his profile told her nothing, only the deep-set misery of his eyes. Why? She wanted to shout at him. He had made it clear at the reception he could never forgive her, that he could scarce bear the sight of her. Then why did he choose to seek her out again, subject them both to an interview that would only cause them fresh pain?
They had not even passed by the second arch of the bridge when she halted. "I think we have come far enough, Jean-Claude," she said. "What did you wish—"
"No, not here. Please, Isabelle. The noise." He nodded upward toward La Samarataine, the huge hydraulic pump rising three stories above the bridge, its facade adorned with gilded figures of Christ receiving water from the Good Samaritan. The pump shuddered with activity as it sped a water supply to the Louvre and the Tuileries.
"Let us go just a little farther," he pleaded.
Belle found the clatter of the pump somehow more bearable as a backdrop than the happy chatter and laughter of the Pont Neuf's other occupants, but she fell into step beside Jean-Claude once more.
They continued on until they reached the next half moon embrasure, one of the bridge's many stone bays which jutted out over the Seine. The semicircular seat was unoccupied. Belle settled herself upon it, and Jean-Claude sank down beside her, taking great care to keep a decorous distance between them.
Still, he seemed unable to break the silence, his gloved hands fidgeting nervously with the silver-tipped handle of his walking cane. Once even for all his coldness, his rigid anger, Belle would have given much to have him seated thus by her side. Now she was surprised to discover she felt nothing but impatience. Certainly she had no desire to make this any easier for him, or to offer him any encouragement.
She stared out across the sluggish waters of the Seine watching the ferry boats and the flat-bottomed barges laden with their cargoes.
Jean-Claude cleared his throat. "There seems to be more river traffic than I recall."
"Is that why you have been following me all this time?" Belle asked. "To discuss the number of barges on the Seine?"
"Non." She heard him draw in a tremulous breath. After a long moment of hesitation, his hand reached out and tentatively covered hers where it rested upon the balustrade of the bay.
Startled by the gesture, her gaze flew up to meet his. He said, "I sought you out to tell you that I am sorry for my behavior at the reception the other night."
Belle blinked, almost unable to assimilate the meaning of his words. Apologizing? He was actually apologizing to her for his hurtful remarks, for attempting to ignore her.
"My manners were atrocious, my words certainly not those of a gentleman."
"Not at all, sir." Belle slid her hand from beneath his. "You were ever the gentleman." Even when Jean-Claude had been demanding the divorce, he had been so unbearably civil, so damnably polite.
"Truly, Isabelle," he continued, sounding more earnest. "I am sorry. I didn't want to offend you or wound you. It is just that it was so hard for me seeing you again."
"It was not precisely easy for me, either."
But he stared at her with that wistful look in his eyes. She had never been proof against it.
"Let us simply forget the quarrel," she said with a weary sigh. "I am not so easily wounded these days. I survived the incident." She reflected that this was true. In these last few days she had given little thought to the ugly scene with Jean-Claude. Sinclair had had a great deal to do with that.
"I am glad," Jean-Claude said. "It is a great relief to know you are not angry with me."
"And you?" she asked. "Does this mean you have forgiven me at last?"
"I am trying very hard. I wish more than anything that we could both simply forget the past."
"Forget the past? Do you truly believe that's possible?"
"Perhaps not. But maybe we could learn to recall only the good. There were some good times, were there not, Isabelle?"
She had always thought so, but she had believed his own memory of them erased the day he had learned the secret of her birth.
A soft light came into his gray eyes. "We often
used to stroll upon this bridge together that first summer in Paris. Do you recall?"
"I remember," she said. A reluctant smite escaped her. "Mostly you walked along daydreaming with me attempting to steer you through the crowds and see that you didn't fall off the bridge."
"I don't do much of that anymore—daydreaming." An expression of melancholy washed over him. The brief spark that had appeared in his eyes vanished, and he fell into a brooding silence.
Belle's urge to comfort him was strong, but instead she studied the man whom for so many years she had regarded as the entire possessor of her heart. His face was pale, but then it always had been. The strands of silver were new, but not unbecoming to his gaunt face. His countenance had never been an animated one, not like Sinclair's— She broke off the thought, refusing to compare the two men. Impossible. They were so unalike.
Jean-Claude's attractiveness had come from the dreamy, other-worldly expression in his eyes. Without that he was an empty shell of a man, broken and defeated. Looking upon him like this was enough to break her heart, wrenching feelings deep inside of her, but was that feeling love?
It shocked and frightened her that she should question something that she had believed in for so long. Unable to bear to examine her own emotions too closely at this moment, she sought to draw him out of his unhappy reflections.
"So what are you doing here in Paris?" she asked. "Have any of your old friends returned as well?"
"I don't know. I have not troubled myself to find out. I have little use for the company of philosophes these days. I prefer men of action."
"Such as Napoleon Bonaparte?" Even at the risk of offending him, she was burning to know what Jean-Claude had been doing attending the reception at the Tuileries.
The vehemence of his answer startled her. "Non, not Bonaparte! I despise him. It sickens my soul to breathe the same air as he."
Belle regarded him with astonishment, not a little discomfited. She had never seen such a fierce light in Jean-Claude's eyes, never heard him express such hatred of any living being.
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