Leonie’s eyes went wide, but she did not move. “No. Where ever you go, I go too.”
“Idiot,” Roger hissed, but he knew he would only make matters worse by delay, and he hurried back, carrying a magnifying lens through which he peered at the faulty mechanism, although he already knew quite well what was wrong with it.
A touch with the file, a tap with a tiny hammer, and the silver of metal that had caused the jamming was smoothed. Roger loaded the pistol with a half-charge and a wad and presented it to Toulon, pointing wordlessly at a blank wall scarred by its frequent use as a testing ground. Toulon fired, reloaded himself, fired again. Then he smiled at Roger.
“What is the charge?”
Roger shrugged. “Two sous. You saw what I did. It was nothing.”
Toulon stared fixedly at him. Roger stared back, scowling. It was not the expression of a man who wished to ingratiate himself either with a customer or with someone he feared, Toulon thought. Fifi was still standing near the door of kitchen. She sensed the tension, but she had learned that the anxiety of her deities did not necessarily imply the presence of an enemy, and she did not growl or bristle, only watched for a signal. Toulon smiled again.
“You are an honest man. Another would have kept the gun for a week and charged for a replacement of the whole firing mechanism.”
“Not me,” Roger said.
“So I have heard. By the way, my name is François Toulon. I wished to see for myself an honest man. After all, Diogenes searched for one all his life without finding one.”
With that he left. Roger sat for a moment with his head in his hands waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Then he went into the kitchen. Leonie was sitting at the table with a pillowslip she had been darning in front of her. Her eyes went past Roger toward the shop.
“He’s gone,” Roger said. “Why didn’t you go when I bid you?”
“What if he had asked to see me? He knew I was here and then if I was suddenly gone, what would he think? That would surely have given us away.”
And what if he had men waiting to arrest us?” Roger countered furiously.
“Unless he is an idiot, there would have been men at the back also.” Leonie lifted the pillowslip. Under it lay one of the pistols she always carried. “No one will arrest me,” she said quietly.
“You cannot—” Roger began hotly, and then cut that off. There was little point in arguing what had not happened. They needed most urgently to decide what next to do. “He may have gone to summon men. You should—”
Leonie shook her dead. “I think not.”
“This is no time for thinking,” Roger snarled. “In a few minutes, we may both be caught in a trap. Go to Fouché. Perhaps his cousin can help you. If we are both imprisoned, no one will even know what happened to us.”
At that, Leonie looked startled. “You are right! I will go, but not to Fouché—not yet. Roger, I could not see this Toulon’s face, but I could hear him well. I tell you, he is not thinking of denouncing us. It is something else he wants—money perhaps.”
“You may be right,” Roger said a little more calmly.” I had the same feeling, but with the guillotine rising and falling so freely these days, it is no time to count on feelings.”
“Yes and no time to give people any reason to think we have anything to hide. I will go out the front door with my basket—to shop. You will come to the doorway to watch me—a fond husband. If I am taken, do not be foolish. You go to Fouché. If I am not, I will come back to see what has happened. Then I can go out again.”
The look on Roger’s face did not give Leonie any confidence that he would pay attention to her logical suggestions. Fortunately, there did not seem to be any reason to worry. No one paid the least attention to her, except for the chandler’s wife, who called out to ask Leonie whether she was going to the produce market. Since Leonie did not care where she went, she obligingly offered to bring back anything her neighbor wanted and stood and chatted while Roger sweated blood behind the door. Finally Leonie disappeared. Roger went back to his workbench, but his hands were shaking too much for him to do anything except stare at the weapon he should be repairing.
Time passed, then more time. Eventually Roger picked up the gun at which he had been staring and began to remove the barrel from the breechblock. Surely, he thought, even if time is dragging because I’m scared nearly witless, Toulon could easily have come back with men to arrest me by now. He tilted the barrel of the gun into the light and squinted down the false ramrod where the powder was stored. Cursing softly, he took a thin rod from the shelf beneath the counter and poked gently at the clogged magazine. “Idiot,” he muttered, annoyed at the fool who could afford so expensive a weapon and had not enough brains to learn how to care for it. Soon he became absorbed in his task and panic receded.
Leonie returned, changed to her next-to-best dress, and went out again. “Came back from shopping. Going out to visit,” she said briefly, but she was also more relaxed. It began to seem as if either Toulon had only been innocently curious or her guess was right. That is, he did not intend to denounce them but wanted to exert a little pressure before starting open blackmail. Nothing further had happened by late afternoon when Leonie returned again. Roger put away his tools and came into the kitchen where she was laying the plates for a belated dinner.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Sometimes they prefer to make arrests at night.”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” Leonie replied. “It’s blackmail I heard in Toulon’s voice, not death. However, there isn’t any sense in taking chances. We should go out. It’s a shame the theaters are closed. Oh, I know. Let’s go to the Café Breton.”
They did so and had a very pleasant evening, staying late even thought that meant they would have to chance the bands of thieves that roamed the streets. They were even lucky there and came home safely to a neighborhood completely quiet. Quite clearly there had been no attempt to arrest them, and Fifi’s investigation of the area indicated that no one was lying in wait for them at the front.
“We will see,” Roger remarked, opening the door so that Fifi could carry out a similar investigation at the back.
Here it seemed their luck had run out. The little bitch hesitated on the doorstep, stiff, her head thrust forward. Roger’s hand went into his pocket.
“I am not a thief,” Toulon’s voice came from the dark in the alley. He came forward into the faint light cast by the kitchen.” You are an Englishman,” he went on, so softly that only Roger could hear. “Your head is forfeit the moment I speak. No, do not shoot me. My comrade Lepitre knows where I am and why.”
“What do you want?” Roger asked. “If you intended to denounce me, you would have done so already.”
“It is a little matter of treason,” Toulon said, grinning as he pushed gently past Roger into the room, “for which you will be well rewarded. Since you will lose your head either way—if I denounce you or if you are caught for treason—it seems to me a practical man of business like yourself would prefer to take the chance and the reward.”
Roger shooed Fifi out gently and closed the door. She would soon be back in indicate whether there were other men out there. He was aware that Leonie in the bedroom above could hear them now. If she came down and distracted Toulon… He shook his head.
“If you think I am a spy from England and can give you information, you are sadly mistaken. I have been many years in France.”
“I know that. I have English friends—which is why I caught that accent—but very few would recognize more than that you were not a Parisian, or not from any other particular place with which they were familiar.”
That was probably the only good thing Solange had done for him—refusing to answer if he spoke to her in English and making fun of his French until in self-defense Roger had learned to speak nearly perfectly. That flicked through one part of his mind while the other part considered what Toulon said. If Toulon believed he did not know any secrets, what treason could he po
ssibly commit against England? No, stupid, Roger said to himself, the treason must be against France if he might lose his head for it. They hung men for treason in England.
“Then I do not understand you at all,” Roger said.
“Let me ask you a question,” Toulon remarked. “How did you feel about the execution of—of Capet.”
There was no point in lying. One might as well be guillotined for a sheep as for a lamb. “I saw the political necessity but grieved for the man, who was innocent, I think, of ill intent.”
“Just—” Toulon broke off as he heard a creak of the stairs. He turned and gasped when he saw Leonie with her pistol held in both hands and leveled at him.
“Stand very still, m’sieu,” she remarked quietly. “I am not afraid to fire. I have done so before.”
“Put it down!” Toulon cried, but there was irritation rather than fear in his voice. He turned to Roger. “Saintaire, take it away from her. She is likely to kill you as me!”
Roger could not help smiling, for what Toulon said was quite true. However, his mind was racing. Toulon had no need to set traps for him concerning royalist sympathies. The question about Louis then, had some other purpose. In fact, to ask it gave Roger a weapon against the questioner. It was not much of a weapon. Toulon was a commissioner and Roger was in no position to accuse anyone of anything. Thus it might be useful to indicate to Toulon his goodwill. He shook his head at Toulon.
“Oh no,” he said. “A gunsmith’s wife grows accustomed to guns. However, you said I was an honest man. I hope you are. I would like at least to hear what you have to say. Sit down on the stair, Leonie. I do not believe Commissioner Toulon intends us any harm.”
As he said the words, Roger was convinced by them. He had been making the mistake of thinking in ordinary legal terms, of thinking that evidence was required to prove a case, in a situation where legality had been totally abandoned. If Toulon had wanted them imprisoned or even dead, he had only to accuse them of incivism. He was a trusted arm of the revolution—no further evidence would be needed.
“I may bring you harm,” Toulon said suddenly, with great earnestness, having been much moved by what Roger said, “but I swear it will not be by intention.”
Roger nodded and gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, commissioner. Will you have a glass of wine?”
The dog whined and scratched at the door, and Roger went to let her in. She had not barked nor run back, and her tail was high and waving. There were no strangers in or near the alley so Toulon had come alone. In these days a man did not walk alone in the streets at this hour of the night unless he had a good reason. Then another bit of evidence that Roger had not seen added a final affirmative point. Toulon was not wearing the scarf that identified him as a commissioner. Yet that scarf was a relatively sure protection against the gangs that roamed the city. So! Toulon must be very eager to keep this visit a secret. Put all that together with the question about Louis and one obtained an interesting answer.
“Put your pistol away, Leonie,” Roger said, “and bring us some wine and join us. I am sure that Commissioner Toulon’s treason will be an honest one and bring no harm to France.”
Toulon’s breath hissed in sharply. “You are right, of course. Have you guessed?”
“Not what it is you want of me,” Roger replied, “but that it has to do with the royal family—that I have guessed.”
The wine slopped on the table as Leonie started with surprise. Toulon looked at her.
“Did you hate Marie de Conyers when you were her servant?” he asked.
Leonie looked at him with startled eyes for a moment, then remembered that Roger had excused her aristocratic accent by saying she had been her mother’s maid. “No,” she breathed. “She was a good woman, kind to me.”
“Did you know,” Toulon went on, “that there are those who say that the—that Marie Antoinette should meet the same fate as her husband?”
To avoid spilling more of the wine, Leonie set the bottle down. She clasped her hands to hide their shaking. Roger pushed her gently into a seat and poured the three glasses of wine himself, but no one reached for it.
“I had not heard it,” he said untruthfully—where could a simple tradesman hear such things? “But I am not surprised. She was always hated.”
“And with reason,” Toulon remarked. “She was extravagant. She had no understanding of the dreadful condition of the country. Also, there is good cause to believe that she urged Louis to resist all reform and drove him away from the people who could have saved the monarchy.”
Neither Roger nor Leonie knew what to say. They agreed with Toulon. How often had Leonie heard her father damn the queen for her pride and her resistance to Lafayette’s advice? How often had Roger and his friends in England discussed the fact that the queen’s influence was pushing Louis into the arms of ministers who only intensified the ills of France? But there was nothing treasonous in hating the queen—not to the current government. And Toulon’s statement had been dispassionate. There was no hatred in voice or expression. His look was that of a man unavoidably mentioning an injury long forgiven.
“That is all true,” he went on, “yet she is also a woman, a gentle, tender mother—and helpless. What you said about the—about Louis Capet was true. His death was a political necessity. If he lived, the republic could not. However, there can be no gain to the country in Marie’s death. That would be an act of wanton cruelty. She has no power now and will not have ever again. She can never be a danger to the state.”
Roger lifted his glass and drank, not realizing that his action might well be taken as a toast to Toulon’s words until he saw the smile of relief on the man’s face. Actually, Roger had only wanted to hide his eyes. Toulon was wrong about the fact that Marie Antoinette could not be dangerous. If the forces ranged against France won the war and seated the dauphin on the throne, Marie would again exert the same influence, or even a stronger one. The boy was only eight years old. He had been deprived of his father in a horrible way of which he was no doubt aware. On whom would he lean if not on the gentle, tender mother Toulon described. Perhaps for a time Prussia and England would choose a more stable regent, but Marie Antoinette would be teaching her son all the wrong things.
It was clear enough now where this talk was leading. Toulon must be involved in a plot to permit Marie Antoinette to escape. Roger could still not guess what his part was to be, but he was not thinking about that. He should, he knew, point out to Toulon that the queen could still be a formidable danger to France—and more formidable in exile, where her pleadings and promises might stimulate a more determined attack on France than was now being made. As long as Marie was a prisoner in France, she was powerless and no threat. As soon as she was free, she might be the cause of much suffering and loss of life—now and in the future.
As much as he abhorred what was going on in France, Roger believed that to break the revolution by war would be useless. The people had the bit between their teeth now. Conquest of the country and restoration of the monarchy by force could only breed more and bloodier insurrections. It would be necessary to quarter a huge army of occupation in France to put down these revolutions. Internally, Roger shuddered at the suffering that would cause, the hatred that would grow out of it.
Possibly Toulon would pay no attention. Possibly he had thought of these matters already. But just possibly, his pity for the queen had not permitted him to see the pitfalls her freedom would open. If he listened and abandoned the plot… Roger’s hand clenched on the glass he was holding until his knuckles showed white. Fortunately, it was a thick, common drinking glass. He would have crushed the delicate, stemmed crystal out of which he drank at home. If Toulon listens to me and abandons the plot and Marie Antoinette is executed, I will be her murderer, Roger thought.
“What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Very little,” Toulon said eagerly. “A refuge for a little time. A place where clothing may be changed, new disguises assumed. You will be
in no danger. Even if the escape should be noticed—and we have taken good care that five hours at least will pass before anyone has reason for suspicion—there will be two commissioners standing in your shop talking to you. They will, of course, assist any men who come here, should the worst happen and a search be instituted.”
“Oh please, Roger,” Leonie pleaded with tears in her eyes, “help her. She has lost so much—her world is all broken. Her husband is dead. Don’t be the one to take away her very life. Whatever she has done ill, she has paid for it already and—I don’t believe it was done in malice.”
Roger nodded without delay, but not because his refusal would have any effect on the plot. There were many other places in the area that could serve briefly as a shelter. He might be able to take away Marie Antoinette’s life, but not by refusing to receive her. That could only cost Leonie’s life as well as his own. Obviously if they refused to help they would have to be silenced—disposed of, one way or another, both to protect Toulon and his fellow conspirators and to protect the plot. Their lives might be forfeit anyway, Roger knew, but to agree at once and without reservation was the safest path in a morass of quicksand. He smiled at Leonie. Her ingenuous pleading had probably done more to protect them than any reasoned action.
“I never intended to refuse,” he said. “Commissioner Toulon is right. There is little risk in what he asks of us.”
“Yes, and then you will be given passports and can go where you like.”
Roger shrugged offhandedly to conceal his eagerness. “I will be glad to have them, but where to go is more than I know. I would as soon stay here, but you know me for English-born. How long before someone else hears it in my speech? And in England, if I could get there, they will call me a French spy.”
Leonie blinked once at this wild fabrication and then she understood. Roger dared not act as if the passport was important. Toulon might begin to wonder why a man settled in a good business should be so willing to throw it away. All at once, however, she saw another danger. Toulon should not know the true facts of their case. He should not know they wished to go to England. Why, then, did he offer passports as a reward—why not money? Because it was the thing Roger wanted most, he had missed the point. Toulon was not really offering a reward. He was ordering them to leave Paris, so that they could not betray him, or whoever had been in the plot and remained behind.
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