“Find Roger,” she hissed, with all the emphasis she could place on the words without shouting. “Go to Roger! To Roger! Go find Roger!”
It was the best she could do. As she heard the front door slam, she opened the back door and pushed Fifi out, crying softly, “Roger! Find Roger!” then she slammed the door shut and stood with her back to it, hoping she could delay Danou and Panel from going out if they had heard her. At first she thought that all was lost. Both men burst into the room with expressions of fury, but they stopped short when they saw her.
“I heard the door close,” Danou snarled.
“Yes,” Leonie replied, her voice trembling. “The dog wanted to go out. Was that wrong? I didn’t step outside, I only opened the door for her.”
Danou came forward and touched the cloth of her dress, but there was no chill on it from the winter air outside. Apparently she was telling the truth. Still, he was uneasy, although he could not put his finger on the cause. He just felt something was wrong, not realizing that Leonie’s nervousness was communicating itself to him. He looked out the window into the garden.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Between hope and fear, Leonie found herself trembling. Now that she had done it, she regretted it bitterly. Could Fifi possibly find her way home? Such a little dog, such a long way? Leonie was suddenly sure that they were very far from the shop. She remembered that the ride in the carriage had seemed to take forever. Even if she discounted some of the time as being exaggerated by fear, it must be a terribly long way to such a small, helpless creature as Fifi. Tears rose to Leonie’s eyes as she too, went to the window and peered out. Had she killed the poor, loving animal by sending her away on a hopeless quest? The streets were full of carriages and carts. Fifi might be caught under their wheels or crushed against a curb. More likely she would be hopelessly lost, to wander alone, starving and frightened until she died of weakness and loneliness.
“What is wrong?” Danou growled, growing more and more suspicious.
“Nothing,” Leonie gasped, “nothing. You frightened me when you rushed in like that.”
But the answer was not convincing. Danou was not stupid, although Panel was, but both men remembered that Leonie had not shed a tear nor seemed so distraught even when they had first abducted her. Neither considered that she had been numb with shock then, and the obvious conclusion—that Leonie’s agreeableness and camaraderie had an ulterior motive—leaped into Danou’s mind.
“I do not like this,” he said between his teeth. “I do not like it at all. Panel, go out and look for the dog.”
“No!” Leonie cried.
“Why not?” Danou asked.
“Because I do not trust you. You will kill her and say she was hurt in the street.”
When she saw the expression on both faces, Leonie realized how stupid she had been. She had made a mistake, a very bad mistake. She had counted too much on Chaumette’s assurances that he wanted her to be content. All the men had been made uneasy by Fifi’s presence. Chaumette had even considered doing away with her. He had not given the order because he realized they would have to overpower her and perhaps hurt her before they could get the dog away from her. Now she herself had told Danou and Panel how to be rid of Fifi without any blame. They had not thought of it, they had only intended to look for the dog. She had killed Fifi! She had given them the excuse they needed.
“Go out and find the creature,” Danou ordered, seizing Leonie by the arm. “And you, citoyenne, you have not been quiet and obedient as you promised. You will go to your room and stay there.”
“No,” Leonie shrieked, “do not hurt my dog. She does no harm.”
“Naturally we will not hurt her,” Danou said, smiling viciously. “I would not dream of doing such a thing. As soon as she is found, we will bring her to you—never fear.”
A good night’s sleep was of some help to Roger. He no longer felt his insides shaking with fear for Leonie, but he was worse off in another way. Rested and fed, his body now called for action, inciting his mind to a restless search for something to do to free his love. He could hardly concentrate on his work, and after nearly spoiling a delicate mechanism by unseating the spring in it and pinching his own fingers by an incautious squeeze of the pliers he was wise enough to restrict himself to polishing finished work and this did nothing to calm him.
By the time Chaumette’s messenger arrived at midmorning with Leonie’s answer to his letter, the only thing that prevented Roger from seizing the man and choking information out of him was the certainty that the ragged, dirty creature had no information to give. He devoured the letter, seeking for some hint, no matter how small, as to Leonie’s present whereabouts. He knew Leonie was clever enough to conceal information within innocent-seeming nothings, but read and reread, twist and turn the words as he would, he could find nothing. He cursed aloud, startling an incoming customer, and controlled the urge to tell the man to get out. Fortunately, he was only calling for finished work, and seeing Roger’s black scowl took his gun, paid the bill, and left without any attempt at conversation. Unable to contain himself any longer, Roger latched his door and went upstairs to Pierre, who was lounging patiently in the bedroom.
“Nothing,” he burst out. “There is nothing in the letter. You would think the girl was an imbecile. Surely she could have given me a hint of where she was.”
“Likely she doesn’t know,” Pierre pointed out calmly, a little amused because he understood the basis of Roger’s bad temper. “Do you think they gave her a view of the streets as they went by? What could she tell you?”
“She could have found something more sensible to say than maundering on and on about the damn dog,” Roger exclaimed unreasonably. “Fifi is so good. Fifi is such a comfort. Fifi is so clever—” His voice checked suddenly and Pierre sat more upright, a look of interest on his face.
“Do you dislike the dog?” he asked Roger.
“No, of course not,” Roger replied, thoughtfully now. “She is a pretty, clever little creature. I’m very fond of her.”
“Then there must be some meaning to all that adulation,” Pierre said, echoing Roger’s thought.
There was no immediate answer. Roger was rereading Leonie’s letter yet again, trying desperately to think of something connected to Fifi that would give a hint of Leonie’s whereabouts. Eventually he shook his head and handed Pierre the letter.
“I’m not thinking clearly,” he sighed. “Maybe you can see what I can’t.” then he cleared his throat awkwardly. “You must disregard what she says of a personal nature. Naturally, as we have been pretending to be husband and wife, she was constrained to write fondly…”
Pierre’s black eyes danced with laughter. The double bed he had shared with Roger was sufficient evidence that the pretense of marriage had gone a good deal deeper than the mere use of Roger’s name. It was plain enough that Roger was head over heels in love, and the “dearest beloved” was surely not necessary to a pretended marriage. The girl could have written “dear husband” or a number of other less passionate phrases. However, Roger was not in the mood for teasing, and Pierre said nothing, giving his attention to what Leonie had written. He also reread the letter twice but was forced to shrug his shoulders in the end.
“I still think there is something about the dog that is important, but I can see nothing more than that. Of course, I am not very familiar with Paris. Is there some marking on the animal that looks like a well-known place? Did you take the dog to run in some special area? Did she get lost and was found somewhere?”
The questions were perceptive. A positive answer to any of them would have been most significant, but Roger had already thought about them and there was no positive answer. Under Pierre’s urging, he thought again about Fifi’s splotched black-and-white coat, but there simply was nothing special about it, nor could he remember Leonie ever making any comments about the dog that could be applied to the present situation. He shook his head sadly.
“We will just
have to let it go,” he said at last. “Perhaps Chaumette’s men will be careless and you will be able to follow my letter back. If not, tomorrow I will have another letter from Leonie. Perhaps she will be able to make her hint clearer. I’ll go out now. Be ready to go as soon as you see the man follow me. I can’t bear to sit still any longer.”
“Now don’t be a fool,” Pierre said softly. “I tell you I know what I am about. We will find your—Mademoiselle de Conyers. Only don’t give yourself away. Try not to look so worried.”
“I can look as worried as I like,” Roger snapped, “since my excuse for doing the shopping is that my wife is not well.”
Pierre sighed, but he gave no more warnings. It was a dreadful thing what a woman could do to a man. Ordinarily Roger had the sweetest of tempers no matter what the circumstances, and no more regard for danger than a goat for a thistle. Thanking God that he had never permitted himself a greater interest in any woman than as a simple source of pleasure, Pierre shrugged himself into one of Roger’s coats and followed him down the stairs, watching cautiously from behind the window curtain to be sure Chaumette’s watchdog followed Roger.
In spite of Roger’s certainty that this day nothing would go right, everything seemed to be as usual. He pretended to lock his door—Pierre would actually do that later—waited for Colurel, the man who waited at the back, and walked out through the alley, raising a carless hand in salute to the fishmonger as he passed him. He slowed his pace then, not wanting Pierre to come out while the fishmonger was in the alley, but the man went back into his shop and Roger strode forward, quickening his pace, without a backward glance.
That was a mistake. Pierre had watched Roger and his shadow as far down the alley as he could see them and judged how long it would take them to reach the end. He did not notice that Roger had slowed down because he was, at that moment, cautiously opening the door, counting the seconds in his head until he could safely whip out. Just as Roger reached the corner and turned right, the fishmonger emerged from his back door again with a pail of slop. Simultaneously, Pierre came out. The fishmonger cast out the slop in a silver arc and straightened his back. Turning, Pierre saw him, but it was too late to go back. The best he could do was leave the door unlocked and get as near the middle of the road as possible.
“Who the devil are you?” the fishmonger shouted, much startled to find a man nearly atop him when he had glanced up and down the alley before threw out his slop.
Colurel was just at the corner, but had not turned his head and saw Pierre. Since he too, had been glancing regularly down the alley, Colurel was well aware that Pierre must have come from one of the houses in the street. He knew it could not have been from the house opposite Roger’s, because that was where he lodged, and although he could not be certain he did not think it could have been the house beyond Roger’s. He hesitated momentarily, torn between his desire to rush back and seize Pierre and his orders, which were most emphatic that he not let Roger out of his sight. Colurel leaped forward, his heart in his mouth. He had been warned that there was a chance Saintaire would do something desperate.
To his relief Roger was still in sight, but he was a long way ahead. That in itself was suspicious. Until yesterday Saintaire had been extremely cooperative, waiting if Colurel fell behind, raising a hand to wave in a crowd so that his watchdog would not be lost. This time he had moved very quickly. Perhaps he hoped that seeing a man come out of his house would distract Colurel enough so that he could disappear. Colurel began to hurry and then hesitated again. If this was a deliberate trick and Saintaire thought he was alone, what would he do? Perhaps he thought Colurel knew that would not save him. If Chaumette were betrayed, he would drag his henchmen down with him. No, it was better to be on Saintaire’s heels so that he could not make a wrong move. And to be on the safe side, Colurel thought, he would report exactly what had happened.
After Fifi slipped through the gate, she was confused. She knew who Roger was, of course. That was the god whose odor so often mingled with that of the goddess. She understood the order to “find Roger” also. That was a dear and familiar game. But there were not the woods near the château nor even the town, where she had often been sent to fetch someone out of a shop. Two separate problems bewildered the little bitch.
The first of these was immediate. The alley on which the garden faced was not the route she had taken when she followed the goddess. That was down the street at the front of the house. The direct way to the route home was blocked by the house. Fifi knew she could not return there. It was against the rules of the game to go back to the starting point before the objective was achieved. If she did that, the goddess would be angry and say “No! No!” and send her away again with the same order.
Fifi ran along the wall until she found an opening through which she squeezed. This, however, led only into another garden, blocked from the street by the back of another house. She went out the way she had come in and ran farther. After several tries, she came to a lane where her sense of direction pointed her toward the street on which the house fronted. She turned up that, sensing its familiarity, knowing now which way she had come. Back along the route was Roger. When she found the god, she could come back to the goddess where all love, all warmth, all food and security were centered.
Trotting steadily, she came to the front of the house, which she recognized. Here, she hesitated a moment—the draw of the goddess was strong. Her little head turned just as the door opened.
“There she is!” a voice bellowed. “Fifi, come here!”
Galvanized, Fifi streaked up the street, running her best. She knew that voice and that man and she disliked both intensely. The goddess had smelled of hate and fear while that man touched her. He was no friend, and Fifi would avoid him if she could. However, she was a small dog and the man was running very fast. She could hear his footsteps pounding closer, his ugly voice, filled with rage, bellowing commands for her to stop and come to him. Desperate and terrified, Fifi dodged into another lane. The distance between her and the man who followed increased, but he was soon on her heels again, and again she twisted away, running blindly right and left, sensing that if she were caught she would be hurt.
When her heart was pounding, her tongue dangling, her eyes blinded by exhaustion, she saw a darkness and fled into that, collapsing, panting, her little sides heaving with effort and her whole body trembling with fear. Later, when she had caught her breath and realized that the voice was no longer shouting at her, the trembling stopped. Eventually she crawled out of the hole in which she had sought refuge and stood sniffing the air.
Now the second of her two problems overwhelmed her. “Find Roger”, yes, but where was Roger? Time meant very little to Fifi. Her happy years at the château were overlapped by the months of misery and loneliness there atop which lay the few months of happiness—which seemed to Fifi just as long as the preceding years—when she had found the goddess again. Find Roger where? At the château? That was where the game had usually been played. At the many inns in which they had lodged? At the house with the garden? At the house where there was no garden but where there was, down the alley, the lovely smell of bad fish? Fifi continued to sniff the air and began to trot slowly straight ahead. She had a more immediate, more devastating problem. Where was she? This place was completely strange. She was lost!
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the commune and in the convention, the balance still swayed between Danton and Robespierre, but the scales tipped more and more in Robespierre’s favor. Chaumette did not dare absent himself long from the center of action. At any moment St. Just might rise and begin to cry for Danton’s arrest. Chaumette had never been of his party and did not expect to be included in the lists of those denounced along with Danton and Desmoulins, but one could never be too alert.
After his morning interview with Leonie, he had returned to his office and carefully reread her letter to Roger. Satisfied with what she said—obviously she was a silly thing and doted on the ridiculous d
og—he sent the letter on with a messenger and dismissed Roger and Leonie from his thoughts. He went to the convention to mingle with the deputies and listen to what was said, and even more closely to what was whispered or only hinted at in half words with sidelong looks of the eyes.
What he heard gave Chaumette no comfort. Just before dark he went to the Temple to visit young Capet, who was unhappy and pleaded to have Simon restored to him. Chaumette answered him vaguely but promised that Simon would come to visit him and he should be sure to obey him. Perhaps matters could be arranged between Louis-Charles and Simon himself, Chaumette said softly just before he left. Then he went to see the shoemaker and urged him to be ready.
“The work is near done,” Simon replied, and beckoned Chaumette into a shed at the rear of his house. “My wife’s cousin,” he whispered, “is looking for a suitable boy. He will be brought in inside the horse.”
Simon showed Chaumette how the saddle lifted off, its overlap concealing the join. “It looks solid enough to ride,” he remarked with pride, “and with the child inside will weigh about what a wooden one would weigh. It is my farewell present to Louis-Charles.”
“If it is a present to the child, how will you explain taking it out again?” Chaumette asked.
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