Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  He pulled his gaze away and strode down the hall in the opposite direction of her own bedroom. He opened the last door on the right. That must be his bedroom. A dapper gentleman in a well-cut coat hurried up from what must be a back stairs for the servants.

  “Your grace?” he asked as he followed Avignon in. “May I assist … ?”

  The door closed. Françoise felt as though a light had been doused. She looked around in a daze. How was she ever to ask Avignon to save Madame, when he wouldn’t even speak to her? And she had to move quickly. She had the worst feeling that Madame did not have much time.

  “Be ready at a moment’s notice today, mademoiselle.” Gaston bowed.

  “For what?” she asked, a little dazed still.

  “For your appointment with La Fanchon, of course.” Gaston smiled under his prim mustache. “I feel sure I shall achieve success in arranging one.” He retreated down the stairs.

  She turned back to her own room. Madame couldn’t be condemned immediately. It took weeks to be brought before the Committee of Public Safety. And more time still to join the parade of tumbrels on the way to the Place de Revolution and the hungry Madame Guillotine.

  But knowing all that didn’t remove the sense of urgency. She must help Madame before it was too late. And something inside told her it would be too late very, very soon.

  Françoise, dressed in her charred morning dress, stood near the front of the long, sweating line that twisted up to the gatehouse of the Conciergerie under the Tour d’Argent. It had taken her all day to get this far. The fourteenth-century palace was now the largest prison in Paris and the least savory. The fumes off the Seine added to the stench from the twenty-four hundred or so prisoners inside at any given time. Madame LaFleur was here, or so said the guard after he consulted a long scroll brimming with names. It was the fourth prison she’d tried. She’d hoped Madame would have been taken to one of the converted monasteries. Conditions were better there. If she didn’t get in before they closed the gates at sunset, she’d have to start all over again tomorrow. If only she’d had money for a bribe she could have seen Madame at noon.

  Some in line had been coming here for months. They carried packets of food, clothing, pillows, bottles of wine, small children, anything that could be a comfort to those within. Françoise wished she had thought to bring something for Madame. The garrulous woman in front of her was finally let in the gate. It must be after seven.

  As she drew closer to the guardhouse, she’d heard them talking.

  “But how is it done? How?”

  “Me, I would like to see that captain do any better job than we have done preventing it.”

  “They just disappear … Alors, one cannot prevent that.”

  “And the prisoners, they will not say how this thing is done no matter our persuasion.”

  “Me, I think they do not know,” one said almost under his breath. Françoise strained to hear. Were people escaping from prison? Hope thrilled in her breast. At least someone got out of here other than in a tumbrel or a casket. But maybe the guards just miscounted.

  “And now we count, and count. What good? The numbers, they only get smaller.”

  She wasn’t the only one to think they’d miscounted.

  “Always it is families or children. It is strange, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Perhaps it is over. It has been, what, three days?”

  “Your money is mine if you care to wager on that.” This was said with disgust.

  She might have heard more, but it was her turn. A youngish guard in a blue and red uniform that had seen better days and needed a good cleaning jerked a thumb in Françoise’s direction. She hurried forward, through a small side gate. She hurried past guards playing cards, guffawing loudly, and contributing to the general aroma of sweating human bodies.

  “Come quickly, girl,” her guard said impatiently. “I am nearly off my shift.”

  She hurried behind him. He led her down narrow stone stairs into a huge, windowless room. It must be belowground. The stone ceiling was supported by Romanesque arches disappearing into the shadows above. The click of their boots echoed in the immensity. At least it was cool down here. But then he opened a heavy wooden door strapped with metal fittings and led her down a corridor lined with cells. Huge bolts secured the grated doors. The cells themselves were packed with people. Each cell must have more than fifty prisoners in it. Old, young, women, men—they were all packed in together. The noise in the stone corridor was deafening from conversation, shouting, even laughter, as out of place as that seemed. With a start, she saw that some cells held children. She had heard that the committee had taken to condemning whole families just to make sure the antirevolutionary fervor was rooted out, not only of this generation, but of generations to come. To see children in such surroundings brought home that these policies were lunacy.

  Hands stretched out to her as she walked by, but other prisoners just stared, vacant-eyed. They were by far more frightening.

  At last the guard stopped in front of a cell no different than the others. “In here,” he said.

  She could see nothing behind the first row of prisoners pushed up against the bars. “Madame?” she called. “Madame LaFleur?”

  “She is in the back,” a sad-eyed man of perhaps thirty said. He carried a towheaded boy of about four in grimy short pants in one arm, pressed up against the bars. Perhaps the air was better toward the front. “She will never be able to push her way to the fore.”

  “Oh, dear.” Françoise’s eyes welled. Was Madame even alive back there?

  The sad-eyed man pursed his lips as though making a decision. He set down the child in the crush against the bars. “Watch my boy,” he said to Françoise and began to shove his way back into the throng. “Make way there! Make way.” The little boy began to cry.

  Françoise knelt. “And what is your name, brave boy?”

  “Emile,” the child snuffled. He turned up a dirty face streaked with tears. “Is Papa coming back?” The throng had swallowed his father but his continued progress was betrayed by the wave of angry protests.

  “Of course he’ll come back,” she said briskly. “Where is your mama?” Tears welled again in the child’s eyes. Françoise had a horrible feeling she shouldn’t have asked.

  “They took her. Papa says she isn’t coming back.”

  Françoise stuck her arms through the bars and held the child, shushing softly. What villainy was this that could tear families apart? A woman pressed above them murmured soft encouragement. They stayed like that, aching, until Emile’s father reemerged, a breathless Madame LaFleur in tow.

  “Oh, madame, how glad I am to see you,” Françoise said. “Thank you, monsieur. May I know your name?”

  The sad-eyed man picked up his clinging boy and smiled. “I was the Comte d’Ambroney. In these troubled times, call me Christophe St. Navarre.”

  “You have a brave boy, Comte.”

  The man smiled at his son, but the smile was wistful. “He is the best of me.”

  Madame pushed the last few feet through to bars. She reached through the grating and grabbed Françoise’s hand, her expression clouded. “You should not have come here.” She glanced to the guard. “It is too dangerous to be seen with me.”

  “And could I let you languish here alone? Not likely.” She leaned in. It was not as if their conversation could be private what with people pressed in on either side of them. “My benefactor will secure your release, I’m sure,” she whispered.

  Madame’s old eyes held pity in them. That surprised Françoise. It was she who should pity her friend. Madame was about to say something, then thought better of it. “Of course,” she said lightly. “Your benefactor, he is good to you?”

  “I had lobster for dinner last night with a salt cellar on the table.”

  Madame frowned. “I’m sure you did. But is he good to you?”

  Françoise snorted. “Good? Avignon? The two words cannot exist in the same sentence.”

  Ma
dame shook her head. “I mean … is he a gentleman?” she whispered.

  Françoise smiled ruefully. “What would a man like him want with a girl like me?”

  Madame grimaced. “If I need to tell you that, you are in more danger than I thought.”

  Françoise blushed. “You needn’t worry. He thinks me a nuisance. But he will intercede on your behalf and then we will be comfortable again.”

  Again the look of pity. Françoise was about to protest that look when the guard interrupted. “You there, girl. Enough. You come back tomorrow if you want to chat.” He prodded Françoise away. She stretched her hand back to Madame, who reached out through the bars to prolong the human contact.

  “Thank you for coming, child. But don’t come again.”

  Françoise’s eyes filled.

  “Au revoir,” the comte said. Emile waved a still-chubby hand.

  “Get along, now. My wine waits for me.” The guard pushed her back down the corridor.

  She had to get Avignon to intercede for Madame.

  Françoise trudged up to the front doors of number sixteen, intending to knock. The door opened as she raised her hand to the knocker.

  “Mademoiselle,” Jean said. “Come in, come in.”

  Gaston hurried up as she entered. “But where have you been, mademoiselle?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “You crept out without letting anyone know. La Fanchon waited for three quarters of an hour before she stormed out. After I had arranged at great personal cost that she do your fitting here. And now you are in that dreadful, smoking dress.” His hands fluttered in distress. “What will his grace say?”

  “Oh, dear.” She had forgotten. Gaston had said something about an appointment when she was so distressed this morning. “Who is Fanchon?” Françoise hardly felt up to all the emotional energy in the foyer. Another footman was busy closing all the draperies. Why did they keep the house so dreary and dim?

  “A dressmaker,” Jean explained.

  “Dressmaker?” Gaston rolled his eyes. “That is like calling … calling Michelangelo a stone cutter.” Gaston was about to go on, but he peered at Françoise and abruptly shut his mouth. “Well, nevermind all that. Jean, get ratafia and bring it to the library.” When Jean did not move fast enough he added, “Rapidement, s’il vous plait?”

  He gestured Françoise down the ground-floor hallway. “Or perhaps Mademoiselle would like some cakes to sustain Mademoiselle until supper?” He opened the doorway to the library in which she had first met Avignon last night.

  Françoise sat gratefully in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Today no fire burned there. “I am just a little tired.” In truth the visit to Madame was the perfectly dreadful cap to a very long day. She ran her fingers through her curls.

  “Where is that lazy Jean? Oh, here you are. Bring that tray here.” He took it from the footman. “Now go tell Pierre we need sustenance for Mademoiselle.”

  Jean took himself off. Gaston poured ratafia. “And what has so fatigued Mademoiselle?”

  “I went to see Madame LaFleur in the Conciergerie.” Her eyes filled again.

  “Quel horreur! But that is no place for a young person.” He handed her the wine.

  “It isn’t a place for anyone but there are hundreds there. Children too.” She sipped. Gaston motioned for her to take another drink. She did.

  “There, that is better, no?”

  She did feel a little better.

  “We will not speak to his grace of this visit to a place it is not at all comme il faut to go, will we, Mademoiselle?”

  “That would offend the duc’s sensibilities, would it?” She shook her head. “I might have known. It must be horrible to work for such a man.”

  “Horrible?” Gaston seemed surprised.

  “Does he throw things? He would be just the type. I’ll wager he has a dreadful temper.”

  Gaston gave a very tiny smile. “When his grace is displeased he becomes very quiet and polite. His voice is like silk.” He shuddered. “A terrible thing to experience, I assure you.”

  Not what Françoise expected. Still … “Why do you stay?”

  Gaston drew himself up. “Does Mademoiselle know how difficult it is to find a patron worthy of my skills in this time of rabble and cowards? Nor would I deign to leave France for some barbaric outpost like London or Rome or … dear God save me, Vienna.” He shook his head sadly. “No, when one must work for the best, there is little choice. The duc is far above the competition in the best of times … the nicety of his taste, the demanding trust he puts in one to accomplish the impossible on a moment’s notice, and of course, the fact that he recognizes my superior skills. What is a little silken tone to those accomplishments?”

  Interesting perspective. She was about to ask more when the double doors to the library were flung open. A large man filled the doorway. He wore a starched white coat, an apron smudged with various sauces over his ample girth, and a hat that bloused over one ear. He was followed by a bevy of other servants, all male, carrying trays.

  “Never fear, my little pâte à choux. I, Pierre, have come with sustenance.” He waved the servants forward and pulled a low table in front of Françoise. The footmen put three trays down. Jean brought up the rear with a silver coffee service. Pierre pulled the cover off the first tray. “Voilà, quenelles. Salmon with a dill sauce, chicken with a curry sauce, and a light white fish with the lemon. A bite of each?” He did not pause for her consent but dished her up three of the delicate little pillows and covered them with sauces from silver gravy boats.

  “You … You should not have troubled yourself.”

  “Trouble? I made these for your luncheon. Should such brilliant food go to waste? I think not!” He poured some wine. “Here, a little white bordeaux to wash them down. And then I think you will not disdain this small soufflé with the cheese?” He pulled up another cover and added it to her dish. “And you may finish with the candied quinces and the buttered nuts. Just a little soupçon of pleasure to tide you over until you can eat properly with his grace tonight.”

  Françoise had to laugh. “If this is a soupçon, I am afraid to see what an entire meal would be.” Wait, might that not be an insult? “Actually, I have had an entire meal. Last night was supremely satisfying. The ragout of sweetbreads was extraordinary.”

  The large man’s florid face lit up like a lighthouse. “Ah, the duc, he demands the best. But he provides the best ingredients. A fair trade, I think. And of course, I never disappoint.”

  She tasted the chicken quenelle. It melted in her mouth. “Monsieur, this is heaven.”

  “But of course.” He bustled out, followed by footmen like a mother quail by her chicks.

  Gaston bowed crisply. “I must leave you also, mademoiselle. His grace will soon be rising, and he will require a bath.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “You have all been so very kind.”

  She was alone. Her wits came back slowly. The wine helped and the food. But nothing could erase the feeling that Madame was doomed unless Françoise could free her.

  And no one could do that but Avignon. He must help Madame. He just must.

  She couldn’t let him put her off. He might throw her out of the house if she importuned him. Without anywhere else to go … It didn’t matter. She had no choice. She was going to ask him and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had to do it now while she had her courage in her hands. And she knew where he was at this moment. Somewhere he couldn’t avoid her. He was about to take a bath.

  Six

  If only his servants weren’t all hovering about him when he bathed. Françoise wanted him alone, no servants there to throw her out, and he unable to leave because he was naked. Oh, dear. That caused the most distressing cascade of images.

  How did she know these things?

  She mustn’t think of that. She should think only of Madame. She stole up the stairway, her blood starting to pool in her center. Avignon naked. Shoulders, chest, belly, and …


  She shook her head to banish thought—at least those thoughts. She knew which room was his. He had shown her only this morning. Now she was glad the house was so dim. The lamp at the top of the stairs cast wavering shadows from its candle, but the light did not reach down the hall. She sidled up to the far side of the door to listen.

  He wasn’t alone. She could hear him giving orders to someone. His valet, Drummond? Whoever it was responded, “Very good, your grace,” to every command. How Avignon must love that clear, competent acquiescence. He was never challenged, was he?

  She heard footsteps approaching the door from inside the room and melted into the shadows at the end of the hall. A dapper man dressed with immaculate precision appeared and trotted down the main stairway. She crept up again and pressed her ear against the door. She could hear him moving in there, but he seemed to be alone. Perfect.

  She was almost shaking. Think of Madame LaFleur. She cracked the door and slid inside.

  The room was lit by candelabrum everywhere. She was aware of a massive bed off to the right, a dressing table holding gleaming silver brushes and a small knife for paring nails, a fireplace, several comfortable chairs. The impression was of red and black masculinity. But her gaze was captured by the figure in front of the large porcelain bath. His dressing gown was laid over a chair. At least he had his back to her. Golden light played over the muscles moving in his broad back, the gleaming roundness of his buttocks, the thick bands of muscle in his thighs. A coruscating vibration shouted that he was more alive than anyone she had ever known.

  He stilled under her gaze. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  She hated that insolent assurance. How did he know it was she? But she had no right to hate it. That insolent assurance was what could free Madame if he applied it to Robespierre. “For my friend, I would dare anything.” She felt herself blushing from head to toe.