Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  You are so far gone, girl. We better get out of here pronto. The weight of the soft bottle in her right hand seemed to triple. Make him a drink.

  The very fact that she wanted him to kiss her meant the voice was right. She had to leave him now. Tonight. “I don’t know what I want,” Françoise said in a small voice. “Maybe the truth. Maybe I just want a drink.” She turned to the sideboard that held the cut-glass brandy decanter. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him lean his elbow on the mantel and put one boot on the andirons in a pose grown familiar over the last days. He stared into the cold firebox. With her back turned, she took the soft purple bottle and pressed on the top. One side flipped up.

  “It’s time to get you down to the warehouse. The Maiden Voyage leaves for England in four days. You’ll be on a barge to meet it in three. Jennings will take care of you until then.”

  “Is that where you keep them? The ones you rescue?” She squeezed.

  More. He’s not human.

  “Yes. There are rooms fitted out behind the back wall.”

  She poured more into the drink. If the drug could kill him, the voice would not have been after her about using the sword. She glanced behind her, but he was still staring into the grate. He was going to hate her. The next moments would be the last time she saw him. She slid the purple bottle behind a Sèvres vase and poured brandy into the glass. It made a big drink. She poured a small one for herself.

  Holding her breath, she took the two glasses and turned. He was so beautiful, standing there. And he had been kind to her. More than kind.

  Do it. Or I swear to drive you really crazy.

  She put her mouth into some kind of smile and held out his glass. “You do good work then.” She was going to hate herself for this as much as he would hate her.

  He took it. “Never enough. Never. You’ve seen the prison.”

  She tried to breathe. He took the glass and downed it in several gulps. “But it has to be done,” he continued. “And my condition makes me ideally suited …”

  He trailed off, his mouth pressed into a grim line, and shook his head. He set his glass on the mantel. Françoise realized she was trembling. When would it take effect? What would he do if he realized what she’d done?

  He took a breath as though to say something else, blinked rapidly a couple of times. His gaze slid to the glass on the mantel and then to Françoise. His eyes hardened. He looked around the room. She could see his eyes were swimming. He caught sight of the soft purple bottle peeking from behind the vase on the sideboard and pushed past her.

  “You little fool,” he whispered. “Where did you get laudanum in this strength?” His steps slowed. He practically fell against the sideboard as he grabbed for the bottle, his eyes questioning. “What … ?”

  And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. The soft purple bottle slid from his loosened grasp. What had she done? Françoise ran to him and knelt.

  He’s not dead. He just swallowed enough morphine to take down an elephant, that’s all.

  What did the voice know? She felt for the pulse in his throat under his cravat. It beat back at her, slow and steady. Françoise sighed in relief. He wasn’t dead. Now she could go, on to whatever life of shame and regret was left to her.

  The other who shared her body was startled by that thought. You won’t regret this.

  “Yes I will,” Françoise whispered. Tumult sounded in the hall. Raised voices, many feet. Françoise stood, heart in her mouth. “All my life.”

  “Where is he, man?”

  “Do you want to end up with a haircut from Madame G?”

  “We’ll find him anyway.”

  The clatter grew closer. Françoise looked to the figure of Avignon, sprawled on the carpet, both parts of her dismayed. Before she could do more, the door burst open and the little man she had grown to hate strode through the door, booted soldiers in his wake. At the sight of Henri, unconscious, he stopped. His gaze swept over Françoise, around the room, then back to Henri. Then a smile crept across his mouth.

  “Well, well.” He crossed the carpet and pushed at Henri’s rib cage with one foot. His chest rose and fell. “I’ve never seen Foucault drunk. And he certainly wasn’t drunk when he was with you at the Conciergerie tonight, freeing prisoners.”

  So they knew it was Henri. This was bad. Worse, they connected her to his actions.

  If I hadn’t stopped you touching him, he would have taken you to a garret to give you his blood. He wouldn’t have been home when these assholes arrived. This is new territory.

  Françoise felt her blush increase. Such language! And what did the voice mean about Henri giving her his blood?

  Madame Croûte pushed in behind the soldiers, who had ranged themselves around the perimeter of the library. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  Robespierre shook his head, a puzzled look on his face. “But he’s unconscious.”

  “Good. I’d hate to lose the chance to question him.” Her eyes were avaricious.

  Françoise could see Gaston and Jean in the hallway. Gaston was wringing his hands.

  Robespierre walked over to where the opaque purple bottle lay and bent to pick it up. He sniffed at it and drew back in distaste.

  Madame Croûte snatched it from him and sniffed. “Laudanum? Not … quite.”

  “Probably related.” Robespierre turned to Françoise. “Perhaps I misjudged you. When we saw you there, we knew for certain it was he who was committing these criminal acts against the Republic. We considered you an accomplice. But you weren’t in on it with him, were you? You went to confirm your own suspicions then acted on what you saw. You have done the people’s business tonight.” They thought she’d drugged Henri to turn him over to the Committee of Public Safety? Worse, they were only here because her presence had betrayed him.

  “How does he do it?” Robespierre asked.

  She had to keep herself out of prison if she was to help Henri. She couldn’t leave him in these straits. “I … I’ve no idea.” That, at least, was the truth. “I saw only what your guards saw.”

  The voice sighed. You’re not going to leave him, even if they let you go.

  Robespierre frowned. “They say he just disappears. Some illusion, surely.”

  What, no mention of red eyes and whirling blackness? Maybe no one wants to tell him.

  Madame Croûte knelt beside Henri. “This one is slippery. We must take extra precautions. I want him chained, alone, in plain sight of guards at all times. Strip him to make sure he has no weapons on him.” She caressed the line of his jaw. “Don’t feel you have to be gentle. I’ll be by to question him.”

  “Do you feel that rigorous questioning is a woman’s work, my dear?” Robespierre asked.

  He really knows jack about her, doesn’t he?

  Françoise had a dreadful sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Madame Croûte only smiled. “I’ll have what you need from him. The only pity is that we’ll have to wait until the drug wears off before he can feel anything.” She turned the strange opaque bottle in her hands, squeezed it, and gave a little gasp when the material rebounded to its original shape. “What is this thing? Witchcraft?” She narrowed her eyes at Françoise.

  “Avignon imported it. A new kind of bottle,” she lied without thinking.

  They’ll have him in the Place de Revolution in the end. That’s what happened last time according to Donna. Maybe the guillotine is the best answer. The voice didn’t sound sure, though. He can’t infect you if he’s dead.

  What happened last time? What did that mean? Guillotine is the best answer to anything? Who is mad now? Françoise thought back. If the voice could hear her thoughts, she didn’t need to say it aloud. They are going to torture him to find out where he hides the prisoners. He doesn’t deserve that. If she breaks him, the families don’t deserve what will happen to them either. And I’m not going to let Henri get his head cut off.

  The voice was silent at that. Maybe it hadn’t heard
her after all.

  “You have done your work well, my child.” Robespierre smiled kindly. How could he smile like that when he was going to allow his dreadful mistress to torture Henri? “You have the gratitude of the Revolutionary Council.” The soldiers dragged Henri’s body past Gaston and Jean. She had betrayed him!

  Mother Mary, forgive me. She wasn’t sure which one of them thought that.

  Madame Croûte stared after Henri. “Would you like to see me break him, child?” She glanced to Françoise. Her expression was remote, serene, as though she weren’t really present in the room anymore. “The process is quite … exciting. Or would you rather wait for the guillotine?”

  Françoise felt her knees buckle. Sacredieu, what had she done? She looked from one to the other of them, then out to Gaston, who was glaring at her. Jean looked only confused. Madame Croûte raised her brows, encouraging.

  “I’ll wait.” Françoise wasn’t sure whose voice had managed to answer.

  Seventeen

  Françoise stood with Gaston and Jean watching the front door close. Outside the clatter of boots, the clop of hooves, and the shouts slowly diminished. She felt full and completely empty at the same time.

  “Why,” Gaston asked as they stared at the door. “After all his kindness to you?”

  Françoise felt the tears roll down her cheeks. “I never meant this to happen.” That much was true. She couldn’t say that a voice inside her that might actually be a part of her had wanted to kill him. She should never have let the voice talk her into even drugging him. If only she’d been stronger! “I couldn’t let him give me carte blanche, either here or in England. I couldn’t be anywhere around him …” Because he’d infect her with his disease. That was it, wasn’t it? Or was it that Madame Vercheroux had said so clearly that he would never love her? She couldn’t say that either. “For reasons I can’t explain. And then I realized he might be helping those families who were facing the guillotine and that we never really knew him, any of us, because he wasn’t just the wicked duc who gambled and dallied with married women, but a man of principle who risked his life for others. And if that was true he wouldn’t let me go even if I managed to escape, he’d find me to try to save me from my decisions.” The words were tumbling out. “When I went to the prison to see for myself if it was him, and what that would tell me about who he was, I didn’t know my very presence would condemn him. I never meant him to be captured. I meant to give him the drug so he would hate me for it, and not come after me.”

  Suddenly her knees wouldn’t hold her anymore. She sank to the floor, heaving sobs that caught in her throat. Gaston bent and patted her back.

  “There, there, petite. We will find a way to free him.”

  She looked up at him and saw he didn’t believe that. He and Jean exchanged looks. They were wondering what would become of them with their employer tortured and executed.

  “I didn’t mean for them to take him,” she repeated, as much to herself as to them.

  “Well, we have some time. They will not torture him until the drug wears off.” Gaston’s brows drew together in thought. “Perhaps the general could put in a word for him …”

  That sounded so tenuous.

  But it might be all they had. “I’ll ask him personally,” she said. She wondered why the voice, so intent on getting her away from Henri a few moments ago, was now silent as she made plans to gain his release. Perhaps it was shamed by the fact that they had delivered him to the tender mercies of Madame Croûte. She certainly was.

  Henri managed to raise his eyelids. It seemed a monumental effort. Darkness was punctuated by coronas of light. He couldn’t seem to move his limbs. Something was scraping at him. He couldn’t tell what it was. Dull red surrounded him. Was his Companion turning the world red? No. Only parts were red. Cuffs, collars. Uniforms. Voices echoed. He couldn’t understand them. Were they shouting at him, or did it just seem that way?

  His hands were above his head. They were pulling on him. Dragging him across stones. That was what was scraped. He didn’t feel it though. Everything was far away. Laughter echoed, deep and masculine, around him, distorted into something hellish.

  She had done this. Drugged him. The one sure way to subdue his Companion. She must know what he was after all. And was so appalled that she betrayed him. That was the only thing that hurt him through his haze. They bumped him up some stairs. A horrible clanking sounded, a screech of rusted metal. They dumped him on the stones. Then they were tearing at his clothes. More laughter. They pushed and prodded him as they stripped him, turning him this way and that. Pulling on his boots. The voices turned angry. Fighting over his clothes.

  He felt cold iron. He rolled his head to watch them lock heavy shackles on wrists that seemed to belong to someone else. He heard a thud and couldn’t breathe for a moment. They were kicking him. But it didn’t hurt. Cold iron on his ankles. He couldn’t raise his head to look. Chains clanked, metal on metal. The sound echoed in his brain. They hauled him up to standing. He hung from his wrists, his arms stretched wide. His head lolled forward, his hair cascading over his chest, escaped from its queue. They grabbed his ankles, pulled them apart.

  One yanked his head up by his hair. The soldier’s face was grotesque, the nose out of all proportion, the lips stretched impossibly wide in a grin. He was saying something Henri couldn’t understand. He felt the punches in the gut, dully. Shouts came from somewhere, and laughter. The soldier spat in his face.

  They went away. Henri hung there, trying to hold on to consciousness.

  But he couldn’t.

  Françoise paced her room, unable to sleep in spite of the fact that it was nearly four in the morning. How soon could she call upon the general? Ten of the clock? Six hours. But they wouldn’t torture him until after the drugs had worn off. How long would that take? And they were going to torture him before they sent him to the guillotine. There was time. Dear God, please don’t let me have killed him.

  She sat, quite suddenly, in a chair she was passing. The moon shone in through her windows, open to catch any hint of a breeze in the July heat that held the city in an odiferous embrace. Her thoughts were a jumble of exhausted fragments.

  Maybe I could sneak in with another of those bottles and drug his guards, she thought. Implausible and suicidal. Where was the bossy voice now when she needed some direction? “You’ve been remarkably silent,” she whispered.

  I’m thinking.

  “I hope you’re thinking of a way to set him free. You say he’s a monster, but he’s not.”

  Hello-o-o. Red eyes. Whirling blackness? The voice had a very strange way of talking.

  “Hello-o-o, yourself. His actions aren’t those of a monster.”

  You … you may be right … I never knew that about him the first time.

  “A man’s soul makes him a monster, not whatever …” She swallowed. “Whatever he can do that other men can’t. Madame LaFleur said I had to look beyond the surface.”

  Advice I didn’t hear the first time around … That’s one reason I’m thinking.

  Which brought up another point. One Françoise could no longer avoid. She had never asked because she was afraid she didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The voice sounded as exhausted as she was. Or maybe it was world-weary, a state long past exhaustion.

  “Why do I feel as though I’ve done everything, seen everything, before? That began when I started hearing you.”

  Françoise searched her mind, but nothing answered her. “Well, I’m going to help him,” she said. “And don’t you try any tricks with headaches. The only thing you’ll do is drive me to throw myself off the Pont Neuf. And then where would you be?”

  I’m thinking about that too.

  Henri squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, then opened them. He was still muzzy-headed, but it wasn’t as bad as before. He raised his head. Pain sent waves of nausea through him. He swa
llowed, trying to control his stomach. At least that meant the drugs were wearing off. He breathed in the stench of … prison: body odor, old damp stone, urine, blood.

  Blinking, he tried to focus on the cell around him. He was shackled, naked, in the middle of the cell by long and very heavy chains that went through rings in the low ceiling and were fastened to more rings bolted into the stone on either side of the cell and well out of reach. Blood drooled at his wrists from the rough edges on the shackles. The drug was still retarding his healing. That was bad. If anybody with an open wound touched his blood, they’d be dead in hours. He looked down. His ankles were locked to two rings set in the floor. He was spread-eagled. Effective restraint if he were an ordinary man. It wouldn’t hold him, once the drug was out of his system. Until then he was trapped.

  Torchlight flickered in the corridor, though outside the sun was high. A guard paced outside the cell. No, two, with hands on the pommels of their swords. A third guard stood in shadows directly across from the cell, two pistols, fully cocked, laid against his shoulders. The metalwork gleamed in the torchlight.

  Companion! He called the organism that was his other half just to see if it could answer yet. His blood stirred sluggishly. Not nearly enough to give him strength to pull those rings out of the walls or to translocate. But he could feel again. His head hurt like the devil. He had some broken ribs. Breathing hurt anyway.

  Françoise had drugged him. The thought hurt more than his ribs or his head. Was she really in league with Robespierre and his hell-spawned lover? He’d be out of here soon. But that would be bad, somehow. He needed a plan. He couldn’t think …

  His head sank slowly onto his chest.

  Sometime later, he woke again. The sun had set. Someone was opening the cell door.

  “Bring that over here.” It was a woman’s voice. Uncultured. Croûte. Her shape was silhouetted against the light of the torches the guards held high. They brought in a metal bowl of glowing coals, held by two wooden handles, and set it on a tripod. Another guard brought in a small folding table. He set it up near the brazier and laid out a box with knives that gleamed like silver crescent moons.