by Joan Smith
“It was you who told me to depend on Mr. Fox! A week I have wasted waiting for Monsieur Renard to rise up off his haunches. They could be home by now.”
“It’s not too late.”
“It is nearly too late,” she said impatiently.
“I’ll come around first thing in the morning—early. At eight o’clock. Be up and dressed.” He felt some stirring of the blood at this decision. Some excitement that was caused not only by involving himself in the administration of the affair; he was beginning to tinker with the notion of going to Paris with the men himself. Surrounded by a group of French-speaking fellows, he could deal well enough, and would be of help in a brawl. He could handle his fists better than most.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be up and dressed long before that,” she replied, with a trace of irony that he mistook for worry. As if she could afford to wait till morning! She would go to Henri that very night. Mama would have preferred not to have to make use of Henri, but in her own heart, she had felt all along no one could manage the affair so well as her dear Henri.
Degan received no offer to come in for wine, but with a million things to consider, he was not disappointed. He dashed straight home and went to his safe to count how much money he had available, till he recalled Mérigot’s words that English money would attract attention. His wardrobe was ransacked for outfits, though he realized in advance he was unlikely to find either a bonnet rouge or a carmagnole there.
When Harlock returned from the play, he found his daughter waiting up for him. “I thought you had a headache,” he said.
“It is gone. Papa, how much money do I have?”
“What, is all the money I gave you gone?”
“Yes, I had much to buy. But I mean real money.”
“You have spent a great deal, my dear.”
“I need five hundred pounds, Papa,” she said bluntly, unapologetically.
“Impossible! Lud, you’ve never taken up gambling, Sal?”
“No, I have heard of a poor émigré family that is destitute. The girl sick and the boy crippled, unable to work. They need a doctor, Papa, and money for food. I want to give them five hundred pounds of my own money, that Aunt Dee left me.”
“It seems a large sum to throw away, but if you want to play Lady Bountiful, I’ll go to the bank tomorrow.”
“I would like it tonight, Papa. Tomorrow very early Henri is coming to take me to them. You have some money in your safe, non?”
“Not five hundred pounds. Nothing like it.”
“How much?”
“Maybe two hundred.”
“That will do,” she decided, and arose that moment to go with him to the safe to get in her own hands the two hundred pounds.
“I will be gone with Henri when you wake up tomorrow, Papa. Don’t expect me back before lunch. The family is in a great hurry, and Henri and I may do some shopping for them.”
“Very well, but mind you don’t go into a diseased house and come down with a fever. Let Henry do it.”
“You would like that, eh, Papa? For Henri to catch a fever and die.”
“I don’t wish the boy any ill.”
“Kind of you,” she answered quite sharply, and turned to leave. Then suddenly she looked over her shoulder, to see him frowning abjectly at his fall from favor. With a worry that she might not see him again, she ran and threw her arms around him. “I love you, Papa. You are a wicked chou, but I love you. Remember that.”
“I love you too, Sal,” he answered humbly. “As to Mérigot,” he went on, in the tone of a concession, “if your heart is quite set on bringing him into this family...” He stopped just short of complete capitulation.
She waited a moment for him to go on, but in the end was in too great a hurry to wait for him to overcome his obvious reluctance. She went to her room, holding the important money, rooting through her drawers for the carte civile of Agnès Maillard. The tatters she had worn to London had long since been discarded, but Henri would arrange clothing.
To reach him, she wore her plainest gown and a dark pelisse and bonnet, like a Christian. Say that at least for England. They had not made God an outlaw, as they had in France. She waited till her father went to his room before slipping silently down the dark stairs, to run through the empty streets like a shadow in the night, unnoticed till she came at last to the district where Henri lived. While this location was respectable, it was not the best district, and an unescorted female passed without comment. He was at the door, looking out for her.
“I knew you would come, Minou,” he said tenderly, taking her hands. They entered together into a smallish, inelegant saloon, where lamps were lit, and wine waiting to be poured.
“Oh, Henri, you are not living in this hovel!” she said, looking around with dismay at the cramped quarters, with shabby furnishings.
“I do better than some of our countrymen,” he replied, reaching to remove her pelisse and take her bonnet. “It is temporary. A rather long temporary, but one day things will be better.”
“We will arrange it later. Nothing has been done, Henri. You were right all along, and I a fool to trust the anglais.”
“Hush, chérie,” he cautioned, putting a finger to her lips. “They mean well, but are only stupid and slow-moving. It means less to them. What do they care if two more Frenchies have their necks stretched on the guillotine?”
“Papa cares. Of that I am sure, but he trusts Fox too much.”
“Cares? He would not have cast your mother aside if he cared. Nor would he have treated me as he has all these seven years I have been in London, starving half the time. Not a word would he put in for me in the right circles. With only a little recognition from him I might have obtained a post that would have enabled me to live decently. But he has always been jealous of me. It is true. You know it.”
“He has treated you badly, but he has been the soul of kindness to me. You are not his son, after all, Henri, and since I am here he has treated you better. I will make him accept you. He has as well as done it.”
“He knows your mother would have wished it. Eh bien, n’importe. We have more important things to discuss. Now I think you see the wisdom of my preparations. It is clear I must go myself and rescue Marie.”
“Yes, it is the only way. Even Degan thinks so now.”
“That cautious old parson would know, hein?”
She smiled deprecatingly at the description. “What preparations have you made, chéri?”
“I have done all I could do without money. I have the cartes civiles, the outfits, a good up-to-date map of Paris, some assignats. Not as much as I would like. I have sold or pawned all that I have. I have not arranged for horses to meet us, but Rasselin has made arrangements for a crossing on the smuggling lugger. It remains only to select a few men to go with me. DuVal and—”
“I go with you too.”
“No, ma chére, your mother would never forgive me. You have had one miraculous escape. This time, I go.”
“I would be more help than any of them. I have the most recent information on Paris. I have some few connections, with the Maillards at Berck for one thing. I know the Maison Belhomme and can show you Mama’s room there. We might manage to get to her window at night, Henri, and bring her out that way. I know all the routine at the asylum, where she walks in the orchard, and the servants, and so on. I must go.”
“Too dangerous. I don’t want to lose you so soon, when I have just got you back after all these years. I am older. You must listen to me, Minou.”
“Henri, don’t try that old stunt on me. You are older, but I am smarter. Who saved you and Édouard from being arrested for breaking the windows at the Maison de Ville? Who went right into the office and wept bitter tears for the gray hairs it would give Mama?”
He laughed in fond memory. “True, you were a very precocious little girl. But don’t think the old man fell in love with you! You flatter yourself, ma mie. Édouard and I paid him handsomely to forget our names, and let us go.”
“So I would, and will do it yet if the guillotine hasn’t beat me to him. You’re very sure of your charms. Still up to your old tricks, too. I see you working them on Degan. He is falling in love with you, you know. I measure his infatuation by the strength of his glares at me. He has taken into his head to be jealous of me.”
“Well, he is not too bright, Henri.” She laughed.
“Don’t think to marry an Englishman, petite. You know the sort of life Harlock led your mother.”
“I know what a merry chase she led him. No, don’t pout. She behaved very badly to Papa.”
“A Frenchman would have understood. You want to marry a handsome French rogue like Henri Mérigot. He is ready to understand and forgive all to a rich wife. Oh, did you manage to get some money?”
“Only two hundred. It is all Papa had in the house.”
“I thought you possessed a fortune!”
“It is all tied up in a trust or something stupid, as though I were a child.”
“All nice and safe for your husband to squander for you. Never mind, give me the two hundred.”
She handed it to him. “Can we leave tonight?” she asked.
“We? I thought I had made clear you stay home. I shall take Jacques, but the two hundred will be a welcome companion. How does one procure assignats nowadays?”
“There, you see? How will you manage without me?”
“More to the point, how will I manage with you? A young, unmarried lady would be a distinct inconvenience.”
“Then I go as a boy. That is no problem.”
“A problem raises its ugly head, quand même, when we return, and the world hears Lady Céleste has been jauntering off to Paris with the disreputable Henri Mérigot, without benefit of chaperon.”
“Henri Mérigot is not disreputable! Only poor, and the world will not hear it. I have left Papa a note with instructions how he should proceed during my absence. I am to have a very bad cold, and be confined without visitors for a week. And if the world does hear of it, then Papa must accept you, to save my reputation.”
“He’ll be sure I talked you into this, and hate me worse than ever. He’ll find that note and come after you. He will know where to come, too.”
“He is gone to bed. He won’t know till tomorrow. I mean to go, Henri. You know you can’t stop me. You waste precious minutes in trying. Are you quite sure you want to leave me behind with Parson Degan?” she asked with an arch smile.
“What a saucy piece you have grown into, Mademoiselle Sally. Very well, if you have the gall to attempt it, I shan’t offer any more objections. But I think you would be much wiser to remain safely here.”
“Much wiser, and much more unhappy. I go. Now, let us make preparations. Is there any reason we cannot leave tonight? Just you and I? No need to go tracking a whole army through France. You have assorted cartes civiles. I’ll take a boy’s, and wear boy’s clothing.”
“Very well, I’ll stuff a few things in a bag for you. And Minou, take along Agnès’ carte too, just in case. It at least is not forged. I wish I had arranged for horses at Calais, but it can’t be helped.”
“We can take your carriage as far as Dover, n’est-ce pas? It will be faster.”
“It was my intention.”‘
“Good. Allons.” Already she was standing.
“A glass of wine first to drink to our success?” he suggested.
“Why not? It will be the last decent thing we have to drink for many days. The wine, how it has gone bad at home, Henri. Some are saying it is God’s judgment on the government. And the food—impossible! Take bread with you. We shall gorge like the bears before we go, to fortify ourselves for the long starvation.”
“I have been starved for seven years, dining on dry English mutton and potatoes, with no decent sauce. And what they call a ragoût one would not serve to a dog at home. Always they pass it to me, considering it quite a kindness I believe.”
“These days one is happy for any ragoût in France. The dogs are fortunate if they don’t end up in it. Ragoût au chien—a new treat.”
They drank two glasses of wine, chatted very amiably the whole time, then went together in the dead of night, two dark figures in a light, open carriage with a very small suitcase containing their supplies for the perilous journey. They sat huddled together for protection from the cool, damp breeze, and for companionship. At Maidstone, Sally’s eyelids began to flutter, and she leaned against Henri’s shoulder.
“Sleep, Minou,” he commanded, putting an arm around her to hold her on to the open seat.
She felt cozy and safe, with Henri to look after her, as he used to, long ago. How good it was to be with dear Henri again. Soon they would all be together as they used to be in France. Better, because they would be with Papa too.
Chapter Nine
At five minutes before eight the next morning, Degan was impatiently pounding the knocker of the mansion on Berkeley Square. Sally was careless of time, but on this occasion he trusted the exigency of the matter would assure her punctual presence. He was a little disappointed that she had to be called, but accepted a cup of coffee and resigned himself to the wait. It was a very brief one. The servant reappeared within three minutes to tell him she was gone from her room.
“Impossible!” was his first word, but he was soon altering it to request an audience with the father. She had decided to go to La Forge alone—or more probably with Mérigot. Maybe she meant to fetch Mérigot here for them all to go together. She might better have sent him a note—not the thing for her to go to a gentleman’s apartments alone. In his vexation, he dashed up to Harlock’s room without further waste of time.
“Ah, Degan!” Harlock said, rubbing his eyes. “You are come looking for Sal? She’s gone off with Mérigot this morning. Told me last night she was to go. They are taking money to some French family that are in the basket.”
“What family? Where can I find them?”
“Lud, how should I know? They’ll come back here later, I trust. Go downstairs and have some breakfast. I’ll be with you presently.”
Degan had not taken a seat, nor did he take his leave. “When was all this settled? She was to meet me at eight this morning. Why did she not let me know?”
“She said nothing to me about it. Must have forgotten. She is a shatter-brained little baggage—but kind. It was kind in her to want to give her own money to the émigrés. Took every penny I had in the house.”
This sounded highly suspicious to Degan. “She hasn’t given the money to any émigrés. It’s for Mérigot. He’s gone to Paris to rescue her mother.”
“Good God!” Harlock leaped from his bed, his nightshirt falling to his knees. “Is it possible you’re right? I wondered last night when she came back and told me she loved me... I thought it had a final sound to it. Fair shook me up.”
“You don’t think she’s gone to Paris with him?” Degan shouted. He knew at once it was true. That nagging impatience he had felt, without quite knowing its cause—this was what he had feared. That she would dash off to Paris, and he’d never see her again. Like a dream, she’d vanish and he’d never see her again. It was unthinkable. “Which is her room?” he asked in a hollow voice.
He bolted into the hallway without waiting to hear, and opened a few doors till he recognized her gown from the night before, hanging on the wall. He stood a moment, looking around, feeling her presence in the chamber. A faint lingering scent of muguet des bois brought her nearer. Then he began to notice other things. A small likeness of Marie and three children. Herself and Mérigot—the other would be Édouard, of course. Mérigot had an arm around her shoulder possessively. He knew they had shared the same roof in Paris, but it angered him to see this reminder of it by her bed.
There were other items that surprised him. A little toy guillotine that actually worked—that had, in fa
ct, a toy doll’s head in the basket. A pile of French newspapers, well read, underlined in red. A calendar with strange days and months on it—the new revolutionary calendar. This was a side of Sally he had hardly been exposed to. Occasionally she had spoken to him on those experiences, but how greatly it had influenced her he had not realized. In her mind, she was always half in France still, living under the shadow of the national razor, as she casually referred to that infernal machine of execution.
“Maybe his lordship should have this now that he’s awake,” a servant said. Interested in the room, he had not heard her approach. “Lady Céleste left it with me for her father,” the girl went on, handing an envelope to him.
“Thank you.” He snatched the envelope and dashed back to Harlock’s room.
It was torn open anxiously by the father. “We’re right. She’s gone off to Paris with Henry,” he said resignedly. “Left last night. They’re beyond catching now.”
Degan tore the letter from his hands and read it closely. A towering rage consumed him. “This is all your doing!” he accused, rounding on the distracted father in wrath. “If you had done something about saving your wife, it wouldn’t have been necessary for Sally to do this. My God, to France!” The vision of the toy guillotine reared up in his mind, in the shadow of the larger, life-sized one. The head in the basket—it could be Sally’s. A sick, empty feeling was in the pit of his stomach.
“She’s with Henry. She’s safe enough.”
“Safe with that damned French gigolo! That’s the worst part of it. Even if she gets out alive, she’s ruined. Have you no sense, no responsibility?”
“You don’t understand, Degan.”
“You’re damned right I don’t. I don’t understand how you can be such a fool, or me either.”
He turned and strode swiftly from the room, taking another look into Sally’s chamber on the way down the hall. He snatched up the newspapers, thinking he might discover something of use in them. As he was now on his way to France, it would be as well to discover what he could of recent doings there. He went to his carriage and directed his driver to La Forge.