Minuet

by Joan Smith

  “What have they done, put gardes around the house?” she asked, chewing her bread and sounding as if she were merely making mealtime conversation.

  “The whole place is cordoned off. You couldn’t get a cat into it. The only thing allowed in there will be the charrette to take him to the little window.” He laughed, then rolled his lunch paper into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “Well, back to work, while you lucky people sit here and soak up the sun. You should all be home making saltpeter out of your ashes.”

  “He’s right. Let’s go,” Sally said, and she and Degan strolled off to discuss what they had discovered.

  “Things seem to be in enough confusion, anyway,” he said hopefully.

  “It’s a bad sign with so many rumors. It means everyone is talking about it—in officialdom, I mean. Sooner or later they’ll hit on the truth. Imagine—Henri had already half escaped on them. He is up to anything, non? And I don’t think he was ever in Beaufort’s house, either. But they’ll watch him more closely now.”

  It was decided they would walk along to the neighborhood where the three new houses were located and see if they could weasel any news out of a garde or chance passerby.

  The streets had not actually been cordoned off. It was possible to venture to the corner of the block on which the houses were situated, but in front of the houses on the rue Tournelle a whole army of gardes paraded, everyone of them looking irritable, hostile, due perhaps to the sweltering sun and the irksome duty of walking up and down an empty street all day long.

  “We daren’t go talk to them,” Sally decided. “It will be a repetition of the last encounter, only worse. We’ll circle around a block and see how the approach from the rear is guarded.”

  They did this, peering between the spaces of the houses on the opposite side of the block, and fixing in their minds which red-brick backs of buildings were the two in question. They could see no gardes at the rear, but to venture onto such prestigious precincts in broad daylight was madness. Minou was certain these homes now housed members of the Convention. “We’ll have to come back after dark,” she told Degan.

  They got a good grasp of their bearings to be sure they could identify them in the dark, then went along to St.-Honore to see the last prison. It was surrounded by many curious onlookers. Minou thought they were there to try for a glimpse of Henri. “What’s the big attraction?” she asked a woman standing beside her.

  The woman shrugged. “There must be something going on,” Minou continued.

  “Everyone wants to get a look at Robespierre’s last home, I guess,” she was told.

  It was dangerous to admit not knowing this was the home lately lived in by the Incorruptible. “Being used as a prison now?” she continued to the woman.

  “They have a couple in there calling themselves nobility,” the woman agreed.

  No names were mentioned, but the rescuers thought they had discovered what they wished to know. “I guess they have the Commune members locked up on the rue de Tournelle?” Minou ventured.

  “Yes, they’ll be loading them onto the charrettes any time now. I’ll be going along to Sainte Guillotine.”

  “Are the charrettes stopping off here to pick up these two prisoners?” Sally asked.

  “Je ‘sais pas,” she was told.

  They walked along a bit apart from the crowd. “We’ll wait here and see if they come for him,” Minou said to Degan. “Maybe they do mean to kill him today in case he escapes, and are keeping it quiet to fool us, his rescuers.”

  “What if they do come for him?” Degan asked, his own mind coursing ahead to wild ideas of attempted rescues, none of them feasible, and he knew it. Henri would be chained, as he had been himself. There would be hundreds of gardes, and thousands of onlookers by that time. Madness, them without even a weapon.

  “We can do nothing,” she answered, her voice breaking, “but I must know.”

  For an hour and a half they stood, till the sounding of the bells and the roll of drums told them the charrettes were coming, along their usual route. There were seven of them, each full of men. It was hard to try to pick Henri out from the crowd. There were tall men and short, old and younger, blue jackets and black. The faces showed fear, belligerence, pride and disdain. One old fellow looked terribly bored with the whole thing, and another was laughing, incredible though it seemed. He was a tall, dark younger gentleman. For an awful moment Minou thought it was Henri, but it was not.

  “We don’t want to see the execution,” Degan said, drawing her away. “We know Henry’s not in with this lot. We’ve got to get ahold of some kind of weapon. We can do nothing without even a gun.”

  “I want to make sure he’s not executed. Let us go.”

  “No, Minou,” he insisted, knowing she would break down if he were there, get herself thrown into prison. “He would be in the charrettes if he was to go to the guillotine today. They’ll make a great spectacle of his execution, as you said. We can’t waste time. Come.”

  She allowed herself to be taken away, looking white and limp, and her eyes staring wildly. “We need a glass of brandy,” he decided. They went along till they came to a small tavern and entered to take a small table in an inconspicuous corner.

  They had no sooner been served than three gardes entered, their pikes held across their chests, bringing the establishment into a state of alarm, especially the two clients in the far, dark corner. “An inspection of identity cards,” the main garde announced in an important voice, looking all around. The patrons reached resignedly for their cartes, while one of the other gardes spoke to the proprietor, who was complaining that this sort of thing was bad for business.

  “Who are you looking for, anyway?” he finished up.

  “A red-haired girl and a big black-haired man. Suspected of spying for the English.”

  The culprits sat still, looking desperately into each other’s eyes, silently thanking God it was not two males being looked for. Their bundle of clothing was silently pushed behind the chair against the wall. Agnès Maillard’s card was right in it, to establish guilt if found. Degan realized they should have gotten rid of these things sooner. Under the table, he felt a small, warm hand find its way into his. The fingers were trembling, as were his own. He squeezed them reassuringly, but felt in truth they were as well as caught.

  The gardes went from table to table, asking for cards and examining the patrons closely. The small table in the corner was the last to be searched, allowing ample time for nerves to become lacerated. Degan knew if they required a single word from him he was done for. His eyes closed, he yawned widely without covering his mouth, and let his head loll on his shoulder. He heard a garde speak to Minou.

  “You seen anything of a red-headed girl and a big dark-haired man, fellow?”

  “You want a big dark-haired man, take this one,” she said, and laughed ironically. “His wife will be glad enough to be rid of him. What have they done, eh?”

  “They are enemies of the Republic,” was the stiff reply. “You there, drunkard,” the garde said to Degan, giving his shoulder a jostle. “Wake up.”

  He emitted a snort and let his head jerk to his chest. “Better get him home before he passes out entirely,” the garde advised her.

  “Looks like I’m too late. The brandy beat me to it. I’ll send his wife after him. He’ll be wishing you had arrested him when she gets hold of him. What a harridan she is.”

  “You’re pretty young to be in a place like this,” the garde told her sternly. “Is that your father?”

  “Uncle,” she said unhesitatingly.

  “Let’s see your cards.” She handed him her own, and pulled Degan’s out of his pocket. The man glanced at them and handed them back.

  He beat the end of his pike on the floor and announced to the assembled patrons a description of the two criminals wanted by the Commune, then accepted a glass of brandy from the proprietor and drank it at his leisure before resuming his thankless chore. At last the gardes left.

/>   “There go ten more years,” Minou said, gulping in relief.

  “It felt more like a lifetime to me,” he replied, and raised a finger for more brandy. No longer deleterious, it was all that kept him from expiring. He was grateful it had not been diluted.

  Chapter Twenty

  After an interval long enough for them to have three brandies each and ensure that the gardes had moved a block along, they arose and wandered out into the street, in search of a weapon. Where to begin looking? The whole city was a war factory. Soldiers swarmed through the streets; the Luxembourg Gardens and the Invalides housed forges; the churches and former convent were depots for the army; in the homes of the former elite, bands of women and children sat sewing uniforms, rolling bandages, making tents for the National Army. But where in all this was a gun to be found?

  “I begin to think our best bet is to knock out a soldier and steal one,” Degan suggested. “It will have to be done in some back street after dark.”

  “It will also have to be done very carefully,” Minou cautioned.

  For something to do, they walked along to the rue St.-Honore, around to the block opposite to inspect the rear as best they could, which was not very well. “That is where we slip in tonight after dark,” Minou told him, pointing out an alley between the two buildings. “It will take us to the back of his prison.”

  Degan nodded, straining his eyes to try for a view of the back of the mentioned house, but there was a spreading tree in his line of sight. Good concealment, at least. As evening drew on, they began wending their way toward the Maison Belhomme, so very far away, stopping for more bread and cheese and a glass of wine at a small, cheap restaurant, then with darkness descended, they continued on to the rue de Charonne.

  In the shadows, Degan changed into his boxer’s jacket and better trousers, and Minou hid in the bushes while he went inside to pretend to Lady Harlock that all was proceeding satisfactorily. She was acute, like her daughter, and knew at once he was disturbed, but he talked it away as nerves, which sounded logical enough. She was in high gig herself. Édouard was rallying nicely. She related the meals he had eaten, which caused Degan’s mouth to water. He hoped he would never have to eat another bite of cheese and bread, and heard with envy of the chicken and fruit that had tempted Édouard into taking a few bites.

  “How soon can he travel?” he asked.

  “At the rate he’s going, in three or four days.”

  “Do you think Belhomme’s asylums will escape change for that long?”

  “Madame Belhomme is very worried, but so far she has not been contacted. She will have advance notice from her friends. Come back each night, and I will keep you informed. Édouard would like to meet you. He has been anxious to do so.”

  Degan wanted to get away as quickly as possible, but the woman looked at him with too sharp a regard. She suspected he was troubled, and to allay her fears he went up to meet Edward. The man—boy, really—lay back against the pillows with his eyes open, bright and alert in a face so emaciated the jaws were sunken. They were introduced, then Edward requested his mother get him a glass of water, to obtain some privacy with Degan.

  “What is the truth of the matter?” he asked at once. “Why does Henri not come in person? Have they caught him?”

  “No, no,” Degan disclaimed at once, thinking the invalid would recuperate more quickly without an additional worry, and wondering how long it would be before the truth were known. News was not slow to seep into the asylum. “We begin to think he’s watched. He doesn’t go out.”

  “That is wise. I hope he has a good weapon.”

  “No, actually we are trying to obtain one. You wouldn’t know how it might be done?”

  “You don’t mean you came without guns!” Edward asked, astonished.

  “I had one when I landed, but... lost it shortly after arriving,” Degan admitted. Very likely Henry had had one on him when he was arrested too, though if so, Degan had never seen it.

  “Take mine, by all means. You need it worse than I.” Without another word, Edward reached under his pillow and extracted an excellent pistol, oiled, loaded and ready for action. “I keep it with me, just in case. A friend brought it shortly after we came here.”

  Degan grabbed at it with delight. They spoke for a few moments, with the boy telling him what Minou had already, that there was no hope for help from friends of the family. Any man known to them who walked the streets at this late date was not to be trusted.

  Soon Degan left, promising to return the next evening to check on Edward’s progress, and urging him to recover as quickly as possible. As he left the doorway, a dark shadow detached itself from the hedge and grabbed his arm. It was Minou. “I saw her! I saw Mama!”‘ she said excitedly. “How thin she has become. She was beginning to worry about being too plump when we were first arrested.”

  “We’ll soon get her fattened up,” Degan said happily. “A great piece of luck. Edward had a gun. Let’s get back to Robespierre’s place and try to save Henry.”

  It was thoroughly dark by this time, with the streets unlit but for an occasional linkboy. After a long walk the lights became more frequent as they approached the main part of the city. So did the gardes, but it couldn’t be helped, and that gun in Degan’s pocket felt good. The street behind the rue St.-Honoré running parallel with it was quiet, the jog into the chosen alleyway made without attracting any attention.

  They found themselves in a large courtyard, unpatrolled and unlit with torches. All the windows of the buildings were lit, however, shedding considerable light on the yard close to them. Which of the rooms might hold Henry was impossible to know, but heads were seen at some, a few of them even looking out into the yard, for the night was sultry. They hung back in the shadows of the spreading tree, their dark garments making them invisible to any stray glance that might turn their way.

  “Now what?” Degan asked, calculating that even if half those rooms were occupied, they would soon find themselves dealing with upward of twenty men.

  “Now I risk giving the signal,” she told him.

  “What signal?”

  “We have arranged for all these necessities in advance, Henri and I. I make the song of the rossignol, and he knows I am here.”

  “Rossignol?”

  “The gou-glou. The bird with the pretty song, like so,” she said, and puckering up her lips, the shrill, sweet notes of the nightingale floated through the night. It was an excellent interpretation, but unfortunately had the effect of calling the attention of the men at the windows to the tree. Before Degan had gulped in horror, she did it again, two more times. “We do it three times, to tell the other it is us, and not a bird,” she explained in a low voice to her companion.

  They both stared hard at the windows, then suddenly on the third floor, a dark head looked out. The window had been hastily barred with a cross of wood nailed on outside the glass to prevent escape. This told them the room held a prisoner, and the shape of the head determined it to be Henri. They had at last found him, even seen him and told him they were present, but what was the next step, with several men straining their eyes toward the tree?

  “Now we wait,” she said calmly, and leaned her back against the tree. “Maybe we wait a very long time, Pierre. Why don’t you try to relax?”

  He realized then that his whole body was tense as a coiled spring, and soon realized his nerves were different from Minou’s, for he could no more relax than he could sprout wings and fly. He continued looking all along the rear facade of the building, searching for footholds, vines, drainpipes, any possible means of getting in or out.

  She reached out for his arm. “It may be hours. We must wait till the lights go out, and he can give us a signal, a note if possible, or we may have to go closer so he can talk.”

  They went back farther into the shadows of the large yard and sat down to rest, though relaxation was still totally impossible. They had enough worries and plans to keep them occupied without talking. Eventually the li
ghts in the other rooms began to go out, then Henri’s too was extinguished, but Minou mentioned that the gardes had likely made him put it out, and certainly he was waiting for them. Within an hour and a half the building was in darkness, from the rear at least, but they waited another half hour to be certain.

  Then Minou stood up and made her nightingale call again. At once a white hand was seen at the barred window, waving to them. A squeak sounded from the same direction, and the window inside was raised higher. On such a hot night it was already open. Minou darted forward recklessly, but Degan pulled her back.

  “Have your gun ready,” she said, then pulled away and went to a spot below the window. Degan drew his pistol, keeping his eyes peeled for the doorway primarily, but also scanning the other windows.

  Before she spoke, a white paper fluttered to the ground. She snatched it up and ran to Degan. Illumination was poor. They had to risk going into the brighter patches where the moonlight gave them a lamp to read. “I am safe. Don’t do anything foolish. Get Mama home safe to England. Godspeed.” It was unsigned.

  “Safe!” she scoffed. “He is as safe as if he stood on the guillotine platform. He wants us not to take any chances. I must speak to him.”

  “Henri!” she called up softly.

  “Go! For God’s sake go away!” he called back, his voice strained with emotion.

  “No, we stay! We’ll get a ladder. Can you pull off those wooden bars?”

  “No—no. Please go.”

  “We are not budging a step, Henri,” she repeated firmly, even angrily, her voice rising to a dangerously audible level.

  “I’m safe. Everything is changing. It will be all right. Degan, take her home, in the name of God.”

  The urgent pleas for them to go home told them as plain as day that all was not safe, and he wanted only to make sure they weren’t caught.