by Marie Laval
Still, the way her voice quivered with emotion, her pale blue eyes shone with tears and her lips trembled did have a strange effect on him. His throat went dry and he swallowed hard, so strong was the urge to crush her mouth under his, rake his fingers in her silky blond curls, and pull her close. The memory of her soft, pliable flesh quickened his pulse and made his body throb and grow hard.
As if she could sense the heat of his desire, a very becoming pink blush covered her cheeks and throat.
Why did he stare at her in this way? His eyes had gone dark. The red glow from the fire cast a sinister, almost evil light across his face. He walked towards her, looking like a wolf about to pounce on his prey. Uneasy, and very conscious of her state of dishabillé, Marie-Ange stepped backward until her back touched the dressing table.
‘I bid you good night, Capitaine,’ she said, striving to keep her voice calm despite the wild thumping of her heart. It was thundering so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
He seemed to snap back to reality. He frowned and took a deep breath. ‘Of course…I have a few errands to run tomorrow morning,’ he said, walking to the door. ‘Be ready for ten o’clock if you want to come with me.’
Once alone, she breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, something in his expression had made her very uncomfortable. He had come so close she could almost have touched the stubble on his cheeks or traced the outline of his mouth and the rugged line of the scar. A shiver rippled the skin on her arms and she wrapped herself more tightly in Christopher’s dressing gown. She would have to be very careful where the capitaine was concerned. Despite what Uxeloup Malleval had written, she wasn’t sure she could trust him. But who was there to trust here? She was on her own, in a foreign land. France might have been her mother’s country, it wasn’t hers.
She pushed the empty plate away, glanced at the clock with dismay and sighed. It was only eight o’clock. What would she do for the next two hours while she waited for Saintclair? Outside, what she could see of Paris was shrouded in a murky, dark grey light. Surely there could be no harm in venturing outside for a short while? She could take a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens and return in good time to meet Saintclair. He would never know she had gone out.
Marie-Ange rushed back to her room to collect her cloak, grey bonnet and gloves. Returning to the lobby wrapped up against the cold, she stepped into the narrow, winding street and took a long breath of fresh air. It was so good to be out at last. The city was busy already despite the early hour and the bitter cold. Shutters were being taken down from shop windows, people queued for bread and pies outside bakeries. In the street, elegant cabriolets sped past without a care for pedestrians, and tall, sturdy horses pulled carts laden with wood, casks of ale or fresh produce.
Unfortunately the gates of the Luxembourg were shut. Disappointed, she stood a while on the pavement, reading public notices about forthcoming fairs and auctions that were pinned on the boards outside the gardens. By the time she finished, the gardens were still closed and a flurry of snowflakes drifted from the low clouds. It soon changed into heavy snow. Maybe she should go back…She stepped onto the causeway without looking.
‘Attention,’ the driver of a passing coach shouted as his horses almost knocked her over. She retreated onto the pavement to catch her breath as the carriage stopped a few metres away. A tall, blond man in a grey coat jumped down. She narrowed her eyes.
The man’s face was partly hidden by the high collar of his coat but there was something disturbingly familiar about him. Was it his tall figure or his ash blond hair? She remained frozen on the spot, her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly. The man pushed open a wooden door and disappeared inside a building as the carriage drove away.
A few seconds only must have passed, but time seemed to have stopped. That man…she had to catch up with him, see his face. Marie-Ange ran across the street and pushed the door, only to find herself in an empty courtyard. Pausing to inspect her surroundings, she heaved a disappointed sigh. There was no trace of the man. She saw a sign for the concierge lodge and knocked on the door.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ A grey-haired woman asked as she came out.
Marie-Ange swallowed hard. ‘Good morning, Madame,’ she said in French. ‘A tall, blond gentleman wearing a grey coat came in a few minutes ago. Only, he lost his wallet in the street.’
She waved her father’s old wallet in front of the concierge, the one she had used ever since he died.
‘Tall and blond you said?’
‘Yes, he had very light blond hair.’ She held her breath.
‘That would be Monsieur Joseph Nallay. He comes to see Monsieur Fouché almost every day. On the third floor.’ The woman gestured towards the staircase. ‘Turn left on the landing.’
‘Monsieur Nallay?’ Marie-Ange repeated, disappointed by the concierge’s response. Against all logic, she had hoped for another name. ‘Who did you say he comes to visit?’
The concierge narrowed her eyes in a suspicious manner. ‘Monsieur Fouché, the former Minister of Police. Surely, you know of him?’
‘Of course I know of Monsieur Fouché. Who doesn’t?’ Marie-Ange forced a smile and bade the woman good bye.
She climbed the stairs. Fouché, described in turn as a master of intrigue, a turncoat or a brilliant statesman, was one of France’s most infamous politicians. How could she have forgotten his name? She was uncertain how to proceed. Should she knock on the minister’s door and invent a story to get in, or wait for the blond man to come down? She heard footsteps ahead and caught a glimpse of elegant black boots and a grey coat. It was him. He glanced at her, nodded and carried on.
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plaît!’
He stopped and turned.
Her pulse quickened as she stared into his face, into her beloved Christopher’s face. She staggered against the stairwell banister. Her fingers gripped the handrail.
‘Madame? Are you not well?’ He asked in French as he leant towards her. She put her hand on his forearm.
‘Christopher, my God, it’s really you,’ she answered in English, gazing into his eyes, her voice filled with wonder. ‘I wasn’t sure when I saw you in the street…’ She let out a choked cry. ‘They said you died at Corunna but I never could believe it. What happened? Why didn’t you come home?’ The words tumbled out. She wanted to smile but tears started falling down her cheeks instead.
‘I found you at last.’ She raised her hand to touch his face.
He frowned and pulled back. ‘Désolé, Madame, vous faites erreur.’ There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition in his eyes. ‘Excusez-moi.’ He started down the stairs.
‘No, Christopher, wait! Don’t you remember me?’ She ran after him. ‘It’s been six years but surely you cannot have…Please, wait!’ Her voice rose to a high pitch.
He turned around and gave her another cold, hostile stare. ‘I don’t know what or who you are talking about, but I’m afraid you have the wrong man. Now leave me alone. You’re making a scene.’ This time he spoke in perfect English, without the trace of an accent.
She didn’t follow him when he started down the stairs but sat on the stone steps and buried her face in her hands. How could she have been mistaken? Her chest was so tight it felt like her heart was breaking. Maybe it was time she accepted her husband was dead and stopped chasing ghosts.
And yet… It was his face, his eyes, his voice. Heavens, she dreamt about him often enough! He was thinner, his face harder, but then again six years had passed. When she touched his arm a jolt of recognition raced through her, as if her body remembered him. What if he had been injured at Corunna and lost his memory? Those things must happen during battles. She must see him once more and make sure of his identity one way or another.
She wiped her eyes. It was time to return to the inn or she would be late to meet Saintclair. It was snowing harder when she stepped outside. She walked to the end of the street and stared at the crossroads. Where now? Left, it was left, she decided, star
ting down the street. This street was endless. Surely the Le Faisan Doré wasn’t that far. She must have missed the turn. Had she passed that bakery, that cobblers shop on her way to the Luxembourg Gardens?
She heaved a ragged sigh. She couldn’t remember anything! Men and women brushed past her, grey shadows in the snow. The blond man’s face—Christopher’s face—danced in front of her. Her eyes filled with tears again. Everything around her became a blur, she could hardly see the way ahead. She walked faster, her boots slipped on the snow and she fell on the pavement.
‘Attention, ma p’tite dame!’ A passer-by held out his hand to help her back to her feet. She thanked him and asked for directions. She had taken a wrong turn, he said. Shivering in her wet coat, she pulled her collar up against the cold, and retraced her steps.
Church bells chimed eleven when she finally pushed open the door of the Le Faisan Doré, limping in her wet boots.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Capitaine Saintclair’s thunderous voice greeted her.
‘S…orry,’ she stammered.
His angry expression softened immediately. He took her elbow and led her to the drawing room. ‘Here, sit close to the fire. You are frozen to the bones.’
He helped her out of her cloak, then called the landlady and ordered some mulled wine. Marie-Ange’s hands were shaking as she brought the cup of hot, spicy wine to her lips.
‘What happened?’ he asked at last.
‘I got lost.’ She wouldn’t share anything of her encounter with the blond man. After all, she didn’t know for sure he was indeed Christopher.
Saintclair frowned. ‘Don’t disappear like that again. The streets of Paris are never safe for a woman on her own, whatever the time of day.’ He paused a moment. ‘I think you’d better stay here and keep warm.’
The thought of being confined to her room for the rest of the day was suddenly unbearable.
She jumped to her feet. ‘No,’ she protested. ‘I want to come with you. I only need to change my shoes.’
A carriage took them to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Saintclair offered his arm to walk along the avenue and pointed out elegant shops and brasseries. She couldn’t help but stare at passers-by, hoping against all reason she would see the tall, blond man again.
Street stalls sold roasted chestnuts and fried dough sprinkled with sugar. Marie-Ange breathed in their warm, sweet smell and realised she was hungry. As if reading her thoughts, Saintclair turned to her.
‘We’ll get something to eat soon.’ He hesitated and cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed. ‘First, I promised my sister, Lucie, new handkerchiefs from the most fashionable establishment in Paris. Would you be kind enough to help me choose? I don’t know the first thing about ladies’ fashion.’
So the tough, cynical capitaine cared enough about his sister to venture into a haberdasher and buy handkerchiefs…She repressed a smile.
‘It will be my pleasure. How old is she?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Saintclair pushed open the door of a large shop and let her go through first. As they walked around well appointed shelves and displays of ribbons, shawls, fabric, buttons and handkerchiefs, he explained that his sister was of delicate health, with dark-hair and blue eyes.
Then he shook his head. ‘She spends far too long sitting in the drawing room and reading silly stories.
‘Silly stories?’ Marie-Ange raised her eyebrows.
‘You know, stories about fair ladies and knights who play the harp with a flower between their teeth.’
She laughed. ‘You mean love stories. You do not seem to rate romance very high, Capitaine. It is however essential for a successful marriage, as I well know.’
He looked down at her, suddenly serious. ‘You talk like a middle-aged matron, yet you cannot have been married very long.’
‘Only four months, but they were the most blissful months of my life,’ she replied as a dreamy smile stretched her lips. She married Christopher a few weeks before her seventeenth birthday, on an unseasonably warm October day. Her wedding dress was silk. She had tied a long satin ribbon in her braids, which Christopher had loosened patiently that night before laying her in their bed for the first time. She shivered and let out a sigh. Hope blossomed in her chest as she remembered today’s encounter and her persistent belief that he was alive.
‘Yes, a man must be sensitive to be a good husband,’ she whispered, stopping in front of a pile of delicate linens embroidered with lace and tiny rosebuds. ‘My husband used to write poems and pick wild flowers for me.’
‘Isn’t romance for little girls? I thought women wanted men with courage and strength, not milksops.’ Saintclair arched his eyebrows.
She looked up at him, her cheeks suddenly very hot. ‘A man can be sensitive without being a milksop, Capitaine. Ask anyone who knew my husband and they will tell you how brave, how heroic he was in battle.’
How dare the man make fun of Christopher in this way? Her husband had been worth ten of the capitaine, at least. She pointed to the embroidered handkerchiefs. ‘I think Lucie will like those. I should know since we share the same taste in romance—or silly stories, as you put it.’
He didn’t answer but picked up the fancy linens and took them to the counter.
‘Come,’ he said when they walked out of the haberdasher. ‘I will treat you to a hot chocolate and a cake at Café Benoit.’
The café’s windows were all steamed up. Saintclair pushed the door open and Marie-Ange was assailed with warm, rich aromas of freshly ground coffee and hot chocolate. He found a small table in a corner.
‘Saintclair, you devil! Where did you disappear to last night?’ A voice boomed from the other side of the crowded room.
Saintclair turned and his face relaxed into a smile. ‘What are you doing here, Martin? You said you were going back to Lyon this morning.’
A giant of a man approached their table and bowed in front of Marie-Ange.
‘Madame, let me introduce Capitaine Martin, a fellow officer from the Second Cuirassier Regiment.’ Saintclair announced. ‘Martin, this is Madame Norton. I am escorting her to Lyon to meet her relative, Malleval.’
Martin kissed Marie-Ange’s hand, his eyes lingering on her. ‘Now I understand why Saintclair was in such a hurry to leave last night. So, you are English?’
She freed her hand and smiled. ‘Partly. My father was English, my mother was French.’
‘You know Malleval, do you not?’ Saintclair asked his friend.
‘Yes, I do,’ Martin replied. ‘He fleeced me at cards more than once. I always thought he was a prize cheat, but could never prove it. I heard he got you in trouble, too.’
Martin glanced at Saintclair quizzically, but the capitaine only grunted. A waiter came over and they ordered hot chocolate and cakes.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Martin sat down without waiting for an answer.
The waiter came back with a tray laden with cups, brioches and pastries. As soon as he left, Martin leant over the table. ‘Things are moving, my friend. Everybody’s talking about it this morning. Fouché is sending his spies down south. So of course, is his old enemy, Talleyrand. Lyon will soon be crawling with agents, all waiting for the same thing.’
He lowered his voice. ‘According to my contact at the Ministry of War, many in government are preparing to jump ship. It’s a wonder the army hasn’t rebelled yet. The King angered everybody by putting officers on half-pay and denying commoners any chance of promotion.’
‘I am well aware of the King’s actions in that regard,’ Saintclair growled.
Martin nodded in sympathy. ‘I still can’t believe you were passed over for promotion in favour of that weasel, Comte de Mitre. Anyway, he will not be facing much resistance in the army. Like I said, everyone is talking about it. He’s coming back.’
‘Of course, he’s coming back!’ Saintclair put his cup down. Some chocolate spilled onto the saucer. He took a deep brea
th. ‘They gave him a small island and a toy garrison to play with, cut him off from hiswife and son. And now they’re talking about sending him to an island in the Atlantic, hundreds of miles from anywhere! He has nothing to lose.’
Marie-Ange listened with interest. Whoever were they talking about? She bit into a brioche and drank her hot chocolate while the conversation continued as if she were not present. Suddenly her eyes widened in shock and she sat back on her chair. She knew who Capitaine Saintclair and his friend were referring to. Napoleon, of course! Since his abdication in April of the previous year, he had been in exile on Elba, a tiny island off the coast of Tuscany.
‘I thought Fouché was no longer the Minister for Police,’ she interrupted.
Saintclair and his friend turned to her, looking surprised, as if they’d both forgotten about her.
‘Joseph Fouché will never give up scheming,’ Saintclair said. ‘I believe his apartment on Rue de Condé is a hot-bed of intrigue. He controls a vast network of spies. Murderers. Traitors. Deserters. You name it.’
She straightened in her chair, stung by his remark. If the man she saw that morning was indeed Christopher, he might be an agent. The concierge said he was a frequent visitor. However, he was bound to have a good reason for working for Fouché. Christopher was nothing like the men Saintclair had just described.
‘Some people may be forced to become spies, Capitaine. I believe they play a crucial role in politics.’
Saintclair reclined on his seat and studied her for a few moments. ‘Do you have any particular knowledge of the affairs of state, Madame Norton?’
She didn’t care much for the patronising tone of voice. ‘No, but perhaps you should give spies more credit. They must lead a very awkward existence.’
‘I wouldn’t waste my pity on Fouché’s spies,’ Saintclair retorted. ‘As I said, they’re all rogues and scoundrels.’
‘My friends, enough of this depressing talk.’ Martin held out his hands. ‘Let’s go to the opera at the Théâtre Italien this evening.’