For several minutes Susan watched, aware that she shouldn't. Who were they? And did Mr. Eden know they were here?
No time for answers, as now Susan objected to her own spying and ran, retracing her steps back through the farmyard, around the empty barns and stables, running at breakneck speed, as though something were pursuing her.
She'd ask Reverend Christopher. He might know who they were.
No... She changed her mind. That could simply alert the entire village to the fact Eden Castle was once again occupied. She'd leave them be and try to bring her own splintered and cartwheeling emotions under control. Otherwise she would be of no good to anyone, least of all herself.
It was so easy to say, so difficult to accomplish.
Paris November 8, 1874
Rain again.
Shivering despite the heavy lap robe, John pressed back into the far corner of the hired carriage and glanced at old Bates, who leaned nervously forward, checking the scenery outside.
Rain.
It pelted the windows, turning the scene outside into a cold blur. Was there ever a more wretched country? As John posed the question to himself and simultaneously answered it, he suffered a sudden bolt of memory, something connected with rain — though of a different sort, not an aggressive and incapacitating one like this, but soft, gentle.
Sit her,y Mr. Eden, by the fire. It will warm...
The nurse. Why did she cling so to his consciousness?
“I think we may be getting close, sir,” Bates said, clinging to the back of the seat with one hand.
“I doubt it,” John grumbled, as he'd grumbled every day since they'd first set foot on foreign soil — an unhappy moment, as the French authorities had confiscated John's comfortable carriage at Calais. The horses had been stalled at a local inn — for a king's ransom — and the same corrupt French authorities had forced this wretched conveyance upon them, along with two swaybacked nags, and for this miserable package they'd had the unmitigated gall to charge the exorbitant price of four hundred louis.
On this occasion, as on many others, John had been so grateful that he did not speak their wretched language, which sounded less like a language and more like a nation of head colds. At least it spared his direct contact, and Bates didn't seem to mind. Apparently years ago as a young man Bates had received basic instruction in the French language so he could translate the menus of Chatworth's French chefs to its English guests.
In the rocking motion of the carriage John saw for a moment three of Bates, intense triplicates who all clung to the seat, their heads wet with rain from previous excursions, bobbing about like broken puppets.
Then suddenly: “Up ahead, sir. I think we've found it!”
“My God,” John whispered, his eyes moving steadily down the long rows of high barred windows. On the third floor above he saw two pale hands wrapped around the window bars. Suddenly the realization that delicate and graceful Elizabeth was incarcerated someplace behind that miserable red-brick wall was more than he could bear.
“No, wait, Bates,” he called after the man, who was just stiffly alighting from the cramped carriage. ‘Til come with you. We must get her out today. Tonight at the very latest we'll be on our way back home.”
He lifted his voice with the last pledge to include Charley Spade, who sat, drenched, upon the high seat, struggling to control the French nags who, like their two-legged counterparts, tended toward pointless hysteria.
“Hold them steady,” John called up again, angling the walking stick into place. “By this time tomorrow I promise I'll buy you the largest piece of English beefsteak you can handle.”
“You're on, Mr. Eden.” Charley grinned. “And I'll be right here waiting for you when you come out.”
John nodded, strangely moved by the loyalty of these two mismatched bookends. Well, he'd figure out a way to make it up to them later. For now the purpose of this entire miserable trip lay straight ahead through those high arched doors, covered by what appeared to be an impenetrable black iron grillwork. In front of the gate he saw at least half a dozen soldiers, their red-and-blue uniforms particularly bright and garish in the gloom of the rainy day.
Then the soldiers spied them, old Bates leading the way in his black frock coat, looking more like a member of the clergy than a butler. At the same time, the gibberish exploded, all six Frenchmen talking at once, gesturing wildly, while Bates with perfect and unswerving aplomb continued to walk straight at them.
“Bates,” John called out. “Tell them that I want to see their commanding officer regarding an English prisoner. That's all they need to know.” He came to a stop directly before Bates.
Of course, he should have known...
He reached into his pocket and counted out six large bills and handed them to Bates. “Their commanding officer,” John repeated forcefully. “Now!”
Bates translated the few words and filled them with emphasis as he distributed the money. Several of the soldiers studied the notes before pocketing them. Most pocketed them directly, and a moment after, one was gesturing roughly toward John, indicating he was to follow after.
There! You see? It was as he had suspected. “Come, Bates,” he commanded, sweeping through the knot of sullen French, who stood back, expressions of bewilderment on their faces, as though they knew they had been defeated but still weren't quite sure how.
Before the high black grilled gates they paused a moment. From inside, two soldiers shouted something in anger at the soldiers on John's side. One spit something back, a forceful declaration accompanied by a strong gesture. John held his purse at the ready and wondered if he would have to pay his way in at every turn.
Then he heard the cranking of the gate and thought briefly of Eden and wondered if the cottage was still cold and empty, and heard suddenly a fierce ringing in his ears. He closed his eyes until the dizziness passed, and opened them when he felt Bates at his elbow whispering, “You should have remained in the carriage, sir. I could handle the bastards.”
John smiled and decided he could grow quite fond of the old man if he permitted himself. He accepted the support of his arm and whispered a reassurance. “I'm fine, Bates, as long as you are with me.”
The sentiment seemed momentarily to undo the man, and it was John who led the way inside the grilled gate, which had no door other than the grilles themselves, which meant the temperature inside the prison corridor varied little from the temperature outside.
But cold was not John's primary complaint. Once they were through the grilled gate, an odor so poisonous and foul that he covered his nose with his hand greeted them and now permeated, despite his protective hand. Bates apparently had detected it as well, and withdrew his handkerchief, carefully folded it into a rectangle just large enough to cover his nose, and held it in place.
“What is it?” John muttered. Then he saw a soldier urinating against the wall, the hot piss causing small vapors of steam to arise in the cold air. He also observed what appeared to be human feces scattered up and down one side of the wall.
He reached into his pocket for another note for the officer whose jurisdiction apparently was the piss-filled corridor. “Give it to him,” he instructed Bates, “and repeat our wish to see the commanding - ”
But the stubborn sergeant had already seen the note and now grinned at John. “Tres bien monsieur.” He took the note before Bates had a chance to offer it and led the way down the chilly corridor. As the wretched odor increased, John wished he had followed Bates's suggestion and waited in the carriage. But he doubted the old man could have gotten this far, and he had the sinking feeling they had a lot farther to go before they reached Elizabeth. Again, at the thought of her confined in this place, his mind turned in dread. He stepped through the squabbling soldiers and led the way down the corridor in the only direction that was open to them.
The soldier ran after him, talking endlessly, apparently requiring nothing in the way of a response, because even Bates made no reply and pressed his folded hand
kerchief tighter against his nose.
During the last exchange inside the gate, John had heard one name with great and reverent repetition. General Montaud. Now he assumed that was their destination, though it looked merely as though they were going deeper and deeper into the prison, past a series of doors which led into larger halls — one clearly a dining hall, the repulsive odor of boiled cabbage joining the odor of human waste — and other, smaller chambers. Offices, John assumed, a scattering of prison personnel lounging about inside, women, their heads covered with white kerchiefs, wearing shapeless gray smocks, working in what obviously was the kitchen court. As they passed by, only one or two glanced fearfully up, their eyes wide and staring, a few red-rimmed, all gaunt and pale, ill-looking. For the second time, John suffered an almost paralyzing fear.
Then the soldier was speaking again, directing them away from the long corridor lined with closed doors, into a small arcade which appeared to skirt an impossibly large courtyard. The red bricks of La Rochelle formed three sides of the enclosed courtyard, while the fourth was a large gray army barracks. Despite the rain, which fell in solid sheets, he could see groups of soldiers trying to maintain formations in the steady downpour.
“ Allons!” the soldier ordered, apparently not liking the fact John was studying the vast courtyard. They continued at a brisk pace until the man stopped before a door of heavy oak which suggested the corridor and chambers beyond this door might be of a warmer temperature. The French soldier let them through and firmly closed the door.
Aha! There was an important someone in this corridor who did not care for the chill day any more than John did. He noticed other changes as well. No foul odor here, no urine-covered walls. Here a lovely rich Oriental carpet ran the length of the narrow corridor, and every few feet there was a fixed pewter lamp.
For the first time since they'd entered this miserable place, John lowered his hand from his nostrils. The French soldier came to a halt before heavy double doors, where two additional guards stood flanking the rich mahogany panels. After a brief exchange, the soldier motioned them forward. “This way, monsieur.”
John felt Bates's hand on his arm guiding him forward, and willingly he accepted the support. He looked up to see one of the French soldiers motioning them into a comfortable waiting room, a small fire crackling in a corner grate, a tall, slim dark-skinned young man in a dark suit working behind a desk, who scarcely looked up as they entered. Turkish, was John's guess. Perhaps years ago the general had brought back a souvenir from the Crimea.
‘This way, sir. General Montaud will see you now.”
At the moment the inner doors were pushed open, revealing a cozy cave of rose velvet and rich Oriental carpets, enormous bouquets of fresh roses everywhere. A large glistening crystal chandelier hung overhead and cast a soft light over every fabric and texture, a room more typical of a salon than a commanding officer in a prison, and more typical of a woman than a man.
“This way, monsieur,” the French guard instructed. “May I present General Jules Montaud...?”
Quickly John ceased his ogling — not because he'd seen everything. He hadn't. In fact, at that moment his eye fell on an enormous brass birdcage, more a house than a cage, and inside were three vividly featured parrots, all perched on different levels, eyeing him steadily.
Then there was no more time for gaping, and he found himself standing before a delicate little Queen Anne desk confronting the most bizarre creature he'd ever seen, small, almost birdlike, partially balding on the upper forehead, with rows of collar-length black ringlets falling from the back of his skull. The general now looked up at John and smiled, coquettishly. An ancient face, or so it seemed, yet small, childlike in size but heavily lined, and covering one eye was a gold brocade eyepatch.
For the rest of him, he was meticulously dressed in the dazzling uniform of general, complete with gold epaulets and several decorations upon his chest.
It was John's intention to state his case immediately, using both Bates and the French guard for translators in the event one faltered. But suddenly the general gave the guard a command and the man disappeared through the door, leaving them alone, except for Bates, who retreated back to the door, as though not absolutely certain whether he too should stay or depart.
“Stay!” John ordered, annoyed the old man couldn't see he was needed now more than ever.
“Why, sir?” Bates asked, apparently bewildered.
“To translate!” John shouted, and caught himself in time. He looked back at the strange man behind the desk and saw a smile which broadened, revealing three gold teeth.
“No need, I assure you, Mr. Eden. I speak, if not perfect English, certainly passable.”
Surprised though relieved, John saw the man stand. On his feet he resembled a very old child. Most bizarre.
“May my aide serve you something? Brandy? Coffee?”
Why not? He was chilled to the bone. “Brandy, please,” he said at last.
“And your … manservant?” General Montaud asked, glancing slyly around John to the open door, where the young desk clerk stood at attention next to Bates.
“He is not my manservant,” John said tersely, disliking the cunning manner of the little general. “And he can speak for himself.”
Apparently the general heard the terseness and seemed even more amused by it and glanced coyly toward Bates. “And what is your pleasure, sir? I mean, concerning a refresher.”
My God! John looked back toward the mincing voice and saw clearly the sodomite behind it.
Apparently Bates had given him an answer, for now the man waved the aide away with a delicate white lace handkerchief he'd retrieved from somewhere, and as the door closed, he sat behind the desk and pressed the handkerchief against his nostrils, little finger arched.
John found himself caught in a kind of repellent fascination at the man's monstrous affectations, the manner in which his finger moved in serpentine fashion in and out of his mouth, the manner in which one hand smoothed back the semibalding hair, a delicate feminine self-caressing gesture.
“Please sit,” General Montaud invited now, indicating one of the comfortable rose velvet chairs which flanked the white marble fire well.
Wary, John glanced in that direction, looking for visible reasons why he should not accept the invitation. He hadn't come to sit by a warming fire with a prim sodomite while Elizabeth languished God knew where. Still, it might be wise in the long run not to anger the man. John suspected he was in the presence of the absolute power of La Rochelle. The ease with which John might remove Elizabeth from its awful environs resided with the diminutive general, who was now coming around from behind his desk in mincing steps, smiling at old Bates. With one drop of his wrist he indicated Bates was to occupy the straight-backed chair to the left of the door.
To John's amazement, Bates obeyed. Now, as the general settled opposite John in the matching rose velvet chair, John caught sight of the man's footwear — rose velvet slippers with smaller roses embroidered on each toe.
Apparently the general saw his line of vision. “I adore roses, you know,” he said. “When I attended your Cambridge years ago, I learned that roses are God's most perfect creations. They really are.”
John groaned inwardly. Apparently the English had had a hand in the creation of this monstrosity.
“We French,” the general said sadly, “we do many many things well — perfectly, even. Unfortunately, growing roses is not one of them. That, I must confess, you English do best.”
Embarrassed for everyone and unable to think of a suitable response, John sat up straight, and with the air of a man losing patience, stated his case. “We have come, General Montaud, to secure the release of an Englishwoman whom we have reason to believe is being held unjustly prisoner here.”
He was about to say more by way of explanation, but all the while he was talking, General Montaud had allowed his head to fall back against the rose velvet chair, eye closed, as though he'd put himself into some
sort of trance. Then softly he spoke.
“No, sir, you are mistaken. We have no English prisoners here. Only French.”
“No, you are mistaken,” John contradicted, certain Alex Aldwell had not given him false information. “I received the information on good authority that she was being held at La Rochelle House of Detention. This is La Rochelle, isn't it?”
Slowly General Montaud opened his one good eye. “It is.”
“Then she's here. And I would appreciate it if one of your guards would fetch her. If fines are due, I'll be happy to pay them. If any other form of restitution is owed - ”
“What... was her offense?” General Montaud asked, and sat up straight — an unfortunate gesture, as his rose-velvet-slippered feet failed to touch the floor and he began to swing them.
“Her offense?” John repeated, and felt a need to stand, lest he reflect the idiocy of the man seated opposite him. “I don't know her offense,” he replied honestly, and angled the walking stick into position.
“No, don't do that, sir.” General Montaud sighed.
“Do... what?'' John asked, bewildered.
“Rise in my presence. When I sit, everyone remains seated. Is that clear?”
In response to this mindless edict, John sat numbly. The point was to remain calm. At least that seemed to be the message which Bates was wisely, though wordlessly, conveying. Now, as though fearful John would be either unable or unwilling to carry it out, Bates started to rise from his chair several feet away, then seemed to change his mind, sat again, and projected his voice in a slow, mellifluent manner.
“General Montaud, if I may speak...?”
“Of course you may speak. This is a democracy. Yet, there are too many deaths for it to be a good democracy. Terrible deaths, so many a few years ago, no roses, no flowers at all in Paris. Can you imagine Paris without flowers?”
At that the door opened and the slim dark young man in a tight-fitting black suit entered bearing a silver tray, a decanter of brandy, and three snifters.
“Ah, there you are, Andr6.” The general smiled, clearly distracted from his recall. “This is my very best friend. His name is Andr6,” he said, and the introduction extended both to John and to Bates.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 24