“You must hurry,” Madame Charvin urged, growing more nervous with each passing minute. She picked up her heavy gray cloak. “Here, it's chilly, and this will warm. Now, I want you to tell me once more, what will you do?”
As Elizabeth tied the cloak around her shoulders, she tried to remember the instructions which Madame had given her earlier. “I leave here,” she began, keeping her voice down, “and I proceed to the end of this corridor, and I... wait...”
“For what?”
“Until the six-thirty guard is changed.”
“And...?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. It had not seemed very complicated when Madame had first related it to her. Now, why did it seem so complex — and worse, unworkable?
“And...?” Madame Charvin urged, a new tension in her voice.
“...and when there is no one patrolling the passageway, I run for the stairs.”
Madame Charvin closed her eyes in apparent relief. “Then what?” she demanded wearily.
Elizabeth wondered if she was not at the moment regretting her involvement in this business.
“Then what?” Madame snapped, all the while taking items out of her large satchel, putting other items in.
“Then I take the passageway down,” Elizabeth stammered, “taking care always to keep the hood in place.”
“And if you meet someone and they speak?”
“I keep my head down and I say... nothing.”
“Good.” Madame nodded sharply. “I never speak, especially early in the morning. The fewer words exchanged the better, I always say. Remember that. No one will suspect you if you remain quiet. But if you speak...”
“I won't,” Elizabeth promised quickly. She was beginning to suffer a growing fear. Yet why? It was as Madame had said when she'd first presented the escape plan. Elizabeth had nothing to lose.
“Madame - ” she began, thinking there was so much to say.
But instead Madame Charvin interrupted again. “At the stairs, what?”
At the stairs... What?
What was the matter with her? “At the stairs, wait until I see the kitchen entrance fully opened.”
Madame Charvin nodded. “Yes, good. Why?”
“Because... Did it really matter?
Madame Charvin heard the hesitancy. “Because the kitchen is brightly lit and the new shift coming on will have sharp eyes. This will be your most hazardous passage, unless...”
She broke off. Elizabeth saw her eyes momentarily glaze. “No matter,” she contradicted. “As soon as you see the night staff gathering, move down. Usually I am the last one through the door, simply because I don't like their early-morning chatter and so I time it thus. I urge you to remember that, because I suspect in that manner we are very different...”
Oh, yes, Elizabeth thought. After the loneliness and isolation of four years in prison, she would chat with a post if she thought there was the least chance of getting a response.
“...so I urge you to maintain your silence always, keep the hood in place, and hold the satchel in this manner.” She demonstrated, clasping the satchel under her left arm and holding it securely against her body. At the conclusion of the demonstration, she thrust the satchel toward Elizabeth and waited expectantly.
Elizabeth took the satchel and imitated Madame Charvin and apparently passed muster.
“Good, good,” the stern-faced woman pronounced, glancing behind her at the clock on the mantel, which now said a quarter to six.
“Time,” Elizabeth heard Madame whisper, and saw her look back, her face a mixed script of fear and hope. “Oh, my dear,” she fretted nervously, “I'm certain I'm forgetting something.”
“Nothing, and how can I ever thank — ?”
“Of course. Once outside, then what?”
“Mix quickly with the crowds,” Elizabeth said. “I believe you said there would be crowds...”
“And there will be. Move away immediately from the prison side. Returning guards will recognize me and try to speak. Move to the opposite side, as though you were coming from the match factory.”
“Yes, to the opposite side.”
“Then?”
“Then...” Elizabeth faltered again. Then what?
Madame reached for the satchel and drew it open. “In the envelope there are seventy-five louis. It's all I had on hand - ”
“No, I can't - ” Elizabeth protested.
“You... have... no... choice,” Madame snapped, placing emphasis on each word. “Now, listen carefully. You are to go on foot to the second intersection directly north of the prison. There, on the righthand corner, you will see the place where the hired chaises are waiting. Go to the first and say only one word. ‘Calais,’ He will understand and will take you to the place where the coaches depart for the channel. Do you understand?”
Seventy-five louis. How could she ever repay the woman? “Yes.” Elizabeth nodded reluctantly.
“Now, you must go,” Madame said, urging her toward the door.
Although it was what Elizabeth had wanted for four long years and despaired of ever accomplishing, now she hesitated.
“Hurry!” Madame Charvin commanded. “The guards change at six-thirty sharp. The execution is scheduled for immediately following. When they come for you, I'll stall as long as I can, saying you aren't fully prepared...”
Elizabeth realized clearly that they both were taking enormous gambles, but perhaps Madame Charvin's was the greater of the two. If caught, Elizabeth's life was over. If the escape was successful, La Rochelle and everything it stood for was behind her. But either way, Madame could lose. To what extent and how much, Elizabeth couldn't guess, and doubted seriously if Madame herself knew.
They were before the closed door now. As Madame's hand moved toward the bolt, Elizabeth reached up and caught it, pressing it lightly to her lips. The gesture caught Madame off guard, and at first she started to withdraw her hand, but then some strange tempering need intercepted.
“God go with you,” Madame said softly and drew her close.
“And you,” Elizabeth whispered, kissing the woman lightly on both cheeks.
“Go!” Madame urged, nothing mournful about that stem face now.
Elizabeth nodded, secured the tie on the hood beneath her chin, drew the folds of the prison cloak around the blue silk gown, clasped the satchel beneath her arm in precisely the fashion Madame Charvin had demonstrated, and without hesitation turned to confront the shadowy emptiness of the corridor outside the door.
Freedom was about twenty minutes away. Surely God would not be so cruel as to deny it to her now.
Paris November 15, 1874
The Countess Eugenie Retiffe had spent the night in her family chapel in Notre Dame Cathedral, praying to the Holy Mother for forgiveness for her soul as well as for the soul of the Englishwoman Elizabeth Eden.
Now, as she slumped against the brocade velvet of her private carriage, she felt the same emptiness she'd suffered every day since her premature release from La Rochelle Prison.
“Turn here!” she called up to her driver, stirring herself long enough to take note of street signs, aware of what she was doing but powerless to stop herself.
As the carriage veered sharply to the left, heading into the congestion of the narrow artery that ran behind La Rochelle Prison, she closed her eyes to the glut of humanity and imagined instead Elizabeth Eden's sorrowing eyes after she had plunged the shears into Lieutenant Dauguet, the look of betrayal aimed at her, Eugenie, who had struck a bargain a few days earlier with Dauguet, who had craved for himself English flesh. All that had been required of Eugenie, in exchange for her release, had been that she contrive to leave the cell door unlocked. No problem, that. Elizabeth Eden had trusted her implicitly. And what harm, Eugenie had thought, if Dauguet had his way? The Englishwoman was certainly no virgin. It had been rumored she had served as mistress to several prominent English politicians. Then how would it hurt if...?
“Stop here!” she cried out, seeing the co
ngestion up ahead, as the prison shifts changed.
She felt her driver angle the carriage to one side of the pavement, and tried again — as she's tried every hour of every day since it had happened — to finally and securely close the door on the past. It was over, did not concern her. The fate of the Englishwoman was up to God. Eugenie Retiffe had not asked her to come to Paris and involve herself in stupid politics — for that's what they were. She could see that now, and looked back on her involvement with the communes as merely a difficult part of growing up. At least that's what Papa had said, and since her betrayal of the Englishwoman and early release, Papa had begun to love her again. And Mama, too. And it was nice, far nicer to be clean and perfumed and wearing pretty little frocks like this one than to be locked in a miserable cell, exposed to the illiterate guards.
Reflexively she shuddered. No, she was far happier now. For a moment she stared, unseeing, out of the carriage window. Far better off, far happier...
Then why was she crying? Why did she want more than anything in the world to stop that firing line?
Executed! She still couldn't believe it, not even after Papa had shown her the announcement in the paper. She'd cried then, and both Mama and Papa had comforted her, promised her a holiday in the south, and reassured her that whatever fate befell the Englishwoman, it was not Eugenie's fault.
Quickly she crossed herself and thought: Tell Jean to take you home. Papa will be waiting. Morning coffee on the terrace, the smell of autumn...
But despite the cascade of pleasing images, she could not give the order to her driver. Every time she drew breath, she saw in her mind's eye a graphic, horrifying image of Elizabeth Eden bound to the large post in the inner courtyard, head lifted...
Eugenie's own head fell forward with a suddenness, as though a cord had been snapped.
She saw that her carriage resembled an island, while all about poured floods of humanity, the two shifts changing simultaneously, the prison's as well as the factory's. She could sense the agitation of her driver as he tried to ease the horses.
“It will be over soon,” she called out, remembering it didn't take long for the street to clear.
A sudden movement to the left of the carriage drew her away from her thoughts to the place where she saw a contingent of soldiers pushing their way hurriedly through the crowds, rifles at the ready, their heads swiveling first in one direction, then in the other, as though they were searching for someone.
An escapee? she wondered with mixed feelings. Few ever successfully escaped from La Rochelle except those who were permitted to “escape,” for the purpose of being shot down in the process.
A larger contingent of soldiers was fanning out through the crowds. Clearly someone had escaped. Eugenie watched the soldiers for several moments with a mixture of fear and pleasure. They were not searching for her. She, thank God, did not have to be dragged back into that red-brick nightmare. Whoever had managed freedom this far, she wished them well. As several soldiers passed close to her carriage, she closed her eyes as she'd done so often when she'd been imprisoned — the ostrich scheme, foolishly assuming if you couldn't see them, they couldn't see you.
She waited to give them a chance to pass. Then she opened her eyes and wondered what had prompted her to come here. Surely the execution was over by now and Elizabeth Eden was at peace.
Oh, dear God, enough, she groaned, weary of thinking, of feeling guilt, so much guilt.
Was the woman blessedly dead now? And when would it be possible for Eugenie to join her?
“Proceed!” she called out through the open window, noticing the crowds were diminishing. She certainly didn't want to be here when the hearse wagon came rattling through those low gates with a single coffin lashed to the back.
“Please move,” she called out, wondering why the driver did not obey her.
I'm sorry, Elizabeth. Please forgive me.
Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. The battle was threatening to tear her apart. Quickly she lifted her head, as though the spiritual fury was taking a toll on her physical body. As she did so, she spied, just stepping out of the low prison door, a stark and familiar figure, the gray-hooded cloak and worn satchel of Madame Charvin, the female warden of La Rochelle and the most powerful woman in the prison. Eugenie watched her for a moment as she passed through the gates with scarcely a nod to the two guards. She seemed different somehow, her step not as...
Suddenly it occurred to Eugenie this woman could tell her everything. Had the execution taken place? Something about her step suggested it had.
“Wait here,” she called up to her driver.
“Madame Charvin!” she called out, aware her voice had not carried over the noise of the crowd. “Madame Charvin, please wait.”
Surely the woman had heard that. Then why didn't she stop?
“Madame Charvin, please, it's me. You remember...”
Eugenie was still pushing her way through the crowds that continued to come between her and the stubborn Madame. Of course. Madame Charvin had always been fond of the little Englishwoman, as had Eugenie. Then the bowed head, the obscured face, and the refusal to stop even for the courtesy of a question clearly meant only one thing, that the execution had taken place. It was blessedly over — for all except those who had loved her.
Still, she had to know, had to exchange a few words with the woman who had last seen her alive. She doubled her step, slowly gaining on the old woman, who had yet to turn and recognize her in any way, though Eugenie was certain she had heard her cries, for everyone else had.
“Madame Charvin, I command you to stop!” she called out, still gaining on the woman, who had to know someone was calling to her.
“Madame Charvin!” Eugenie called out a final time and, at last, reached out for the gray hood that obscured the woman's face and pulled.
All during the treacherous passage out of the prison, Elizabeth had kept her head down, had childishly counted off the square tiles of each passageway, had kept one face, one name, steadfast in her mind as the only certainty she had against the tremors of fear that had threatened on several occasions to bring her to her knees.
Edward For each time she thought his name, she saw his face, and that single image gave her courage.
Edward.
John's father, yet how different they were.
Had someone called? Through the low door, out of the gate. Dear God, please, I don't want to die.
Keep going, head down, don't look up. Through the gate. The guards said nothing save, “Good morning, Madame Charvin.”
Someone was calling to her. Madame Charvin said not to reply. Then she wouldn't, though it was an insistent someone. She heard the call again, and the sound, rising feebly over all the other sounds, caused her heart to accelerate.
Keep walking; don't look up or speak.
“Madame Charvin, wait, it's me...”
No, please, she begged quietly, thinking Edward and trying to find the image of his miraculous face in her fear. But it was gone. She couldn't resurrect one feature.
“Madame Charvin!''
The voice was gaining on her; the crowds nearing the end of the street were diminishing, so there was no one behind whom she could take refuge. If the persistent voice caught up with her...
Suddenly she increased her speed, thinking to gain the end of the street before the voice caught up with her.
“Madame Charvin, I command you to stopl”
Would God be so cruel?
Then she felt it, at first only a slight tugging at the gray hood, as though Fate hadn't quite made up its mind whether or not to let her proceed to freedom or...
Then the hand tightened on the heavy fabric and the tugging increased.
“No!” Elizabeth cried aloud at the precise moment the insistent hand pulled the hood free. She turned and confronted the shocked and horrified eyes of her betrayer.
Twice betrayed, she thought, in the moment before she ran. Eugenie Retiffe. Dear God, why?
/> “Elizabeth!” the pale woman cried. At the moment she spoke the name, the random street noises, the rattle of near wagons, the shouts of soldiers and barking dogs, all the reasonable shields which might have obscured the single name, fell silent.
But in the new and unholy quiet, that one name seemed to hang forever in the still air, amplified and echoing, gaining attention as far back as the prison gate. The sound of the name, combined with the face, the head, the fair hair, all reflecting and confirming the image of the new escapee, all this registered with three soldiers who were hurrying toward the intersection and who now glanced once at the curious confrontation — Madame Charvin's garments, Madame Char-vin's satchel, but not Madame Charvin.
“Wait!” one shouted as Elizabeth broke into a run.
“Wait!” the second shouted.
Still she ran, hoping in a way they would fire on her now and end it — for it was over.
But they didn't fire. Instead, it was a simple matter for the first two soldiers to overtake her, and with one violent shove they pushed her to the ground. As the cobbles rose up, she felt her forehead in painful collision with the stones. Stunned, she was only partially aware of others closing in around her, of the cloak being tom off, as though they needed full confirmation it was not Madame Charvin. As she looked up, she felt restraining boots pressed against both ankles and wrists, heard the peculiar music of the French language-now harsh and staccato — saw a large circle of angry male faces gaping down on her.
Grieving the plan had not worked, that God had been so displeased with her He had denied her this last attempt to gain her freedom, certain now it was over, no more hope, she looked beyond the soldiers' angry faces, beyond the crowd which had quickly gathered in curiosity on all sides, beyond even the deathly pale face of Eugenie, who had pushed close for one look, then turned away sobbing.
Elizabeth cast her vision beyond everything that was worn and ugly and betraying and found, directly overhead, a circle of high blue sky, reminiscent of the blue which favored Eden's skies.
Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5) Page 34