Not just the one letter. Lots of letters.
Just made you wonder what kind of a careless household they ran. A powerful man lived here. What were the chances those papers had something interesting on them?
He stuffed papers down his shirt. All the paper spills. The letter from Victor de Fleurignac. Then he went out the window he’d come in through.
He was out of the courtyard, out into the streets. He left the Rue Honoré as soon as he could and found the smaller ways where they didn’t bother to light them, holding to the middle of the road where no one could jump him, not hurrying, walking through the dog-chewed edges of the night toward the Marais and the house with blue shutters.
Twenty-eight
MARGUERITE KNEW WHERE TO FIND PAPA. DEEP in the park, at the end of a lane of poplars, a statue of Diana stood naked to every weather, endlessly drawing an arrow from her quiver. Here was an oval rose garden. They had come here when she was very young. He had explained the theory of numerical sequences while she sat on the grass and collected fallen rose petals. She told him about the fairies who lived in the rosebushes. He explained how to calculate the orbit of the moons of Jupiter.
He was there, among the rosebushes, waiting for her.
She said, “I will tell you the bad news first. They have burned the chateau.”
But one of Papa’s servants—he would not tell her which—had already come to him with this news. The first shock of it was over. She need only relate the whole round tale, which did not take long. It was necessary to admit that she had not saved his library. I did not save my own writing. I was concerned with saving myself. She again admitted she had not saved the library. She admitted it several times. She agreed that, certainly, Papa would have prevented the destruction if he had been there. She heard the speech he would have made from the steps of the chateau to stop the mob. It was moving.
“They would have listened to me,” he said. “You are certain you did not save any of the library?”
He was dressed oddly, even for Papa who always dressed oddly. He wore a tricorne hat and a military coat, much too large for him, dark blue. Its brass buttons glinted even in this light. The scarlet of his waistcoat was forceful enough to be seen by the light of the lanterns in the cafés across the street. His hair hung untidily around his face. Everything about him was at once shabby and flamboyant.
Papa looked up at the sky above Paris and sighed. He would have liked to ask yet again if she did not possibly save any of his books.
After a long and melancholy moment, he said, “We lay our possessions on the alter of history. It was inevitable the chateau should be destroyed. It has outlived its time. The Republic will take all the grand mansions, in the end, and put them to rational use. Schools. Prisons. Manufacturies. Perhaps orphanages and hospitals.”
“They did not take the chateau and put it to good use. They destroyed it to a heap of rubble.”
He did not answer. He had a vast ability to hear only what he wanted to hear.
“Everyone is wondering where you have gone, Papa. Some of us are worried.” She ran her fingers into her hair. “What are you doing with Nico? He should be at the Peltiers’s house.”
“I took him. Sylvie left him with servants, after all, and I needed him.”
“You wanted a monkey?”
“I am an organ grinder. I need a monkey. It is not easy to find a monkey in Paris these days.”
With Papa, one never knew how much of what he said was slyness and how much was his small madnesses and how much was rational thought expressed in his own particular dialect. A box leaned against the tree at his feet. She recognized it now by the bright colors and the hand crank. It was the box of an organ grinder. A hurdy-gurdy. “You are a street musician?”
“One must do something. If I stay in my rooms and write, they become suspicious of me. No one stays in their rooms. With Nico, I am above suspicion.”
“You collect money in a hat?”
“Do not be ridiculous. The monkey does that. I play music.”
“I should have seen that.” She leaned against the low wall of marble that separated a walkway of raked gravel from the flowerbeds of the rose garden. Nico snuggled in the crook of her arm. He liked being scratched behind his ears and over the top of his head, so she did that. “Do you feed him properly? He looks thin.”
“Of course I feed him. I feed him my own dinner. Marguerite, will you stick to the point? Did you bring money?”
She had brought all the coin she had in her room, which was a goodly amount. She never knew when La Flèche would call upon her resources. “I will give it to you when I understand what is going on.”
“I am Italian. I play music upon the streets. I speak only Italian. I live among Italians of the city. I am from Padua.” He brooded over that for a moment. “Padua was a mistake. It is a city I abominate. But once I had said it at random I could not take it back. I have told them my father was from Sospel, however, so I am French and have French papers.”
Sometimes when she was with her father—this was one of those times—she wanted to howl like an animal and beat her fists upon the ground.
She reached into her pocket—the left pocket that held several small, useful things, not the right one that held money—and fed Nico another of the comfits he should not be eating. He had, she hoped, a digestion of iron.
Her own stomach was much disordered. She had been ill upon the cobblestones, suddenly and unexpectedly, on the way to the Tuileries. She still felt sick. It was from something she had eaten, doubtless. “You are pretending to be Italian.”
“Have I not just said that? Pay better attention. Did you know, I bought papers for myself in the Rue Manon for twenty-seven livres. It is very inexpensive. I was surprised.”
“There is a vigorous industry in false identity papers, Papa. We are all shocked by it. Why have you suddenly chosen to become Italian?”
“I am in hiding.” He brooded. Her father brooded often and with great thoroughness. “To escape my enemies. Perhaps I should have become German. The Germans are a more serious people.”
“You have no enemies, Papa. The burning of the chateau was not sanctioned by Paris. There is no arrest order for you. I asked Victor.”
“They do not want to arrest me. They want to kill me. That is an entirely different matter. Even in a time of revolution, there is still murder. They tried to stab me.”
“Who?”
“Two men, in an alley. I do not know them.” On top of the hurdy-gurdy was a thin, braided strap. Nico’s leash. He took it now and ran it through his fingers to get to the end. “They may be Martinists. Or Fouché has sent them. But it is probably the English. The English are almost certainly enraged. They might even burn the chateau.” He mulled it over. “To smoke me out. Yes. It is the English.” He nodded. “I hope you’ve brought enough money. There’s a copy of Rahn’s Teutsche Algebra for sale in the Rue Percée that I must buy. They will not give it to me unless I bring hard cash. There are several other texts of interest.”
Papa had been to England. Not once, but several times in the last year. “What did you do in England, Papa?”
“Nothing of importance. And I do not intend to go back. The food is barbarous. You should give me the money you brought and return home. It’s not safe for you to be out this late at night. People watch you, and there are criminal types abroad.”
There were many people abroad. Twenty yards away, bright crowds of men and women laughed and strolled in groups on the promenade, enjoying the cool of the evening. None of them came into this quiet corner.
What could Papa possibly have done?
Papa rounded the leash into his hand and whistled softly. Nico went willingly from her arms to the ground. He clambered to hang on Papa’s lapels, the long tail curled up, the little paws patting and patting at the waistcoat pocket.
“What did you do in England?” She pulled out the pouch of coins and held it in her hand.
He looked away, toward
the lights of the street. “My researches. My study of genius. I worked in England upon this.”
His geniuses. It was another of Papa’s strange intellectual exercises, like calculating the orbit of Jupiter or keeping records of rainfall. Only Papa would ask if one could select the young, the potential geniuses. Chemists, experts in physics, mathematicians, engineers, inventors of all kinds, military men, political philosophers. It was harmless, surely. He gathered information. He made lists. Papa was a great one for making lists. He would see if these Englishmen, these Germans, these Italians became famous in ten years or in twenty. He might even be right about some of them. Papa was truly brilliant.
She said, “You will not offend England by saying there are geniuses there.”
“I told Victor. He took a copy to Robespierre. He was very excited. They will save a thousand lives for France, every one of those names.”
She allowed her father to take the pouch from her hand. He tucked it away safely inside his waistband, looking satisfied with himself. He lifted Nico to his right shoulder and bent to retrieve the hurdy-gurdy.
“Robespierre was excited.” The night stilled everywhere, as if Paris stopped and held its breath. A high-pitched buzzing sounded in her ears. “What lives? What is it that Robespierre approves? What would make men come from England, looking for you?”
I know a man who came from the coast to the chateau at Voisemont. I think he came looking for you. I think he is the Englishman you fear.
She put herself in his path and waited.
“We are at war. Soldiers of the Republic are dying every day for France. Robespierre has arranged that a few English soldiers will die before they come to a battlefield.”
“Papa . . .”
“A few men. The military geniuses.” He brushed at his coat. Adjusted the strap of the hurdy-gurdy. “Only men who have put on uniforms and chosen to be our enemies. He promised that. Only in countries that have declared war. Only the military.”
She whispered, “Papa. What have you done?”
“I must go back to my rooms. The night is full of men who spy on us.”
“Tell me where to find you.”
“I have rooms on the Rue Ventadorn near the Café de Chanticleer. Ask for Citoyen Gasparini. Bring me more money when you have it.” He pushed past. “Robespierre explained to me. At the cost of a few English soldiers, I am saving the lives of many Frenchmen. And the Republic.” He was a few feet away when he said, “I wish I had not shown him the list.”
The sound of his shuffle disappeared before his shadow got licked up by the greater shadows of the street.
Twenty-nine
HAWKER BANGED ON THE GATE OF THE HOUSE IN the Marais.
The porter at the door—didn’t that man ever sleep?—let him in. Carruthers was waiting for him in the courtyard. There was nothing tougher than an old woman. This one was twigs and shoe nails, held together with sheer meanness.
“You came back. I was hoping we’d seen the last of you, Rat.” Love words from Carruthers.
“I regret the necessity, madame. I had hoped to see the last of you as well.” This was his aristo accent. The girl who’d taught him to speak French had been an aristo from Toulouse. “Is Citoyen LeBreton in the house?”
“You left your post.”
“I left my post to follow—”
“A footman. He returned. You didn’t. Where have you been for five hours, Rat?”
She wouldn’t let him into the kitchen to talk about this in private. The blank stone on every side reflected her voice upward. The house was dark, but behind every window there was some Service agent, sleeping light, waking up to listen to the Old Trout.
“I am not under your command, Madame Cachard, however delightful that would be for both of us. I am Doyle’s rat.” He said it the way a gentleman would, using words like razors. “Did he tell you where he would be?”
Carruthers laid out a couple of silences, each with a different meaning. “The Café des Marchands. Make your excuses to him.”
He knew some small number of deadly women. This one, though, froze his bones. She had the same eyes Doyle did, the same weighing look that saw everything.
Right now, she was full of contempt. “The world will be a cleaner place when somebody snaps your neck.”
He wanted to shrivel up and slink out and never come back. So he grinned. “If I am a rat, madame, I’m the most dangerous rat you will encounter outside your nightmares. A good night to you.” He turned his back on her and walked out the way he’d come in. He’d wipe his arse with Robespierre’s papers before he gave them to that old hag.
The hell with her. The hell with the lot of them.
Thirty
MARGUERITE THOUGHT OF GOING BACK TO THE Hôtel de Fleurignac. But Victor was there, and his mother, and a houseful of servants who would look in her face and see something was wrong. They would bring her delicacies to eat and brew her tisanes. And hover.
She could not. She could not. She crossed her arms around her waist and began walking.
Papa had done something dreadful. Or, not so much done this himself as stood back and allowed his work to be used for horrible purposes. It had not been chance that brought Guillaume to the chateau at Voisemont. He’d come looking for Papa. How disappointed he must have been to find only her.
Now she must mend this.
Somewhere in her city she would find a little breeze. In some park. In some street that led down to the Seine. She would stand and let it blow into her face and watch the sun come up. Maybe that would make her feel better.
A violin played in one of the twisting streets to the left, perhaps in a café. It was beautiful and faint, like a bird singing when the woods are utterly still. She walked for a while toward it.
If she had known where Guillaume was, if she had the least smell of a notion where he might be, she would have walked in his direction. It wouldn’t have been a choice. Her feet would have started moving on their own and kept at it till they bumped into his boots.
I am a great fool. She stubbed her toes on the uneven cobbles. In the narrow and ancient streets of this quartier, stone barriers jutted into the streets so carts would not scrape the walls. That was another hazard to avoid. She seemed to be full of pain in every region inside her skin. Her stomach cramped.
He is English. Why did I not see that? He was not a smuggler, or a bookseller, or a petty criminal, or even a member of the Secret Police. He was a spy of England. He was sent to find her father and take revenge upon him.
She must have walked a long way. In some alley off the Rue d’Anduza, she leaned over and was sick, retching most miserably. But after that, she felt better. The early dawn turned chilly though, and she walked along, shivering. In the Rue Montmartre she passed cafés with every table full. Men in fine clothes idled away the end of the night, drinking cognac, talking loudly, holding the newspapers that were already circulating on the streets. Around them, at other tables, men just awakened and surly were getting ready to do the work of the world. It was as if, in these streets, humanity divided itself into Men of the Day and Men of the Night.
Guillaume was both. Day and Night. He could sit with one sort of men or the other, and they would both welcome him.
She noticed, then, where her feet had brought her. The Café des Marchands, where she had eaten with Guillaume. Where he had told her she could leave a message for him. Where she had told him she did not need him.
I do not need you, Guillaume LeBreton. I do not want you. I do not even know your name.
She sat at one of the tables outside the café, since it was as easy to be discouraged and forlorn sitting down as wandering the streets like a ghost. When the woman paused impatiently beside her, she ordered coffee and a roll.
The coffee was laid on the table softly, so it would not spill. The roll set beside it.
“Are you well, citoyenne?” the woman asked.
She shook her head, but said nothing. The woman went away.
S
he did not want to eat. She wanted to be at home, in the chateau at Voisemont, at her desk, writing tales of beauty and high adventure. She did not want to live in an adventure. They hurt.
When she wiped her face with her hands, she discovered that she no longer smelled of being loved by Guillaume. She smelled like monkey.
FROM the end of the street Doyle saw Maggie, sitting at a table outside. Her head was bowed, so he couldn’t see her face. She was dressed to match the café in plain, durable clothing. That could have been deliberate on her part, but it was probably wasn’t.
He’d said she could find him here. He hadn’t thought she would.
She’d taken the table farthest from the door, where she wouldn’t be bothered by men going in and out. A cup of coffee, untouched, sat before her and a little round of bread, unbroken.
“Hello, Maggie.”
Her head came up, smooth as flowing water. Strands of hair slipped and fell across one another and slid down around her face. The clear, brown eyes lifted and met his.
“I’ll join you,” he said.
I am drowning in this woman and I don’t want to swim free. This is the one. This is the one I’ll give up the Service for. Yesterday or the day before, or maybe the first time he’d seen her, he’d made the decision. While he wasn’t noticing, his mind thought it out and argued it through and settled it. His Maggie. It already sounded natural.
He scraped the rush-bottomed chair back so it was up against the wall of the café and he could keep an eye on the street. He sat next to her, almost touching. She looked tired and worn out and sad. “You’re up early.”
“Not early. I was awake all night.”
She’d walked half the city, Talbot said. Talbot had followed her, at a careful distance, all night. She’d passed a dozen cafés, talked to an organ grinder in the park, played with his monkey, scratched a cat’s ears in an alley, spent time looking out at the river. If somebody was supposed to meet her, he didn’t show up.
The Forbidden Rose Page 19