Surrender to a Stranger (3 page)

“Absolutely not!” replied Jacqueline, thoroughly disgusted by the idea of this man owning something so intimate of hers. She tried to move away from him, and felt a burning pain in her scalp as he continued to hold her hair.

“Don’t be so hasty in deciding,” he whispered, pulling her face close to his. The stench of his breath was overwhelming. “Either you cut it, or Sanson will cut it for you. This way at least you get something in return,” he argued reasonably.

Jacqueline shuddered. She knew the executioner insisted his victims’ hair be shorn off the neck so the blade of the guillotine had a clear path in which to cut. Perhaps it was less messy that way. She was not sure. But prisoners awaiting execution often arranged to cut their own hair and left it to their family as a small token by which they might be remembered. Otherwise it was roughly hacked off and thrown away by the executioner. She had thought perhaps she would leave her hair to her maid, Henriette, who would somehow get it to her sisters. After almost three weeks in prison it was far from clean, but even this brute of a keeper could obviously see that her hair was unusually thick and luxuriant. Ever since she was a child people had commented on the beauty of her hair. The humiliation of having to cut it so this man could carry it as a prize or give it to his wife for a wig was totally repugnant to her.

“Keep your damn candle!” she spat as she slapped his hand off her and moved away from him.

“It’s up to you,” returned Gagnon with a shrug. He stepped out into the hall carrying his torch and shut the door. The cell was plunged into darkness.

Jacqueline moved over to the bed and sat down on it. The sounds of sobbing and moaning filtered through the thick walls of her chamber. Somewhere a woman was pitifully screaming that she was innocent. Somewhere a man was being sick. A few of the prison’s many dogs were barking. Perhaps they had spotted a rat. Jacqueline pressed her lips together and fought to retain her composure. These were, after all, only the normal sounds of the Conciergerie.

She wanted to cry, but she could not. After the arrest of her father she had wept for days, so terrified was she of what would happen to him. He was kept in prison for three months, but not in a place of misery and death like this one. He was incarcerated in what was called a
maison de santé,
a relatively comfortable house of arrest intended for the wealthiest prisoners. The rooms at the Luxembourg were clean and airy, and if one was able to pay, and all of its inmates were, one could dine on seasoned mutton, veal, and duckling, and wash it down with fine French wine. The prisoners there had servants who brought them fresh clothes, books, paper, and ink, and their rooms were cheered with the addition of carpets, paintings, tapestries, and furniture brought from their homes. Many inmates continued to manage their financial affairs from the prison, as they were permitted to have notaries, financial agents, brokers, and auctioneers come to do business with them. Jacqueline and Antoine were regular visitors there, and had been assured by their father that his living conditions were far from intolerable. The former Duc de Lambert found his companions in the prison most pleasant, and spent his days reading, writing, managing his investments, and preparing for his defense. In the evening the prisoners enjoyed card games, lively discussions, and often organized a little play or poetry reading to present to their fellow inmates. It was a world away from life at La Conciergerie.

When Jacqueline first arrived she was placed in a common cell, about fifteen feet square, which she shared with two other women. One was the wife of a military officer whose husband had been executed because his last campaign was not successful. Such failures were highly suspect and deemed counterrevolutionary. The other was a prostitute who had complained to someone that her trade was suffering miserably since the revolution. That was clearly an attack on the government. Both women had been in prison for months as they waited for their case to come before the Tribunal. They slept on beds of straw on the floor and were heavily infested with lice. Two days later Jacqueline was moved to this small cell, where for the rate of twenty-seven
livres,
payable in advance, she could have a bed for a month. She was grateful for the move and did not mind being placed in solitary confinement. The only visitor she had was Henriette, who was permitted to visit her mistress once and had been practical enough to bring some money.

Her eyes were adjusting to the dim light, and so far she could not see anything moving in her cell. Feeling cold and tired, she sighed and lay down on her bed. Tomorrow she would be executed. She supposed she ought to feel terrified, but in fact she was relieved. Her trial had come up relatively quickly, and she thanked God for that. The idea of rotting in this cess pit for months before facing the Tribunal and its inevitable sentence had haunted her.

Her only fear now was for Antoine. He had been sick with a cough and fever for more than a week when the National Guard came to arrest him. Antoine was only a year older than she, and had not been blessed with good health. When they arrived at the Conciergerie they were immediately separated, and despite Jacqueline’s constant inquiries no one seemed able or willing to tell her anything about his condition. She prayed his accommodation was cleaner and warmer than hers. She had no doubt he would also be sentenced to death, but she did not want him to suffer before his execution.

A key scraped in the lock and the door groaned. The jailer stepped aside and the tall figure of a man stepped into the darkness of the cell. For a brief instant his face was lit by the weak torch her keeper held.

“Bring a light in here immediately,” he snapped as he removed his hat and flung it on the table. Gagnon hastily retreated from the door to do his bidding. Nicolas stared through the shadows at her as Jacqueline rose from the bed.

“Mademoiselle de Lambert, I hope I find you well,” he drawled sarcastically as he swept into a low, mocking bow. He straightened up and pretended to examine her surroundings with interest. “But what a terrible turn of events this is, to find you in such a dismal environment.” He clucked sympathetically.

“Get out,” said Jacqueline in a low voice.

He looked at her with feigned surprise. “Mademoiselle, you astonish me. Have you forgotten your gentle manners, which were always such a clear reminder of your fine, noble breeding?”

“Neither my manners nor my breeding are any concern of yours, Monsieur Bourdon. Get out.”

At that moment the jailer reappeared, carrying a thick candle which he set down on the table. “Will there by anything else, Inspector Bourdon?” he asked. It was obvious to Jacqueline that her keeper was much impressed by her visitor.

“No,” replied Nicolas. “Leave us.” Gagnon nodded and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

“It would appear I must remind you that you are no longer the idolized daughter of a wealthy duc, holding court in the magnificent salon of the Château de Lambert,” Nicolas remarked as he slowly stripped off his gloves. He raised his dark eyes to her. “I am not some humble peasant who must bow and scrape before you, Jacqueline. You have no power here. I would advise you to remember that.” He smiled. Evidently he was enjoying the reversal of their roles immensely.

“What do you want of me, Nicolas?” she demanded. “Undoubtedly you have heard I am to face the guillotine tomorrow. Does that not please you enough? Or did you come to savor my humiliation as I cried and begged you to use your influence with the Committee of Public Safety to save me?”

He looked at her with what appeared to be genuine regret. “I did not intend for
you
to be arrested Jacqueline,” he told her softly.

His words hung on the filthy cold air as a mixture of surprise and fury flooded through her. “It was you who denounced Antoine,” she whispered slowly. “That means you must have written those letters,” she concluded, recalling the papers the National Guard claimed to have found in her home.

“None of this would have happened if you had only accepted my suit,” he complained bitterly. “If you had married me, I would have protected you and your family.”

“Marry you?” Jacqueline gasped in disbelief. “You can still suggest such a thing after you have demonstrated the kind of man you are? After you arrange for the arrest of my brother when he was so ill I feared for his survival?”

“I did not realize he was so sick,” Nicolas protested. “The arrest was to have been simple and orderly, the way most arrests are. It never occurred to me that you would attack a member of the National Guard and get yourself arrested in the process.” He shook his head in disbelief, as if the very image of such an act was utterly beyond his imagination.

Jacqueline stared at him, her body rigid with loathing. “What’s the matter, Nicolas? Did I spoil your plans for me?” she asked sarcastically.

He shrugged his shoulders. “They have been altered, but I remain confident we can reach an agreement,” he replied nonchalantly.

Jacqueline looked at him and began to laugh. It was a harsh, bitter laugh, but it was the first time in many months that anything had even slightly amused her, and she indulged in the feeling. “An agreement?” she repeated mockingly. “Oh, but certainly Monsieur Bourdon, do let us negotiate. Shall I arrange for some refreshment while we work out the terms?” she asked politely as she motioned for him to sit in the chair. “I must confess I am not sure what to order, for the Conciergerie is not well-known for the quality of its food and drink, but no matter. Pray, tell me what you will have?”

“You.” His answer was curt and businesslike. It was impossible to mistake its meaning.

She stared at him in outraged disbelief. “Are you mad?” she demanded. “Tomorrow I am going to be executed. My father is dead, and my brother is either dying or already dead. I blame our murders on you and your damned revolutionary government. Can you honestly think I will give myself to you on the eve of my death?”

“Perhaps,” he replied with a shrug. “If it means you can save your precious life.” He removed his heavy brown coat and draped it over the chair. “You have heard, I am sure, of women who have managed to escape the blade of the guillotine, at least temporarily, by revealing that they are pregnant?”

“I am not,” protested Jacqueline indignantly.

“Of course you are not,” Nicolas agreed. He removed his brown jacket and carefully laid it over his coat. “Convicted women who declare themselves pregnant are removed to the Tribunal hospital at the Maison de l’Evêché near Notre Dame,” he continued conversationally. “They are kept there until it can be determined whether or not they are actually pregnant. Once their condition is confirmed, they are permitted to avoid their execution by carrying to term and giving birth.”

“And what happens to them after that?” demanded Jacqueline.

“Then they are executed,” he admitted. “But the Tribunal hospital is not a fortress like the Conciergerie. During the months in which you are staying there, an escape might be possible.”

Jacqueline looked at him incredulously. “Are you suggesting that you get me pregnant tonight so I can cheat the guillotine of another victim tomorrow?”

“We may not be successful tonight,” Nicolas qualified. “But I can tell the Tribunal that as an acquaintance of the family, I am aware you have had a lover for some time, which will make your plea of pregnancy more credible. The lover, of course, could not be me, for that would make me suspect. In my capacity as an inspector for the Committee of Public Safety, I can, however, arrange to visit you at the hospital, under the pretense of needing to further investigate your case. During these meetings we can make sure my seed has more opportunities to take.” He smiled at her, evidently looking forward to that prospect.

“Get out,” commanded Jacqueline, her voice low and full of loathing.

Nicolas sighed. “As always, you continue to disappoint me, Jacqueline.” He stepped toward her and grabbed hold of her hair, then roughly jerked her into him.

Jacqueline struggled to free himself as he wrapped his other arm around her and held her tightly against his chest. “Did you really think I would be stupid enough to believe you wanted to help me?” she grated out. “All you want is to strip me of my dignity by tricking me into finally giving myself to you. That would please you, wouldn’t it, you loathsome bast—”

He released his arm and cracked her hard against the face. She would have staggered back from the impact, but he still held her a prisoner by her hair. His face dark with fury, he reached into the neckline of her gown and tore down in one violent motion, ripping away the delicate silk bodice and exposing her breasts.

“Do you know what you are now, Jacqueline?” he drawled as he let his hand roughly wander over her. “You are nothing,” he spat, shoving her back against the cold stone wall. “You noblesse have been stripped of your titles and your rights, and now it is up to us if you are allowed to live.” He reached down and began to pull up the skirts of her gown as he pinned her against the wall with his body. “Tomorrow you will die,” he stated viciously, “but tonight, my sweet, you will finally be mine.” He lowered his head and savagely ground his mouth against hers, stifling any cries she might have made.

Jacqueline strained against him, clamping her mouth shut as she frantically scratched at his face and tried with the other hand to stop the rise of her gown. She could feel him pressing against her, holding her a prisoner as he brutally squeezed her breast. His hand was groping her thigh, she struggled and tried to lift her knee to strike him in the groin, but to her horror this action only served to speed his hand’s ascent. He was there, roughly probing her with his fingers in the most intimate of places, hurting her, laughing, and she wrenched her mouth away to scream, knowing full well that a woman’s screams for help in the Conciergerie would bring absolutely no one.

“Oh, er, pardon me, I was not aware the citizeness was entertaining company,” said a frail, gravelly voice before dissolving into a hideous fit of coughing.

Startled, Nicolas released Jacqueline and stepped away from her. Jacqueline quickly pulled together the torn remnants of her bodice and grabbed her shawl up from the floor, covering herself before she turned to face the welcome intruder.