Tender the Storm (42 page)

Tresier said nothing, neither encouraging nor discouraging.

Varlet studied the younger man quizzically. Very softly, he asked, "Did she come with you?"

"She did."

For a moment or two, they stood in silence, surveying the sets of dancing couples. "Which is she?" asked Varlet. With the new mode and ail the ladies wearing masks, it was almost impossible to distinguish one lady from another.

"She is partnering Musset."

Varlet laughed. "She's decked out in a blond wig, I take it?" There was no answer from his companion. "Even so, I should have recognized her," said Varlet. "There is an untouched quality about her which is
umistakable
, completely sham, of course. Were we ever so innocent, do you think, Jean? But I am forgetting
,
you are a young man."

Tresier began to breathe deeply.

The older man flicked him a curious look. So that no one could overhear, he said, "She has reneged on a promise to both of us. Remember that."

The words were slow in coming. "I don't forget."

"Ah." That one small sound said everything that needed to be said.

"You'll explain to her that I was suddenly called away?" asked Tresier.

"Don't give it another thought, Jean. Mademoiselle Devereux will never
suspect .
. ," Varlet's voice trailed to a suggestive halt. Color crept under Tresier's collar. Seeing it, the older man slapped him on the shoulder. 'You are too sensitive," he said. "There is a package for you upstairs. You've done well. You deserve your reward."

The wages of sin, thought Tresier inconsequentially, and shrugged off the unpleasant thought. She had reneged on a promise, not realizing the difficulty she had placed him in.
Zoë.
Poor Zoë.
Poor innocent Zoë.
But she wasn't innocent, not by Varlet's measure. And she must pay the penalty for deceiving him. His eyes grew misty. He wasn't thinking of Zoë. Absurdly, his thoughts had shifted to his father.

"Thank you," he said. "You are most generous."

"It's all so reminiscent of what happened in London."

"
Hm
?"
Housard turned aside from the picture he was studying and came to stand beside Rolfe's desk. They were in an upstairs room, an office of sorts, in the Swedish Embassy. Both gentlemen were in their shirt sleeves, having long since removed their coats.

"Fetch me another candle," said Rolfe irritably. I can't make out a thing I'm reading." As an afterthought, he added a belated, "Please."

Housard obediently fetched a candle and set it on the desk. "What is so reminiscent of what happened in London?" he asked.

Rolfe folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair, stretching his cramped muscles. It seemed they had been at it for hours. "Lord, I don't know," he said. "It may mean nothing at all."

"What may mean nothing at all?"

"We're ready to move against
La Compagnie,
wouldn't you say?"

"Just about," agreed Housard. "We now know the identities of the section heads of each cell."

"But we're still no nearer to unmasking
Le Patron?"

"One of those section heads will lead us to him in time. We must be patient, that's all."

"As I said, it's all so reminiscent of what happened in London."

Housard pulled up a chair and seated himself. "What are you suggesting?" he demanded.

"It's just a hunch," Rolfe mused.

Housard's patience was wearing thin. "Well, don't stop there, man, for God's sake
!.
What is just a hunch?"

Rolfe permitted himself a small smile at his companion's uncharacteristic show of impatience. "I have a dreadful premonition that history is about to repeat itself. Let me ask you a question, Housard. At this point in our investigation in London, what happened?"

"What happened?"

"Yes, what happened?*

"You know what happened. We were forced to show our hand prematurely. We lost
Le Patron,
but on the whole, we didn't do too badly. We netted all his lieutenants."

"No, Monsieur Housard. We netted precisely nothing."

"What? Oh, I see what you are getting at. They died resisting arrest or by their own hand."

"Betrand resisted arrest," corrected Rolfe "The other two section heads committed suicide— or somebody got to them first."

"I don't think
I
—"
Housard stopped in mid-sentence. After a moment, he said
consideringly
, "It's possible, I suppose, that
Le Patron
took matters into his own hands and personally silenced them before we could question them. Is that what you are suggesting?"

"It had occurred to me. We know we are dealing with someone who is completely amoral. Such a man would not scruple to rid himself of any witnesses." Rolfe shrugged. "We have no way of knowing what really happened."

"But
Le Patron
did not silence Betrand," pointed out Housard. "We almost had him."

"True," said Rolfe. He smiled. "And that fact would seem to blow holes in my thesis." He rolled his head on the back of his chair, easing his neck muscles.

Both men fell into a reflective silence. Some time later, Rolfe said, "At least we have some clue to
Le Patron's
identity. We know that he was in England for some time before and after Robespierre fell
from power."

"My dear Rivard, so were thousands of other Frenchmen," answered Housard gloomily. "Even your dear lady wife can claim that distinction."

Rolfe uttered a soft expletive. Zoë had become a sensitive subject ever since Housard had informed him that, after the failed assassination attempt against Tallien, Leon Devereux had been trailed to the house in St. Germain. There was no question that Zoë knew of her brother's involvement in
La Compagnie.
"God, I'm confused!" he said. "I no longer know what to believe."

Housard was perusing the paper on which Rolfe had made several notations. "What's this?" he asked.

"Hmm?
Oh, I'm probably grasping at straws. It
's
a list of those members of the salon society who were known to be in England at the crucial time."

"You've omitted Germaine de Stael's name."

Rolfe groaned. "You're right, Housard. That tack won't lead us to
Le Patron.
The list is endless."

A rap on the door brought Housard to his feet. He unlocked it and moved aside as a gentleman, a young clerk, pushed his way in. Rolfe carefully averted his head as the newcomer conversed in an undertone with Housard. The conversation lasted no more than a minute or two. The clerk exited, and the door was carefully relocked.

Without preamble, Housard said, "Not more than thirty minutes ago, your wife arrived at Madame Montansier's Theatre where
a
masked ball is in progress."

Rolfe was swearing and on his feet in an instant.

There was no need for Housard to enlighten him about Madame Montansier's establishment. It was notorious, but more to the point, it was a known haunt of several suspected members of
La
Compagnie
.

The company was thinning. It was long past time to go home. Zoë's eyes traveled the sets of dancers. She grew anxious. She could not find Tresier anywhere. Paul Varlet joined her and her alarm increased.

"You look particularly enchanting this evening, Zoë."

He bowed over her hand. Zoë tried not to flinch. And then everything seemed more natural. Varlet was smiling and calling himself all kinds of a fool for losing his temper when he had learned that she was not free to marry him.

"Will you ever forgive me for those dreadful things I said to you?"

"Of course," said Zoë, more relieved than she could say that this formidable man was not to be her enemy. Nevertheless, she would never forget the change that had taken place in him when she had told him "no." Trying not to betray her thoughts, she looked over the throng and said, "Have you seen Jean?"

"I believe he is in the
cardroom
—oh, not the one which is open to all and sundry. Upstairs, a private game is in progress. Perhaps you would care to join him?"

"No . . .
I'll, I don't think so."

"Child, I shall accompany you. There will he other ladies present. What harm can come to you if I am with you?"

And because she was deathly afraid of him and was desperate to be restored to Tresier, she found herself saying, "You are too kind," and she placed her fingers on his arm.

Couples were ascending and descending the stairs. Some of the women had removed their masks. Zoë's heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

On the landing, they were joined by an acquaintance of Varlet's, a young
muscadin
,
a member of the
jeunesse doree.
Zoë recognized him easily. He was an extraordinarily handsome creature. She had seen him with Varlet on several occasions. He had been drinking heavily.