Time for Eternity (15 page)

Eight

“Too lucky by half tonight, Avignon.” St. Martine tossed back a brandy, too many for the evening. “No one has luck like that.”

Henri ignored the implication. “Why, I thought it was skill.” One of the girl attendants scraped his winnings into a pile with a small rake.

“A kind of skill,” St. Martine muttered.

“You’re drunk, man.” General Digne was surprisingly always the peacemaker. “Don’t say things you’ll regret. Avignon loses often enough. And he doesn’t need the money.”

“If you object to being fleeced, stop buying his goods,” Rustau remarked. “Playing cards with him is the least of our problems.”

“Ahhh, but we all like what he provides too much for that,” Romaine remarked. “Tonight is just is the way of the tables. Some are up, some are down. We will soon be up again.” He was the philosopher of the group.

St. Martine was about to respond in an unfortunate fashion when the double doors to the grand salon burst open with a bang.

Soldiers marched in and spread out.

A hush fell over the room. Henri glanced to the door to see Robespierre, the tidy martinet of a man, marching in behind his henchmen. Henri continued putting the coins into equal stacks that could be wrapped into roulades.

“The declaration that gaming is an antirevolutionary activity was clearly posted.” Robespierre glared at those members of his own government salted around the room. Some colored, some stuck their chins out in defiance. Someday, Robespierre would not be able to keep his own in line. You couldn’t suppress everything without having something give way.

“Where is the owner of this establishment?”

“Here, sir.” Lacaune stepped forward.

“Arrest this man,” Robespierre ordered. Soldiers moved in to do his bidding.
Damnation.
Lacaune was an honorable man, and there were too few of those, no matter their trade.

Henri felt a spring inside him coiling.
Uncoil it,
he told himself.
You can do nothing here.

“I am certain you citizens want to contribute your winnings to the revolutionary cause.” Robespierre had such a prim voice. Was he really so tightly controlled? Or was he afraid that the violence and sexual urges within would unleash themselves and destroy him in the eyes of the world? Perhaps both. Henri wondered what Robespierre’s sex with his mistress was like.

Murmurs of protest broke out around the room. Henri retrieved some roulade papers left on the table and started wrapping his gold. When each man had “contributed” he was allowed to go, though Robespierre dispensed lectures liberally during the proceedings.

Henri lounged in his chair, his winnings now stacked in neat roulades before him. At last Henri was the only guest remaining besides the soldiers. The little man came and stood in front of him. The employees gathered in a nervous clump near the baccarat table.

“Foucault, I might have expected you to be here.”

“But you did not? How odd.”

“Report has it that you were absent for some time in the middle of the evening.”

“I come. I go. Even I can’t keep track of me.” He was going to brazen it out of course, but the man had a purpose for asking.

Not good.

“Well, there were some other surprising events tonight.”

“I am agog to know,” Henri murmured in his most bored voice.

That goaded Robespierre. “Well, you should be. Because there aren’t enough prisoners in the Conciergerie tonight.”

“Are there ever enough prisoners for your taste?” Henri inquired politely.

“I mean that one escaped.”

“However would you know in all that crush?”

“Because we heard a scream.” Robespierre smiled like the proverbial cat. “And screams always portend an escape.”

“I take it you have made a study.” Henri let his tone imply that he could care less about screams. But if they had jumped to that, it would make his job harder. He often had to return to the same cell twice or three times to get an entire family.

“And this particular escape was most interesting. It wasn’t like the others.”

“The others? Dear me. I didn’t know you were so careless with prisoners.”

Robespierre frowned. “The others were families. This was an old woman. Your neighbor in fact.”

“Madame LaFleur?” Henri put up his quizzing glass to examine the little man. He had the satisfaction of seeing him squirm a bit.

“You let her escape your clutches?” He shook his head in dismay. “Hardened criminal that one. I hardly feel safe knowing she’s at large.”

Robespierre’s lips tightened. “I’d like to know where you were during the time you left the premises tonight, Foucault.”

“Left? But I never left.” The quizzing glass came down.

“Then where were you for the period between …” He referred to a small notebook. “Ah, approximately one and two-thirty A.M.?”

Henri glanced to the huddled employees and smiled. One girl smiled back. “Ask her.”

Robespierre stared at him. “You … Right on the premises?”

“In the cloakroom.” Henri began loading roulades into his pockets.

“Those winnings belong to the state.”

Henri glanced up. “Oh, surely not. What would Madame Croûte do for lace?” He disposed of the last roulade. “By the way, why ever did you tax salt and brandy? No one can afford them now. And you know how French like good brandy and good food.

And of course there’s the clean water you and Madame Croûte both love so much.”

Robespierre flushed. “I could confiscate your wells.”

“Probably with the same result as the other enterprises you’ve confiscated. Factories are not exactly humming. Whatever would your revolutionary friends do if the water ceased to flow? As for procuring the niceties of life—you just don’t have my contacts.”

“I’ll talk to the girl. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Ahhh. I would never doubt that.” Henri lounged back in his chair as Robespierre stalked over to the girl, who answered his questions tearfully but with what she believed was the truth. When Robespierre turned away in disgust, all the other girl attendants crowded round her asking very particular questions about Henri’s anatomy and technique. Robespierre must have heard them, for his face grew grim.

Henri raised his brows as Robespierre approached. “I take it I’m free to go.”

“Yes.” The word was torn from the man’s gut.

Henri rose. “It would be an honor to have you and Madame Croûte attend my small soirée on Wednesday. You’ll be quite the toast of the party. Celebrities of the Revolution and all.”

“I would
never
attend one of your dissolute gatherings.”

“Never say never, Citizen.” Henri lounged toward the doors, pockets bulging.

He was in no immediate danger, but Robespierre and his cronies would be watching him a little too closely from now on. Damn.

And he had a shipment to deliver next week.

Henri shut the door to the house in Rue Lespasse in the Faubourg St. Germain with a slam. What was he thinking? That would only draw attention. That was the last thing he wanted.

He’d thought to make his sexual urges stand down by spending himself at Madame Fontaine’s exclusive establishment. Yet when it came to the point, so to speak, he couldn’t manage. The girl had been willing enough and beautiful. He provided her pleasure and care, as always. She would have only wonderful memories of tonight. But his nerve failed him (among other things) when it came to his own satisfaction.

He strode down the street, glowering. It was nearly dawn. His cane tapped on the cobblestone with an irritated sound. As well it might.

Maybe it was because the prostitute fawned over him. They had no choice, did they? Maybe it was because she only went through the motions of pleasing a man. It all seemed pathetic somehow. He only accentuated his loneliness, not alleviated it by stopping in a brothel. What had he expected? He’d been alone since his mother left him. He’d never known his father. And craving love for one such as he was always a disaster.

In any case, tonight he couldn’t do it. Mother Mary and Joseph, what was he coming to?

Insistent tapping. Françoise lifted her head and groaned. She uncoiled herself from the wing chair, stiff in every part of her body.

A bright channel of light cut across the carpet. It must be late in the day. She ’d fallen asleep after many hours in fear of …

something. “Come in.”

Annette bustled into the room. “Mademoiselle,” she said breathlessly, “Make haste. La Fanchon will be here at any moment.”

Françoise rose and tried to stretch the kinks out of her body. The last thing she wanted was to see a dressmaker. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table.
Alors,
but there were circles under her eyes from not sleeping. Or maybe from crying over Madame.

The events of yesterday poured over her. She bit her lip. She had to get out of this house. Now that she couldn’t help Madame, she must leave this place. Except there was something she had to do before she could go. She couldn’t think what. But it made her shiver.

In any case, before she could go, she must find another situation. “I … I need to go out today, Annette.”

“Ayyyyyy!” Annette practically wailed. “The duc, I cannot vouch for his temper if La Fanchon is kept waiting for even an instant.”

But she wasn’t kept waiting, because the door burst open and the lady herself swept into the room. “Me, I do not wait downstairs, for the
jeune fille
may escape by the servants’ entrance for all I know.”

The woman before her was petite but bursting with energy. Her impossibly high coiffure, studded with real flowers and various feathers, only contributed to the impression that she was exploding with personality. She had been a beauty once and she was still a handsome woman. And her dress … Françoise had to admire how the military epaulets enhanced the shoulders, and the decreasing bands of gold between the frogs made a vee down her bodice that only emphasized her tiny waist. She wore the colors of the Revolution in a way no revolutionary would ever consider, and that was in itself a triumph.

“I am so sorry I missed you yesterday,” Françoise apologized. “Please don’t blame his grace. It was my fault entirely.”

“Of that I was sure, mademoiselle. The duc he would not dare to keep me waiting.” She spoiled the effect of this announcement by winking. “I know too many of his secrets.”

Françoise did not like to think what secrets this woman might know about Avignon.

“And what was so important that you offended me?”

Françoise swallowed. “I … I visited a friend who was arrested.”

“In prison?” La Fanchon gasped.

Well, if she thought it not fashionable to visit one’s friends, no matter how unfortunate they were, then she could just
be
offended.

“Yes. The Conciergerie, though I had to visit several prisons to find her.” All her outrage left her. Madame was dead. She felt her eyes fill.

“You combed the prisons for your friend?” Madame sighed. “Well, at least I am not thrown over for less than friendship in the most trying of circumstances.” She peered at Françoise. “I am sorry for your friend’s fate.”

Fate. That word again. Françoise shook her head slowly. “But is it? Is it fate, Mademoiselle Fanchon, which takes one and leaves another? And who decides? Robespierre could have chosen a hundred others to arrest.”

“I don’t know, child.”

“Maybe no one decides,” Françoise whispered. “Perhaps it is … random.” She looked up. The little lady had gone still. “We would not like to believe that, would we?”

The room froze for a moment. “No, we would not.” La Fanchon’s eyes were sympathetic. Then the dressmaker clapped her hands. “But who can know? In which case, all we can do is dress well. Now, a dressing gown for Mademoiselle? We have much to do.” She did not wait for Annette but threw open the wardrobe and began tossing peignoirs and elegant dresses out onto the floor.
“Non. Non.
Definitely not.” She came to the charred dress.
“Quel horreur!
Woman, throw this on the rag heap.” The offending dress landed in Annette’s arms.

“With pleasure,” the maid said.

“But … that is my only dress. Everything else I own was burned.”

“So his grace intimated. Fanchon will provide.” She tossed Annette a silk dressing gown.

And she whooshed out of the room, saying over her shoulder, “The yellow salon. The light is good there.”

“Dear me,” Françoise murmured, looking after her. “A force of nature.”

Annette had the dressing gown on in no time. The maid practically shoved her out the door and hissed, “Third door on the right.”

Françoise tiptoed down the hall, listening to the bustle coming from behind the half -open door to the yellow salon and feeling trapped. She should be looking for a position, not being fitted for dresses. Yet, one did need to dress well to hunt for a job. One dress? Well, two dresses. Two dresses only. Françoise pushed the door open.

The room was a hive of activity. Half a dozen assistants swarmed about, setting up a long table, opening the draperies to bathe the room in light, carrying bolts of heavy pattern cloth and stacks of fabric swatches. One set out a low platform, and another carried in a cloth dummy on a metal stand. At the center La Fanchon directed the whole like a symphony.

“Here, here.” She motioned to the low platform. “Stand here.”

She swept the robe off Françoise, leaving her to stand in her undergarments. No one seemed to notice her at all.

“Measurements,” Fanchon called. Assistants rallied round with tapes, pulling Françoise this way and that, measuring every conceivable part of her.

Françoise was merely the object here. That freed her to look around. The room was lovely, with mirrors and big windows out to the park from the first floor of the great house. It was full of lightness and promise somehow. It seemed a long time since she had been in a room like this. Some part of her was nervous. Darkness seemed more comfortable.

But she needed a dress before she could find a situation. Was that what she must do before she could leave this house? Or was it something else? Something worse? She pushed down the image of the sword in the evil leather bag.