Vintage Love (74 page)

The priest gave him a reproachful look. “I do not consider it a game. It is a most serious business. The future of France may depend on the Dauphin’s safe arrival in England.”

“You destroyed our plan when you let them take the boy from you,” Kemble retorted.

“I will accept that blame,” Father Braun acknowledged bitterly. “But at the same time I beg credit for having devised the scheme by which the prince was freed in the first place.”

“Recriminations will not help,” Enid chided. “We must stay loyal to each other more than ever before.”

Renaud nodded. “I agree.”

“It looks as if we will return to London with empty hands,” Kemble sighed.

“Give me half a week to redeem myself,” the priest suggested. “If I find out nothing by then, I will give up as head of the mission.”

“That sounds more than fair,” Enid remarked.

“We can ask no more,” was Renaud’s opinion.

“I suppose I must go along with your scheme,” Kemble said unhappily. “But I warn you, I have little confidence in it.”

Father Braun’s blue eyes could not conceal his contempt. “With all due regard to you, Kemble, it is obvious that you are not ideally suited to this line of endeavor. Sir Harry made an unfortunate mistake in sending you here.”

“My appointed task was to pick up the Dauphin and take him back to England, nothing more!” Kemble stormed. “I do not feel I have failed in any way. It is
you
who have failed by not delivering the boy to us!”

“You are right,” the priest said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

Renaud stood up and nodded toward the figure of the slain count. “If we are to dig the grave, let us get on with it before you leave, Father.”

“Of course. I will be glad to help.”

The next two hours were so macabre that Enid was convinced she would never forget them. While the three men labored down in the cellar to provide a grave for Giraud, she sewed the body of the slain count into the bedsheet. All the while she was doing this she worried about Armand and what he might be going through at this moment. Would the journey to Calais be smooth and uncomplicated, or would he be thwarted along the way? The same question applied to his return trip to Paris. Enid sighed heavily as she bent over her unpleasant chore. She knew that even though this undertaking marked Armand’s last work for the underground, he would not be free from the tentacles of danger until he had left France for good.

Finished with their digging, the men carried the shrouded corpse down the ladder that gave access to the cellar. Enid followed them, holding a candle to light her steps. Once the body of Pierre Giraud had been placed in the shallow grave, they all stood with bowed heads as Father Braun offered brief prayers. Then the men set about filling in the makeshift plot.

The united efforts of the threesome to bury their fallen associate seemed to have fostered a new spirit of understanding. They offered a toast to the dead count with the good wine that the priest had brought from the monastery, and Enid joined them in expressing her own thoughts. As Kemble and Father Braun began to speak earnestly in low tones, she felt that their bitter dissension of earlier was now resolved.

Shortly thereafter the cleric departed, but not before he had promised to return in two or three days at the latest to report on the progress he had been able to achieve.

Once more Enid, Kemble, and Renaud settled down to another tense period of waiting.

The next morning Kemble unexpectedly found something with which to occupy himself. He was strolling along the riverbank with Enid and Renaud, who had suggested they go out on a shopping tour, when he came across an outdoor book market offering copies of a number of French plays. There were works by Molière, Racine, and Corneille, as well as lesser dramatists; the fine leather-bound books no doubt had been confiscated from some murdered nobleman’s library. However, Kemble was not interested in where they had come from; his only concern was in their contents.

After he had selected three volumes, he showed them to Enid. “I’ll find something I particularly like and do a translation of it. My time here will not be wasted.”

“That’s an excellent idea!” she encouraged him.

Locating quality foolscap suitable for his work and a supply of pens and ink required a more serious search, but the actor succeeded in purchasing all the necessary materials.

Enid bought a mauve silk dress with some misgivings, feeling she was robbing the dead. However, her own clothes were soiled and falling into disrepair after her longer-than-expected stay in Paris.

Renaud kept busy hunting for food. Someone sold him a mangy-looking fowl and a few brown eggs, and he carried these items proudly in his basket, as if they were a grand prize. And indeed they were, since all produce was at a premium these days in this torn city.

Back at their lodgings, Kemble announced, “I shall make a new translation of Molière’s
The Misanthrope.
I have never yet found one that suited me.” Happily and cheerfully, he seated himself at the kitchen table and applied pen to paper.

• • •

Two more days passed, and still Father Braun had not returned. Both Enid and Renaud were becoming restless and irritable. But Kemble, usually the most impatient of them all, was suddenly blissfully content. Full of enthusiasm for his translation efforts, he remained steadfastly at the kitchen table, writing on the long sheets of foolscap. Every so often he would laugh aloud and then tell them of a new twist of comic phrasing he had given to some of the famous lines.

Enid privately declared to Renaud, “I vow he has forgotten all about our mission here!”

The Frenchman shrugged. “As long as he doesn’t pace back and forth like an angry British lion, it’s all right with me.”

“You’re probably right,” Enid said. She and Renaud were standing by the front windows, taking turns at watching the street.

“The good father promised he would be in touch with us whether he found out about the Dauphin or not. It’s time we heard from him.”

“He said two or three days,” Enid reminded him. “We shouldn’t really be too concerned until after tomorrow.”

“True,” Renaud agreed, shuffling his feet impatiently.

“I’m as much concerned for Armand.” She sighed. “He should have returned from Calais by now, but there is no sign of him.”

“It is a time of trial and agitation, and patience is not easy to maintain in light of all our problems. Nothing is certain any more.”

Enid’s reunion with Armand had been so blissful that she could not think of facing life without him. Yet she knew, as Renaud had just said, that the future was extremely uncertain. She could never count on anything until her beloved was at her side again.

A sudden pandemonium erupted outside, drawing the attention of herself and Renaud back to the windows. The sight that greeted them was both familiar and sorry. Two proud-looking men, wearing fine brocade waistcoats and white-powdered wigs, were being led along the street like cattle, heavy ropes tied about their necks. As they marched along, heads erect, pale faces expressionless, the ragged crowd clustering around and behind them jeered loudly and spat at the pair repeatedly.

Renaud gritted his teeth. “On their way to the guillotine, madam.”

“What a madhouse this Paris has become!” Enid lamented.

• • •

Another night of waiting had elapsed without the appearance of Father Braun. Enid began to worry in private but said nothing. Renaud was also reserved and quiet. Only Kemble was in a good humor. He could barely wait for the day to begin so that he could resume work on the comedy.

“I shall have a prize when we return to England,” he told his companions at breakfast.

Enid gave him a wise look. “But not, I fear, the prize for which we came.”

He became red-faced and apologetic. “Sorry! I had forgotten for a moment!”

“Thinking about our problem does little to solve it,” Renaud observed.

After breakfast the Frenchman elected to go food shopping again. “We shall be needing supplies for four or maybe five people, if Father Braun returns with the Dauphin.”

“If
he does,” Enid said with meaning.

“You yourself said we must not give up hope,” Renaud reminded her.

She sighed. “You are right, of course. And I’ll go shopping with you. I’d like to get some air and sunshine.”

Renaud turned to Kemble, who was already busy at the table. “And you, Monsieur Kemble?”

“Thank you, no,” the actor said with a sheepish smile. “I’m trying to finish the third act before Father Braun returns. Besides, someone ought to remain here to greet him or take a message.”

It was a pleasant autumn day, and in spite of her apprehensions, Enid felt better once she was outdoors. The warmth of the sun was comforting after the dank chill of the old house. They headed toward the food market and joined the bustling throngs. She wandered along at her own pace as Renaud occasionally halted to haggle with some farmer over a bit of produce.

She was a short distance away from him when two police officers emerged from the crowd and approached her with hostile expressions on their faces. As they each seized her by an arm, one of them told her, “Lady Blair, we are arresting you in the name of the Council.”

“You’re making a mistake!” she protested.

“We have our orders,” the officer insisted, and he and his associate began to pull her away from the market.

She cried out, “Renaud! Help!” But her friend was lost in the crowd. She was vaguely aware of abuses being shouted at her and of a sea of sullen faces glaring in her direction. Then the two policemen shoved her into a carriage and they drove off quickly.

Fifteen minutes later she found herself in the library that Louis Esmond used as his office. He was standing next to the desk, his face dark with fury.

“Why have you brought me back here?” she demanded.

He limped over to her. “Didn’t you forget to say goodbye?”

“What do you hope to gain from me this time?”

Hatred glittered in the single eye focused on her. “Where is he? Where is the Dauphin?” Esmond snarled.

“You are the one holding him!”

“I
was
the one!” he cried angrily. He limped toward the opposite wall and pressed a small knob. A panel slid back to reveal an opening into a small, cell-like room. “He was in there!”

Enid stared through the doorway of the secret chamber, lit by candlelight, saw an empty, rumpled cot and a bench. Otherwise the room was empty. “So that is where you had him!”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know about it!” Esmond said, bringing a fist crashing down on the sideboard next to him.
“Where is he?”

“I know nothing of his whereabouts,” she replied haughtily.

He thrust his rage-filled face into hers and spoke scathingly. “You were sent here from England with that actor Kemble to have the Dauphin delivered to you and to see him safely back to London. Do you deny that?”

“No.”

“Then tell me where he is!”

“You managed to get him away from Father Braun, so he could not deliver the prince to us. Louis Charles was last here as your prisoner. In that room—so you say!” Enid stepped back a few paces. The nearness of Esmond was makking her dizzy with nausea.

“And he was stolen from this house on the very night you and the duke vanished. I don’t know by what black magic you escaped, but I am convinced that you took the boy with you!”

“No!”

“He is gone!” Esmond shouted angrily.

“I can swear he didn’t leave with us. Count Beaufaire, who rescued the duke and me, didn’t even know that the lad was here. Nor did he know of that secret room—any more than I did until you revealed it to me just now!”

The French master spy beamed his one eye on her. “You are clever, Lady Blair. You speak with a serpent’s tongue. Sweet words of innocence which I do not believe! It is too much of a coincidence that the prince disappeared on the same night and at the same time as you did, without your being a party to it.”

“You can believe what you like. I have told you the truth.” She tossed her head defiantly.

“This time it is going to be different,” Esmond warned her. “This time you have until tomorrow morning to tell me where that boy is. If you refuse, your head goes on the block!”

Enid smiled grimly. “You no longer want me as a bed companion? Did I not please you?”

“I’ve heard all that before,” he told her sharply. “I could revel in your body. But I have more pressing problems. I have placed myself in a difficult position with Robespierre and the Council.”

“Really?”

He came close to her again and said in a low, tense voice, “Robespierre wants to destroy me, to see me ruined! They have used me, and now they refuse to give me the equality I’m asking for. With the Dauphin to use in a trade with them, I could insist that they elevate me to the Council. But now I have lost him—and all my hopes as well!”

“I’m afriad you became too ambitious, Citizen Esmond.”

“You say almost the same words as Robespierre, you vixen!” he stormed.

“Do not expect me to feel any deep sympathy for you.”

“All right,” he said softly. “You have my word. Tell me where you’re hiding that boy or you will die on the guillotine tomorrow.”

“I cannot tell what I do not know.”

“I shall give you time to reconsider. As the hours shorten, you will change your mind.”

“That is not possible.”

“In the meanwhile, your prison shall be the very room the Dauphin occupied. You’ll even have his bed.” Esmond grabbed her by the arm and forcibly shoved her through the entrance to the secret room.

Enid turned to him. “This will do you no good!”

“We shall see,” he said, and as he gazed at her, she saw the look of lust return to his cruel face. He pressed another small knob and the panel slid closed, leaving them alone together in a candlelit intimacy. In this room there was neither day nor night. Without windows it was always the same.

“What do you plan to do now?” she asked.

Esmond was taking off his uniform jacket. “I have changed my mind,” he told her. “It would be a sheer waste to send you to the blade without once again sampling your body!”