Minuet (28 page)

“Better not. We don’t know who it was at the inn yesterday getting our description. They might be looking for us. Well, they are.”

Back to the Luxembourg, another long trek, where Monsieur Robarts was gone off to lunch, not to return for an hour. “We do the same. It is time to eat,” Minou decided.

Their pockets were becoming woefully empty, but they could still afford a loaf of bread and cheese. A bench in the park was free, and thus heavily populated. Three other persons shared it with them, talking about all the great doings in Paris. One of them was an official, a
très petit bourgeois,
a little better dressed than the others, and condescending to expound on his job, which could not have been at all prestigious or he would have been able to afford a restaurant. Degan ate mechanically, but Sally sat with her ears perked, listening. When the official had stopped speaking, she craned her neck beyond the intervening people and asked, “Did I hear you say,
citoyen,
the Convention has taken over three more houses for prisons?”

“Yes. They will be billeting them on you common folk next,” he answered, laughing.

“They’ll have trouble shoving any of them onto us, eh, Philippe?” she asked, giving Degan’s elbow a jovial shove. “Already me and my brother here and four sisters living in two rooms. Whose house have they taken over now?”

She listened with apparent mild interest to the three names. “All on the rue de Tournelle, did you say?” she asked.

“No, two there and one on St.-Honore,” the man replied.

As he was apparently a person of no importance, she trusted he was not bright enough to suspect another question. “Any idea which one they put Mérigot in?”

“The former comte de Virais, you mean?” he asked.

“Yes, the last of that hateful tribe. They’re going to put an end to them.”

“He was one of the names on the list, but I don’t remember which place he was taken to. I heard they accidentally put him in one of the Virais mansions on d’Amiens, and had to move him in case he knew a secret passageway or something. Belonged to an aunt, the comtesse de Beaufort. He’s safe in any case. They’re all well guarded.”

“Is that why they moved him?” Sally asked, wondering if she and Degan had managed to escape suspicion after all.

“Yes, I hear they caught him climbing up some secret passageway to a roof. They say there is to be an attempt to rescue him. Two men, one posing as a woman wearing a red wig and the other as a boxer. Both of them English, I think. Mérigot is here spying for the English, of course.”

“What have they done, put
gardes
around the house?” she asked, chewing her bread and sounding as if she were merely making mealtime conversation.

“The whole place is cordoned off. You couldn’t get a cat into it. The only thing allowed in there will be the
charrette
to take him to the little window.” He laughed, then rolled his lunch paper into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “Well, back to work, while you lucky people sit here and soak up the sun. You should all be home making saltpeter out of your ashes.”

“He’s right. Let’s go,” Sally said, and she and Degan strolled off to discuss what they had discovered.

“Things seem to be in enough confusion, anyway,” he said hopefully.

“It’s a bad sign with so many rumors. It means everyone is talking about it—in officialdom, I mean. Sooner or later they’ll hit on the truth. Imagine—Henri had already half escaped on them. He is up to anything,
non?
And I don’t think he was ever in Beaufort’s house, either. But they’ll watch him more closely now.”

It was decided they would walk along to the neighborhood where the three new houses were located and see if they could weasel any news out of a
garde
or chance passerby.

The streets had not actually been cordoned off. It was possible to venture to the corner of the block on which the houses were situated, but in front of the houses on the rue Tournelle a whole army of
gardes
paraded, everyone of them looking irritable, hostile, due perhaps to the sweltering sun and the irksome duty of walking up and down an empty street all day long.

“We daren’t go talk to them,” Sally decided. “It will be a repetition of the last encounter, only worse. We’ll circle around a block and see how the approach from the rear is guarded.”

They did this, peering between the spaces of the houses on the opposite side of the block, and fixing in their minds which red-brick backs of buildings were the two in question. They could see no
gardes
at the rear, but to venture onto such prestigious precincts in broad daylight was madness. Minou was certain these homes now housed members of the Convention. “We’ll have to come back after dark,” she told Degan.

They got a good grasp of their bearings to be sure they could identify them in the dark, then went along to St.-Honore to see the last prison. It was surrounded by many curious onlookers. Minou thought they were there to try for a glimpse of Henri. “What’s the big attraction?” she asked a woman standing beside her.

The woman shrugged. “There must be something going on,” Minou continued.

“Everyone wants to get a look at Robespierre’s last home, I guess,” she was told.

It was dangerous to admit not knowing this was the home lately lived in by the Incorruptible. “Being used as a prison now?” she continued to the woman.

“They have a couple in there calling themselves nobility,” the woman agreed.

No names were mentioned, but the rescuers thought they had discovered what they wished to know. “I guess they have the Commune members locked up on the rue de Tournelle?” Minou ventured.

“Yes, they’ll be loading them onto the
charrettes
any time now. I’ll be going along to Sainte Guillotine.”

“Are the
charrettes
stopping off here to pick up these two prisoners?” Sally asked.

“Je ‘sais pas,”
she was told.

They walked along a bit apart from the crowd. “We’ll wait here and see if they come for him,” Minou said to Degan. “Maybe they
do
mean to kill him today in case he escapes, and are keeping it quiet to fool us, his rescuers.”

“What if they do come for him?” Degan asked, his own mind coursing ahead to wild ideas of attempted rescues, none of them feasible, and he knew it. Henri would be chained, as he had been himself. There would be hundreds of
gardes,
and thousands of onlookers by that time. Madness, them without even a weapon.

“We can do nothing,” she answered, her voice breaking, “but I must know.”

For an hour and a half they stood, till the sounding of the bells and the roll of drums told them the
charrettes
were coming, along their usual route. There were seven of them, each full of men. It was hard to try to pick Henri out from the crowd. There were tall men and short, old and younger, blue jackets and black. The faces showed fear, belligerence, pride and disdain. One old fellow looked terribly bored with the whole thing, and another was laughing, incredible though it seemed. He was a tall, dark younger gentleman. For an awful moment Minou thought it was Henri, but it was not.

“We don’t want to see the execution,” Degan said, drawing her away. “We know Henry’s not in with this lot. We’ve got to get ahold of some kind of weapon. We can do nothing without even a gun.”

“I want to make
sure
he’s not executed. Let us go.”

“No, Minou,” he insisted, knowing she would break down if he were there, get herself thrown into prison. “He would be in the
charrettes
if he was to go to the guillotine today. They’ll make a great spectacle of his execution, as you said. We can’t waste time. Come.”

She allowed herself to be taken away, looking white and limp, and her eyes staring wildly. “We need a glass of brandy,” he decided. They went along till they came to a small tavern and entered to take a small table in an inconspicuous corner.

They had no sooner been served than three
gardes
entered, their pikes held across their chests, bringing the establishment into a state of alarm, especially the two clients in the far, dark corner. “An inspection of identity cards,” the main
garde
announced in an important voice, looking all around. The patrons reached resignedly for their
cartes,
while one of the other
gardes
spoke to the proprietor, who was complaining that this sort of thing was bad for business.

“Who are you looking for, anyway?” he finished up.

“A red-haired girl and a big black-haired man. Suspected of spying for the English.”

The culprits sat still, looking desperately into each other’s eyes, silently thanking God it was not two males being looked for. Their bundle of clothing was silently pushed behind the chair against the wall. Agnès Maillard’s card was right in it, to establish guilt if found. Degan realized they should have gotten rid of these things sooner. Under the table, he felt a small, warm hand find its way into his. The fingers were trembling, as were his own. He squeezed them reassuringly, but felt in truth they were as well as caught.

The
gardes
went from table to table, asking for cards and examining the patrons closely. The small table in the corner was the last to be searched, allowing ample time for nerves to become lacerated. Degan knew if they required a single word from him he was done for. His eyes closed, he yawned widely without covering his mouth, and let his head loll on his shoulder. He heard a
garde
speak to Minou.

“You seen anything of a red-headed girl and a big dark-haired man, fellow?”

“You want a big dark-haired man, take this one,” she said, and laughed ironically. “His wife will be glad enough to be rid of him. What have they done, eh?”

“They are enemies of the Republic,” was the stiff reply. “You there, drunkard,” the
garde
said to Degan, giving his shoulder a jostle. “Wake up.”

He emitted a snort and let his head jerk to his chest. “Better get him home before he passes out entirely,” the
garde
advised her.

“Looks like I’m too late. The brandy beat me to it. I’ll send his wife after him. He’ll be wishing you had arrested him when she gets hold of him. What a harridan she is.”

“You’re pretty young to be in a place like this,” the
garde
told her sternly. “Is that your father?”

“Uncle,” she said unhesitatingly.

“Let’s see your cards.” She handed him her own, and pulled Degan’s out of his pocket. The man glanced at them and handed them back.

He beat the end of his pike on the floor and announced to the assembled patrons a description of the two criminals wanted by the Commune, then accepted a glass of brandy from the proprietor and drank it at his leisure before resuming his thankless chore. At last the
gardes
left.

“There go ten more years,” Minou said, gulping in relief.

“It felt more like a lifetime to me,” he replied, and raised a finger for more brandy. No longer deleterious, it was all that kept him from expiring. He was grateful it had not been diluted.

Chapter Twenty

After an interval long enough for them to have three brandies each and ensure that the
gardes
had moved a block along, they arose and wandered out into the street, in search of a weapon. Where to begin looking? The whole city was a war factory. Soldiers swarmed through the streets; the Luxembourg Gardens and the Invalides housed forges; the churches and former convent were depots for the army; in the homes of the former elite, bands of women and children sat sewing uniforms, rolling bandages, making tents for the National Army. But where in all this was a gun to be found?

“I begin to think our best bet is to knock out a soldier and steal one,” Degan suggested. “It will have to be done in some back street after dark.”

“It will also have to be done very carefully,” Minou cautioned.

For something to do, they walked along to the rue St.-Honore, around to the block opposite to inspect the rear as best they could, which was not very well. “That is where we slip in tonight after dark,” Minou told him, pointing out an alley between the two buildings. “It will take us to the back of his prison.”

Degan nodded, straining his eyes to try for a view of the back of the mentioned house, but there was a spreading tree in his line of sight. Good concealment, at least. As evening drew on, they began wending their way toward the Maison Belhomme, so very far away, stopping for more bread and cheese and a glass of wine at a small, cheap restaurant, then with darkness descended, they continued on to the rue de Charonne.

In the shadows, Degan changed into his boxer’s jacket and better trousers, and Minou hid in the bushes while he went inside to pretend to Lady Harlock that all was proceeding satisfactorily. She was acute, like her daughter, and knew at once he was disturbed, but he talked it away as nerves, which sounded logical enough. She was in high gig herself. Édouard was rallying nicely. She related the meals he had eaten, which caused Degan’s mouth to water. He hoped he would never have to eat another bite of cheese and bread, and heard with envy of the chicken and fruit that had tempted Édouard into taking a few bites.

“How soon can he travel?” he asked.

“At the rate he’s going, in three or four days.”

“Do you think Belhomme’s asylums will escape change for that long?”

“Madame Belhomme is very worried, but so far she has not been contacted. She will have advance notice from her friends. Come back each night, and I will keep you informed. Édouard would like to meet you. He has been anxious to do so.”

Degan wanted to get away as quickly as possible, but the woman looked at him with too sharp a regard. She suspected he was troubled, and to allay her fears he went up to meet Edward. The man—boy, really—lay back against the pillows with his eyes open, bright and alert in a face so emaciated the jaws were sunken. They were introduced, then Edward requested his mother get him a glass of water, to obtain some privacy with Degan.

“What is the truth of the matter?” he asked at once. “Why does Henri not come in person? Have they caught him?”