Storm Winds (18 page)

She thought the young man had gone away, until he suddenly broke the silence. “You look like a corpse.”

She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her.
“Pardon?”

“You lay there like a dead woman. The pain will go away. Woman is made to take a man into her body. You will heal.”

Catherine shook her head. She would heal but she’d never be as she was. She would always carry this sickening stain. “You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right. Don’t be foolish. The fault was not
yours and you have no reason to feel shame. Inside you’re the same. What you are has nothing to do with your body.”

She gazed at him in bewilderment. His words carried the same soft vehemence that had swayed her downstairs.

“Do you hear me? You’re just the same. Nothing has been taken from you that’s of any importance.”

“Why are you shouting at her?” Juliette came back into the room carrying a basin of water and clean cloths. “Have you no sense? She’s had enough to endure without you bothering her.”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

Juliette sat down on the bed beside Catherine. “Go away. I have to wash her and get her to bed. Wait for me downstairs.”

François gave her a level glance before he turned and left the room.

She shouldn’t be lying here letting Juliette take care of her, Catherine thought. Dark circles ringed Juliette’s eyes and her hands were shaking as she dropped a cloth into the basin of water. Juliette was clearly exhausted and the horror of this night had taken its toll on her strength. Catherine reached for the cloth. “I can do it.”

Juliette slapped her hand aside. “Lie still.” She closed her lids tightly for an instant and then opened them to reveal tear-bright eyes. “Mother of God, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Catherine whispered. “I’m being such a bother to you. I’ll try to help—”

“Hush.” Juliette smiled shakily. “You can help me by not fighting over the little I can do for you. I don’t seem to have much strength to argue.”

A phantom of a smile touched Catherine’s lips. “How unusual. I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“See, you’re laughing at me. Things can’t be so terrible if you can still laugh. Just lie still and let me help you.”

Catherine closed her eyes and let the mists close about her and Juliette have her way.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Juliette strode into the salon close to an hour later and halted directly before François. “You can’t leave her here alone and unprotected.”

“She has you,” François said. “I’m surprised you think anyone else is necessary.”

“I’m not stupid enough to believe I can get us out of Paris to safety.” She met his gaze. “And we won’t be safe here, will we? You say Danton is one of the heroes of the revolution. If men that powerful are involved in what happened tonight …” She stopped, pushed back the memories flooding back to her and drew a deep breath. “Then the whole world has gone mad.” He didn’t answer and she braced herself to attack again. “I have to know what I’m fighting. Who were those men who attacked the abbey? Dupree called them Marseilles.”

“They’re hirelings from Marseilles and Genoa. Most of them are the spawn of the prisons. The Girondins hired them to come to Paris and protect them against the Paris Commune’s National Guard. Unfortunately, as soon as they arrived in Paris, Marat upped the Girondins’ offer and they now belong to him.”

“Girondins?”

“Even in the convent you must have heard of the Girondins.”

“Why should I have been interested in your idiotic politics? Tell me.”

“The National Assembly is run by members who belong to several different political clubs. There are actually three principal parties in the assembly. The Girondins, who want to walk a middle road and keep both the constitution and the monarchy. The Jacobins, who are radicals and want to dispose of the monarchy.”

“And this Paris Commune?”

“Most of them are Cordeliers. They control the National Guard and therefore Paris.” He smiled crookedly. “The threat of the sword can be more persuasive than the most eloquent oratory.”

“Dupree is a Cordelier?”

François nodded. “Jean Paul Marat controls the Paris Commune and Dupree is his agent.”

“And to what party does your great Danton belong?”

“He’s the leader of the Cordeliers and belongs to the Paris Commune.” He rushed on. “But he’s not a radical. He believes only in doing what’s best for the revolution.”

“And butchering women is best for the revolution.” She waved his protest aside. “Can I appeal to these Girondins for protection?”

“Not against the Commune. They talk a lot but do little.”

“So I obviously cannot count on sanity from anyone in the government. Catherine and I must protect ourselves.” A frown wrinkled her brow. “You must make sure no one knows we’re here and then find us a way to leave Paris at the earliest opportunity.”

“Indeed, and why must I do all this? You’re fortunate that I saw fit to intervene tonight.”

“I don’t consider myself fortunate.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I’m angry and someone must pay.
You
must pay.”

“Why?”

“Because you were there. If you didn’t expect to pay for that atrocity, you should never have gone to the abbey tonight.” She smiled grimly. “And if you wish another reason why you should help us, perhaps I should tell you that I killed the man who raped Catherine tonight. Do you think your Commune would take kindly to your aiding the murderess of one of its number?”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

Juliette called to him. “One more thing. Before you leave, talk to that old man, Robert. It would do no harm to be a little threatening.”

“I’m not accustomed to frightening old men.”

“Yes, you are. I think you’re accustomed to frightening anyone who stands in your way.”

François paused at the door of the salon. “The old
man presents no danger. He appears fond of your friend.”

“Fear will make him more cautious with his tongue than will affection.”

“What a gentle nature you have, Citizeness.”

“Catherine is gentle. Did it save her?” Her fingers rose to rub her temples wearily. “I can’t really trust anyone. Everything is different now, isn’t it?”

François gazed at her for a moment. “Yes.” He turned. “I’ll have a word with Robert.”

As he left the room Juliette could feel the tension flow from her muscles, and a wave of exhaustion caused her to sway. She reached out blindly to clutch at the table next to her. She mustn’t give in to weakness. Catherine needed her, and the saints knew there was no one else she could count on. François Etchelet’s aid had been grudging at best, and he might balk at any moment. Danton obviously would help only to the extent Etchelet could persuade him, and Jean Marc Andreas was somewhere flitting around the countryside when Catherine needed him. Those strangers had no connection with Catherine, but Jean Marc had a responsibility toward her. Why hadn’t he come to the abbey for her before this monstrous thing could happen?

The surge of anger against Jean Marc momentarily banished her exhaustion and she welcomed it. She could deal with anger as she could not with fear and frustration. She needed to hold on for just a little longer and then she could rest. She would talk to Marie and Robert and then go find a bedchamber for herself. She would wash and then sleep and gain strength for the morrow.

She had picked up the candelabrum from the table and started for the door when a glimmer of color in the corner of the room caught her eye. She stopped abruptly, her gaze on the wall to the left of the doorway. Holding the candelabrum higher, she moved slowly forward until she stood before the small painting on the wall.

The Wind Dancer.

She could execute it much better now, but it was
not such a bad effort. Still, it was not as superior as the Bouchers, Doyens, Fragonards, and other artists whose works graced the walls. She frowned in puzzlement as she glanced around the room. The salon was decorated with restrained good taste, its white-paneled walls covered with exquisite gold arabesques, the furniture carefully fashioned of finest woods. Everything in the room whispered of excellence. So why had Jean Marc Andreas hung her painting here? She moved her shoulders uneasily. For that matter, why had she painted it for him? It was the real Wind Dancer he had wanted, not its likeness. She had told herself it was gratitude for arranging for her to be sent to the abbey, but was it something else? The memory of those days and nights at the inn had never entirely left her. Had she wanted him to remember her as she had remembered him over the years?

Nonsense. It was fascination with his face that held her enthralled. Nothing else. She had paid her debt and they were quits. She walked quickly from the room, returning the painting of the Wind Dancer to darkness.

“Your wounded lambs are settled?” Danton asked as François reached the carriage.

François nodded curtly.

“You don’t appear to be pleased to be rid of them.”

“I’m not rid of them. Juliette de Clement just told me she killed a man before she left the abbey.”

Danton gave a low whistle. “Which means we’ve not only aided an enemy of the state but a murderess of a hero of the revolution.” He chuckled. “I admit to respect for our little aristo. She has claws and is willing to use them.”

“On us.”

“Dupree’s been known to bargain. You could turn them over to him in return for forgetting our part in their escape.”

François had a sudden memory of Catherine Vasaro’s strained, bewildered expression in that last moment
before Juliette had come back into the room. He knew well how she would fare in Dupree’s hands.

“Well?”

François climbed onto the driver’s seat beside Danton. “It would give Dupree a weapon to hold over our heads later. The more reasonable course would be to get the women safely out of Paris.”

Danton gave him a shrewd glance. “And we’re both reasonable men, are we not?” His lips twisted in an ironic smile. “Why else would we be here amid these ‘reasonable’ men who guard our nation?” He snapped the whip and the horses lurched forward. “Do what you will. But if you involve me in your downfall, I’ll deny you.”

“As Peter did Jesus?”

“Exactly.”

François slowly shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t deny me.”

“You think not?”

“You might curse me, you might even lay open my head with a bludgeon, but you wouldn’t deny me.” He shot Danton a sidewise glance and smiled faintly. “Why do you think I chose to come to you when I arrived in Paris two years ago? Everyone knows of your loyalty, Georges Jacques.”

Danton grimaced. “Life is not always so simple. Loyalty can waver in trying times.”

François didn’t reply.

“You stubborn idiot, listen to me. I’m like any other man. I became frightened and weary and greedy. And who should know better than you how corrupt I can be? Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone.”

François only smiled.

Danton sighed. “Very well. How do you intend we should get them out of Paris?”

François shrugged. “Something will occur to me.”

“Well, don’t wait to construct your usual convoluted plan. Whoever said Basques were simple folk? You never take the straight path if you find one that’s twisted.”

“The twisted path is far less boring and safer in the long run.”

Danton shook his head and snapped the whip to urge on the horses.

“We’ve found no trace of Citizeness Justice,” Pirard said to Dupree. “I’ve sent men to scour the outlying villages. But do not worry, we’ll find her.”

“I’m not worried. The bitch can’t have gone far on foot.” The fine chain of the golden necklace in Pirard’s hands was broken and flecked with blood. Dupree took the necklace and balanced the circlet hanging from the chain in his palm. “You found this in the tomb with Malpan?”

The Marseilles nodded. “Beneath his body.”

“Anything else?”

“A painting of the abbey,” Pirard chuckled. “Crazy thing to be in a nun’s tomb. But then, a woman has to be a little crazy in the head to become a nun, isn’t that true, Citizen?”

“Yes.” Dupree’s tone was absent as he held up the necklace to catch the first tentative light of dawn. It was an exquisitely delicate piece of jewelry, fit for the throat of a princess, he thought. In fact, the woman who had worn it, if not a princess, had probably been the daughter of a count or marquis or perhaps even a duke.

“Shall I throw the painting in the wagon with the rest of the loot for the Commune?”

“What? Oh, yes, go ahead.”

“And the necklace?”

Dupree’s hand closed possessively on the fine golden chain. This necklace had probably belonged to a child of glory, a child of nobility, a child accustomed to the company of kings and queens. If he gave it up, it would only be melted down or stolen to grace the fat neck of some shopkeeper’s wife. Such a necklace deserved a better fate. “Forget you found the necklace. I’ll dispose of it.”

Pirard grinned slyly. “And we’ll see it hanging on the bosom of that little actress you find so accommodating?”

Dupree shot Pirard a contemptuous glance. Didn’t
he realize a prize like this must be given to someone worthy of its glory? Camille Cadeaux occupied a necessary place in his life but that place was dark and secret and had nothing to do with glory. Pirard was not only a fool but was becoming insultingly intimate since he’d been chosen as Dupree’s lieutenant. He would have to do something about the man.