Chapter Fifteen
Verity and Henrietta arrived at the Porte Saint Cloud barricade. “Passes.” A sentry emerged from his box as crowds of Parisians screamed for the blood of a hapless aristocrat. The man was pulled from his carriage and beaten.
Distracted, the guard merely glanced at their papers and waved them on. The violence silenced Henrietta. She slapped the reins, and drove grimly on, departing the scene as quickly as the tired horse allowed. They both sat stiff and alert as they negotiated the cobbled Parisian streets crowded with vehicles.
“Stop here a moment,” Verity said. She alighted to purchase two cockade ribbons from a street vendor. She climbed back onto the seat and pinned the bunch of red, white, and blue ribbons to Henrietta’s hat, adding one to her own.
They traveled through fields of crops and tumbledown houses, along the lanes of La Butte Montmartre. The Rue des Martyrs rose up the steep hill to the pale, ancient walls of Saint-Pierre-de-Montmartre. The church looked down on them, its significance now in tatters, as its abbess and nuns had been arrested and awaited the guillotine. It had been the last straw for Verity’s father. He had lost all enthusiasm for the Revolution after learning of such appalling and senseless acts.
At the cottage where Verity rented rooms, the brawny proprietor, Monsieur Balzac, rushed out to welcome them.
“It is good to see you again, Monsieur Balzac. This is my friend, Henrietta.”
“Bon jour, mademoiselle.”
With the trunk on his powerful shoulders, he mounted the stairs.
Henrietta gasped as they followed him into the house. “I could not have driven another mile.”
Verity rushed away to pay an ostler at the stables nearby and arrange for the return of the horse and cart to Le Havre. Her money dwindled fast. It wouldn’t stretch to feed them or pay her rent beyond the end of the next week. She would have to find work or join the starving people in rags living on the streets. The thought filled her with horror, which she tried to hide from Henrietta.
First, she would make inquiries about her father–and the very thought of how he must be suffering made her throat constrict–then she would visit friends and acquaintances who might be able to discover if Beaumont was in Paris, and if… he still lived. It was all extremely worrying, and exhaustion laid her low, seeping into her very bones.
“I’m sorry my home is so humble,” she said when she returned to the house. “I moved here only recently. Monsieur Balzac is a good friend of my father’s.”
They had both lost their mothers when young. Verity felt a kinship toward the younger girl because of it, but she was also aware of the luxurious life of privilege Henrietta was used to.
After Verity’s father had lost his position at La Sorbonne, their comfortable life ended. She’d been forced to seek work. And work was hard to find. The only option was the risky world of the theatre.
“This is a charming little house.” Henrietta seemed determined to sound cheerful, although her green eyes looked brittle, and impatience and anxiety added an edge to her voice. She wandered through the small apartment from the parlor to the bedchamber.
“There’s nothing to eat,” Verity said from the kitchen alcove.
Henrietta sat on the sofa. “I could fall sleep right here and now,” she announced. She pulled off her hat and tossed it and her wig aside. “A part of my body will never recover from that cart. She rubbed her derriere. I’m sure I have splinters.”
Verity upended a jug where she kept her secret cache and counted the coins in her hand. She picked up her basket. “I’m off to the market. I warn you it will be simple fare. Food prices have risen to absurd heights in the last few years. I’ll buy eggs for an omelet, some cheese and perhaps asparagus. Tomorrow, I must seek out my friends.” She tied a shawl across her chest and round her waist to hide the bodice of the low-cut gown.
“Tomorrow, I intend to find my father…” Henrietta began, rising to her feet.
“Oui, but be patient, please Henrietta. You must wait here for me. You do not know La Butte Montmartre. It is not safe for you alone on the streets.”
Henrietta’s lips trembled. “They kill people every day in this God-forsaken city. We have very little time. He may even now—”
“I’m aware of that.” Verity came to squeeze the girl’s arm. “My contacts could save us a lot of time. Give me until noon tomorrow to see what I can do.”
Henrietta bit her lip and nodded. She sank back on the sofa, her shoulders hunched.
* * *
The cell door clanged shut behind Josette, Anthony, and Philippe. Exhausted, bruised and roughened up by their captors, they fell onto the reeking straw. An aged couple dressed in tattered silks and laces barely noticed them. There was a bucket in the corner. Anthony had to fight not to gag at the stink. Through a high window voluminous white clouds drifted across an azure sky like a painting by Fragonard. The elegant country his dear wife had loved was gone. Out of the best of intentions sometimes the worse things come.
He cursed under his breath. If only he hadn’t been so foolish as to risk getting shot. His arm had not yet healed, but it didn’t pain him so much now. Philippe’s wound had been made worse by the soldiers’ brutal treatment, and it looked to be bleeding again. Josette removed her fichu and bound his shoulder. She gazed at Anthony, chewing her lip, fear in her eyes.
Anthony patted her arm. “You’ve been very brave, Josette. You don’t deserve this.”
“All my fault,” Philippe whispered. He leaned back with his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I should not have stayed so long in France. My estates don’t matter, but what of my loyal servants? It is impossible to find work. How will they live?”
The elderly woman opened her eyes and gave an unfocused glance in their direction. She closed them again with a shudder. Her husband took her hand and squeezed it, murmuring something in her ear.
Anthony felt fury rise like bile in his throat at the inhuman treatment of these people. He curled his hands into fists, ready to take on any guard who entered their cell. But the hours passed, and no one came.
Finally, the cell door creaked open. A guard entered and pulled Josette to her feet.
“Where are you taking her?” Philippe cried.
Anthony jumped up. He planted himself between Josette and the guard. The guard hit him on the jaw with the butt of his gun and he dropped to the floor. Through a haze of pain, Anthony watched helplessly as they dragged Josette away. Phillipe shuddered and put his head in his hands.
The cell door clanged shut.
Anthony rubbed his sore jaw and swore.
The hours passed, the man and wife couple not speaking. Helpless, he prayed that Henrietta would live a full and happy life without him, and have many children he would never see.
He must have slept for a few hours. The sun shone onto the filthy floor, highlighting the path of an inquisitive rat. The cell door opened, and two soldiers entered. Without a word, they pulled the old man and woman to their feet and ushered them out.
“Your turn next.” The soldier spat in Anthony’s direction, then pulled the door shut.
Anthony listened to the turnkey in the huge lock. He could do nothing. The British consul could not come to his aid. He wandered over to the high window. Listened to the rush of the river below the prison. Damp climbed the walls, the rank smell overpowering. From somewhere over the Seine, a crowd chanted above the clatter of the tumbrel wheels, where prisoners were taken to the guillotine.
He turned to meet Philippe’s gaze. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to be said.
* * *
After Verity left the next morning, Henrietta prowled the rooms. They were scented with apple blossom. Verity’s dainty touch was everywhere. Paintings of bounding stags, camellias and pears hung around the walls. She ran a finger over the smooth surface of a tulipwood table. The furnishings were of excellent quality. Incongruous in this setting. As if Verity had come down in the world and brought a few of her possessions with her. The thought occurred to Henrietta again that she knew nothing of the actress’ past. She pulled aside the fringed damask window hangings and gazed down from the dormer window at the cobbled street below, busy with carts from the nearby market. Ragged peasants stumbled behind vehicles in the hope of something edible falling into their hands. Henrietta’s heart ached for these people, especially the children.
While she sat crumpled on the sofa, Verity came in. “What did you hear?” Henrietta cried, jumping up.
Pale with fatigue, Verity pulled off her gloves and bonnet. “I spoke to friends, but they can’t help us.” She held up a hand to silence Henrietta. “Except for Monsieur Morel at the theatre. He seems confident he can find out where your father is. I am to return at three of the clock.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Verity sighed. “Please remember, your presence in Paris could jeopardize your father’s life. Not to mention your own. You wouldn’t be able to help him if you’re thrown in prison too, now would you?”
With a cry, Henrietta whirled, and flung out her arms. “I cannot stay in this cupboard a moment longer.”
Verity raised an eyebrow. “Not what you are used to, I imagine.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened. She rushed to take Verity’s hands. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’m going mad here.”
“Then play your part as my cousin who has no interest in the concerns of the Viscount Beaumont. Are you a good enough actress?”
Henrietta’s eyes flashed. “I’m sure I am.”
“You must be, for this is the most important part you will ever play.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“We’ll dress simply. There are linen caps in the trunk. No sense in drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t forget to pin on your cockade and bring your papers. We’ll walk, for those that ride everywhere in fiacres are looked upon with suspicion.”
Despite a lowering sky and the threat of rain, the boulevards were busy with the poorly dressed who now walked confidently among the rich. On the north-eastern outskirts of the city, they hurried along a broad, tree-lined avenue.
“This is the Boulevard du Temple where the theatre halls are.”
They stood in front of The Gaite. “Theatre has become popular for people from all walks of life,” Verity said. “This is one of the largest. It’s renowned for its acrobats and buffoons, but they also put on plays.”
Verity led Henrietta through the rear stage door. Henrietta peeked out from behind the curtain. Spectators stuffed the galleries to the rafters. A loud murmur of gossip from the boxes, coupled with quarrels in the pit, competed with the performance on stage. She wrinkled her nose at the smoke of hundreds of candles and the liberal use of perfume, which failed to disguise the rank odor of unwashed bodies.
A sign on a stand told them the pantomime The Lover Entombed was playing. When two actors in Columbine and Harlequin costumes appeared on stage, they enthralled the audience into silence. A roar of laughter went up when an actor in flowing black robes, mistook Harlequin for a dog, and the dog spat in his face and snatched his purse.
The audience clapped as Harlequin sniffed the man’s clothing and lifted his leg in the air, causing man to shake his gown hilariously.
Henrietta was caught up along with the rest. For a moment she forgot the constant nagging worry about her father, and she longed, not to be in the audience, but up on the stage.
“Henrietta!”
“I’m coming.”
***
The curtain dropped to hearty applause, as Verity introduced Henrietta to the proprietor, Monsieur Morel, a short man with a jowly chin. Henrietta made him a pretty curtsey, and his eyes warmed. He kissed her hand. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. You are as lovely as your cousin.” He stroked his chin. “In fact, …” He looked at each of them in turn. “I am keen to place you together on stage. Two blondes, one golden as sunlight, one pale as the moon. What a superb combination! We are now permitted to put on a Moliere play, and I plan to do L'école des femmes.”
“How delightful to be a part of your next production, Monsieur Morel,” Verity said. “My first consideration is to locate Lord Beaumont. Where do they keep him? Have you discovered the prison?”
“I am reliably informed that he is in a Paris asylum.”
Henrietta spun away to examine a pile of costumes lying on a table.
“They have converted many buildings into prisons I believe,” Morel continued, his eyes on Henrietta. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Most in their cells end up on the scaffold.”
Verity glanced over at Henrietta, the girl did well to hold her tongue, wrapping a fox boa, she’d found, around her shoulders. “You have the address?”
“This man, he is a lover of yours?”
Verity nodded.
“And you cannot bear to see him lose his head over anyone but you, non?” He chuckled as he wrote down the address.
Verity took the paper from him. “I am most grateful to you, Monsieur Morel.”
Henrietta smiled at him boldly. He raised his eyeglass, his gaze roaming her breasts and waist in her slim fitting bodice jacket. “You might repay me, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Are you available for a… liaison?”
“I should be pleased, monsieur,” Henrietta said, in a skillful interpretation of the French of the lower classes. “When I have recovered from my present… ailment.” She shook her head mischievously. “A bad choice of lover on my part.”
He stroked his moustache. “Indeed, mademoiselle.” He shrugged.
“We are eager to join your troupe,” Verity repeated. “When you have a place for us.”
He rubbed his hands. “I’ll act quickly. I’d be stupid to let you slip through my fingers,” he said. “Your combined beauty will fill the seats in my humble theatre.” He jerked his head at the noise as the theatre filled for the next performance. “My theatre is popular, as you see.”
They walked out onto the avenue. Verity cast a respectful glance at Henrietta. “How does a green girl learn such things?”
“I overheard Cook talking to one of the maids.”
“One of your maids had syphilis?”
Henrietta looked shocked. “No. Scabies.”
“Oh, Henrietta!” Verity shook her head. She examined the paper he’d given her. “Your father is in the Mont Pellier Asylum. Luck might be on our side. I know an actor who took a job there. Times are hard, he may still be there.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Henrietta said. “Let’s go now and see.”
“We’ll have to take a fiacre. It will take us too long to walk.” Verity searched the busy avenue and found one for hire.
“But can we afford it?” Henrietta followed Verity onto the muddy street.
“I’ll negotiate the price,” Verity said. “It is expected.”
After a brisk conversation, a price was agreed on. They climbed inside, and the fiacre lurched off, the wheels clattering over the cobbles. “I shall have to take Monsieur Morel up on his offer,” Verity said, fanning herself inside the stifling carriage. Dark clouds raced across the sky threatening rain. “Our pockets are almost empty.”
“I’m willing,” Henrietta said.
“You have no idea how difficult it can be. Men won’t treat you with respect. You saw evidence of that today.”
“I thought I handled him quite well.” Henrietta frowned.
Verity gazed anxiously out of the window. Heavy drops of rain began to patter on the carriage roof. “Monsieur Morel is a pussy cat. Not all men are. What would your father think of me leading you into such a life? Leave this to me. I’ll borrow some money enough, so you can return to England.”
Henrietta scowled. “And leave my father locked up in prison? Are you mad?”
At the mention of Anthony, Verity felt slightly ill. As the carriage slowly made its way through the Parisian streets, she watched a trail of thin, hungry people lining up at a bread shop. A hawker bellowed, trying to attract buyers for his wares.
The asylum backed onto the Seine. She paid the fare, and they alighted. The stone building towered above them, impenetrable with narrow barred windows across the front.
Three doors led off the foyer, and an iron gate shut off the corridor, beyond which were the stairs. Foul air rose from the dungeons along with unceasing mumbles of complaint. A sudden blood-curdling cry caused chills to climb Verity’s spine. She grabbed Henrietta’s arm.
One of the doors opened, and a sallow-faced man emerged. “May I be of assistance, citizens?”
Verity walked over to him. “We need information concerning a prisoner.”
His eyebrows rose. “On whose authority?”
“Monsieur Danton.”
His eyebrows rose. “What is it Monsieur Danton requires?”
“He has sent me on an important mission.”
“You have papers?”
Verity reached into her reticule and produced the letter.
He took it and read it. “This authority requests you to travel to England in search of this man, Lord Beaumont.” He shoved it back at her.
Verity ignored Henrietta’s loud gasp. “Which has brought me back to Paris in search of him.”
The man’s jaw jutted. “Why should I believe you?”
Verity’s eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot. “Do you wish me to contact Monsieur Danton? It will not go well for you.”
Fear darkening his eyes. “No need for that! I’ll check the register.”
They followed him deeper into the building. The groans grew louder and echoed around them as they entered his office.
He opened the large register on his desk. Turned the pages and ran his finger down the lists. So many, thought Henrietta, her stomach churning.
He looked up. “Oui, Lord Beaumont is here. He was brought in with Baron St André.”
“Merci,” Verity said. “Monsieur Danton will be pleased to learn of this. I trust Lord Beaumont has been treated well.” To her ears, she sounded remarkably composed.
The man hooked a finger under his neck cloth. “Well, er… he will go to the guillotine in good condition.”
“Expect an inspection in a few days,” Verity said. Henrietta stood stiffly beside her. The building seemed impregnable. Was it a hopeless task to rescue Anthony? They had to try. “Does Jean-Paul Aubrac work here?” Verity smiled flirtatiously. “I hoped to see him.”
“Oui. He works the night shift this week.”
“We worked together in a play. What time does he start?”
“He will be here at six of the clock.” He brightened. “You were in a play together, mademoiselle? Monsieur Aubrac never thought to mention it. I am much enamored of the theatre.”
Verity smiled. “Mademoiselle and I are soon to perform at the Gaite.”
The man ran his gaze over Henrietta. “I shall come to see it. Please inform Monsieur Danton that Lord Beaumont enjoys the best accommodation we can offer.” He bowed them out the asylum door.