Den of Thieves (26 page)

Monsieur Ibrahim led me to the chapel behind the main altar. By the rail knelt a man I
recognized: it was none other than Maria-Auguste Vestris, principal dancer at the Opera, last seen bowing to a mop in Renard's kitchen. The ballet master looked up on our approach and rose fluidly to his feet. He seemed unabashed to meet so threatening a person as the bishop, and advanced confidently towards us. I had a second chance to study one of Paris's most famous sons. I was impressed by the intense expression of his eyes and a sense of hidden vigour – he was like a bow bent, ready to fire. And he was here to meet us of all people. What did this mean?

‘Ah, here is my missing dancer.' Le Vestris smiled enquiringly at me.

Ibrahim bowed respectfully before the great man and pushed me towards him. I curtseyed, hovering in the no-man's-land between them. ‘Monsieur, I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you by keeping her as my guest,' said the bishop sourly. He was clearly doing this with some reluctance.

‘Not at all, not at all.' Le Vestris turned to me. ‘And how are you,
ma chérie
? Still able to perform the country dance I saw you doing the other night?'

‘D-dance?' I stammered.

‘I certainly hope so, as I think it will be a most charming addition to
La Fille Mal Gardée
– two miniature dancers to complement the adult soloists. It's going to be a real
coup de théâtre
! I understand your host here had some difficulty believing you were a ballerina so I've invited him to see the evidence with his own eyes on Saturday night.'

My brain was slowly catching up with what was happening here. The personal appeal of so celebrated a man had secured my freedom – but the price was a performance at the Opera.

Ibrahim seized my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Forgive me if I have mistaken you, mademoiselle.' His lips brushed my fingers. ‘I've agreed to sacrifice the pleasure of your company temporarily to allow you a chance to prove your innocence. I have promised Le Vestris to drop all claim to you if you impress me on Saturday.'

‘And if I fail?'

‘You will not fail, mademoiselle,' said Le Vestris, taking me by the elbow and shepherding
me away from the bishop. ‘No one taught by Le Vestris ever fails.'

But Ibrahim's sardonic smile told another story. He clearly suspected some trick of J-F's lay behind this rescue. If I failed, he would have further evidence to denounce me to the authorities as a play-acting spy – which was exactly what I was, of course.

‘Until Saturday, Mademoiselle Cat!' called the bishop, signing a blessing in the air as I left.

Le Vestris showed me into his carriage and within seconds we were rattling out of the bishop's diocese. I sank back against the cushions, still reeling from the abrupt changes in my fortune. It was as if I was on a merry-go-round, faces spinning before me as my dizziness increased with every turn of fate. Feeling giddy, I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, I saw my rescuer watching me with fatherly concern from the seat opposite.

‘Did they mistreat you, mademoiselle?'

I shrugged. ‘No more than I'm used to.'

‘So I remember – you were never a cosseted child.'

‘Pardon, monsieur? I don't understand . . .'

‘Little J-F reminded me today of my time at Drury Lane. I think we have met before, Mademoiselle Cat.'

I felt an ache for my home as he spoke – a glimpse of a paradise from which I was now shut out. ‘We did?'

‘Perhaps you do not recall my season in London? I was guest dancer at the ballet in your Theatre Royal; I believe I met with some acclaim,' he added modestly. ‘But you were an infant then – how could you remember? Still, I recollect you very well: Sheridan's little ginger stray, they called you. You were always in sight, either curled up at his feet or tucked away somewhere backstage – three or four years old, I guess. You were not a favourite with everyone though – I seem to remember seeing you chased off from time to time, scurrying up the ladders out of reach of a sharp tongue or the back of someone's hand.'

I grimaced. ‘That's true enough.' I had to admit it was by no means always a paradise for me.

‘And perhaps that little girl would not have
stuck in my memory if it hadn't been for your remarkable curls: they were what bobbed to the surface when J-F told me all about you. Now, it seems our future lies together for a short while and if so, then we will have to hide those for the performance.' Le Vestris pointed to the bruises blooming on my arms from where Scarface had squashed me against the door. ‘Fortunately I have prepared a character costume for you.'

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. The principal dancer of the Opera de Paris was serious! This wasn't a ruse dreamt up by J-F. I knew from my time among the ballerinas at Drury Lane that a character costume was an adaptation of a peasant dress – bodice with mid-calf full skirt. At least it was a relief not to be making a fool of myself in the filmy robe of the danseuse or sheathlike dress of the demi-caractère. There were strict rules of dress for ballerinas reflecting their role in the production – presumably my role was to expose how accomplished everyone else was.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, monsieur?' I asked.

Le Vestris smiled. He had an expressive face, well used to projecting emotion to the back rows of the Opera. Even off-stage every gesture he made was exaggerated and graceful. ‘You have done me a favour, mademoiselle. I have had my eye on that little rogue J-F for months – he's a natural dancer, as you saw the other evening. Before he rose to his current eminence, he used to dance at the Palais Royal theatre. So, when he asked me to act as go-between, I knew at once what my price would be.'

‘J-F sent you?' That was unexpected. My faith in humanity was partially restored after the serious battering of the last few weeks.

‘Of course. He believed I was the only one who could persuade that young Arab to surrender you in one piece. It seems he was right. It is rather flattering, I must admit, to find my reputation has earned me so much respect in the more . . . er . . . interesting classes in our city.'

I looked out of the carriage window. It was true. Those that recognized the dancer's carriage stood to attention and removed their caps as he passed. They were in awe of their favourite
celebrity. Le Vestris waved a cheerful acknowledgement.

‘If you do not mind, mademoiselle, we will proceed directly to the Opera. You have much to learn if you are to make a creditable debut on Saturday.'

He could say that again.

Fortunately, all I was expected to do that night was watch the show. Le Vestris led the way backstage and sat me in the wings next to the man in charge of the curtains. From this side view of the stage, I could see a segment of the boxes filled with chattering Parisians, the cello players tuning their instruments, a piper warming his fingers by playing flourishes like outbursts of birdsong. A large chandelier lit the stage, light spilling out into the auditorium, picking out the gilt and glitter of the decorations edging the boxes, flashing off jewels and opera glasses. Swags of red, white and blue looped the walls, declaring the Opera's allegiance to the revolution. Behind me, the ballerinas were limbering up, touching their toes and stretching their arms above their heads. I felt at home: the stage was on a larger scale than Drury Lane, but the smells and the sounds – all these were essentially the same. My heart beat
with sympathetic excitement as the moment of performance approached.

‘So, the little stray has returned.' Mimi was at my back, looking none too pleased to see me, behind her Colette and Belle. They were dressed in peasant costume with their long hair wound into plaits over their ears like badly made croissants.

‘Why, were you missing me?' I asked, tired of their banter.

‘How they let you get away with it is beyond me,' tutted Colette. ‘Marched off to the city hall, out all night with a band of vagabonds – I can't imagine Madame Beaufort allowing us to do that.'

‘Mesdemoiselles, positions please!' Mimi's words were cut short by the stage manager. The ballerinas scurried off in a patter of cork-soled shoes. I was pleased to see the back of them: their constant sniping at me was beginning to depress my spirits. It seemed they were never going to accept me.

The conductor entered to the applause of the house. As he took his place, I noticed a small black violinist sitting near the podium. So Pedro had
landed himself a new job.

A hand landed on my shoulder as I craned forward to catch a better view of my friend. I jumped.

‘Careful, Catkin: the stage manager won't be pleased if your head is spotted by the audience.'

‘Johnny!'

He pulled me back with him into the shadows of the wings as the strains of the overture began. Taking my shoulders, he turned me round and inspected me.

‘Those thieves didn't hurt you?'

‘Not much. But I've got so much to tell you.' I quickly informed him of the suspicions running rife that there was an English spy in the Avon circle. ‘It seems I only made it worse writing that letter to Sheridan to ask for his help. The bishop suspects me – but I think Mayor Bailly has his eye on Frank or Joseph. The mayor seemed to think I was too empty-headed to be a threat – he let me go with nothing more than a telling-off.'

Johnny frowned. ‘And this bishop: what is he like?'

‘He's a street Arab – as sharp as they come. Ruthless and charming.'

‘Well, at least we know where we stand with him. We know we can't trust him, whereas I must say your little friend J-F has kept me guessing all day. I wasn't sure I could believe him when he said he knew how to rescue you. You've given us a terrible time since last night – we've all been worried.' Johnny bit his lip. He looked tired out with fretting about me and Lizzie.

‘You weren't the only one, Johnny. I wasn't sure my luck was going to hold. But how's Lizzie? Did Pedro get in to see the Avons with a bribe of a free concert?'

Johnny nodded. ‘Though I doubt he should go again – we don't want them suspecting him of spying after what you've told me. He didn't mention your predicament to the Avons – we didn't want to alarm them, thinking they had enough to worry about.'

‘And how are they?'

‘In some ways, much better. The duchess has charmed the governor with the recital she and
Pedro gave him and his lady wife, and as a result their conditions have improved. They now have access to a courtyard; the food's edible and they've been given candles. The English representative visited today and is pounding his fist on the desks of the bureaucrats to get the Avons released. Things might also move faster when we get this printed.' He pulled out a scroll of paper from his jacket pocket: it was a rough of his cartoon of the Avons, the duke portrayed as a loyal friend of the revolution trapped with his songbird (the duchess) in a cage. ‘Marie is seeing it through the press for me.'

‘Excellent! I can't wait to see it in print. And Lizzie?'

He frowned. ‘As well as can be expected. A little pale, according to Pedro, and she has a bad cough, but she's not complaining.'

‘Oh, Johnny.' I squeezed his hand. Lizzie was the last person who should be locked up in a pestilential prison.

‘So we'd better hurry up and get them out, Catkin,' he said with a brave smile, returning the
pressure on my fingers. ‘I'll see you at the end of the performance and walk you home.'

I watched the ballet from the wings with growing despair. Not only did the prospect of participating in it in a few days fill me with dread, but I couldn't stop thinking about Lizzie. Sitting so close, I could hear every thump and squeak of the boards as the dancers leapt and twirled. They flitted by, masking the effort they were making with bland smiles; they were like my friend – putting on a false air to deceive the onlooker as to their true feelings. Lizzie was doubtless trying to hide her illness in order not to alarm her parents. What if she became dangerously sick? I couldn't bear it if we lost her, especially when she was so close to realizing her hopes of happiness with Johnny.

A light touch like a spider tickled my neck. I shivered.

‘Mademoiselle Cat.' J-F bowed and grinned at me. ‘I freed you from the clutches of the church, no?'

I curtseyed, returning his smile. ‘Indeed, monsieur, I am in your debt.'

He linked arms with mine, bobbing on the balls
of his feet in time to the music. ‘Unfortunately, the bishop still claims you as his parishioner. Why would that be, do you think? He knows I'll never give up milord for so little profit to myself.'

The unspoken confession that J-F would betray Frank if enough were offered gave me a sudden alarm.

‘J-F, what have you done with Frank?'

‘Don't worry,' he patted my arm. ‘He's safe. But you haven't answered my question.'