Surrender to a Stranger (32 page)

“Very well, Citizen Laurent,” said the guard, handing him back his papers. “To help with your sales we have informed the prisoners that we ran out of wine this morning. Anyone who wishes to have wine with their meal must purchase it from you. Just be sure you hold back enough of your stock for the guards,” he warned.

“Excellent, Citizen,” rasped Armand as he began to eagerly gather a number of bottles into his arms.

The guard opened the door for him and Armand stepped inside, where another guard was waiting to escort him to the prisoners. Armand clutched his armful of bottles against his chest and followed him down the enormous hall, suppressing the urge to smile. So far the plan was working perfectly.

He was led to what was once the drawing room, which now served as a common room for the prisoners. The sight he took in had such an aura of unreality to it, he wondered for a moment if he was indeed inside a prison. The room was crowded with aristocratic men and women, elegantly dressed in their finest costumes, with their wigs and hair artfully arranged, looking very much like guests at a party who were having a splendid time. It was not a scene he had come upon in any of the other prisons he had visited, and once again he experienced an irrational surge of irritation. Jacqueline and Antoine had been placed in a damp, foul, rat-infested nightmare, in which Antoine had died, while François-Louis had been sent to an exclusive club for aristocrats. A closer inspection revealed that the fine gowns the women wore were wrinkled and soiled, while the expensive shirts and jackets of the men had long since lost the crisp, spotless appearance that was expected of such attire. At first the hairstyles looked impressive, but if one cast a second glance one could see the wigs were sorely in need of a professional dressing, while those who wore their own hair would probably have given almost anything for the opportunity to wash it. There was an odor to the room as well, the heavy, sour smell of too many people crowded into the same space, of bodies that were not bathed sufficiently, and of linens that were worn day after day without washing.

Yet the prisoners before him seemed cheerful, as if they were unaware of the fact that they had been stripped of their freedom and their lives now hung on the whim of the republican government. A cluster of women were seated together in a corner, laughing and chatting amiably as they worked on their embroidery, while at the other end of the room a group of men who had obviously been senior officers in the army were loudly recounting tales of their victories. There was a merry gathering seated around a small table playing cards, while others at another table were busy writing letters. High-pitched, feminine laughter was coming from a group of attractive young women gathered around a fellow lounging idly in a window seat. He was amusing them with bawdy verses and bits of song, and the women were almost beside themselves, feigning horrified shock and then shrieking with laughter. The entire scene was terribly noisy and gay, but there was an overwhelming sense of desperation to the laughter and the chatter, as if everyone knew they were only pretending to enjoy themselves, but the charade was so comforting that no one wanted to see it end. They addressed each other by their former titles, and they were a privileged group indeed, for the addresses Monsieur le Duc, Madame la Comtesse, Monsieur le Prince and Madame la Marquise flew about the room constantly.

The little elite society these people had created was, Armand realized, a way of fighting back. These people were not blithely living in a fool’s dream. They knew exactly what was going to happen to them. But in accordance with every strict rule of etiquette that had been drummed into them over the course of their lives, they were refusing to stoop to the level of their captors. Clearly they must have been appalled by what was happening to them and their loved ones. Yet somehow they were managing to maintain the only thing they had left, which was their dignity. Perhaps that was what enabled them to keep their sanity in a situation that was so clearly insane. Armand wondered how he would react were he faced with the same fate. Somehow he did not think he would be able to accept it with such docility and grace.

“Listen here now, all of you,” bellowed the guard who had escorted him to the room. A hush fell over the gathering as everyone looked up. “As you know,” continued the guard, “there is no wine left for dinner tonight. But this good citizen of the Republic here has agreed to come in and sell you some of his wine. Those of you who are interested step forward now.”

The silence that had fallen over the room immediately disintegrated into chatter and the sound of chairs scraping back as people rushed forward to take advantage of this unexpected piece of luck. Armand was quickly mobbed by men and women who were only barely interested in the price of the wine as they thrust money at him and collected their bottles. Within a few moments every bottle he had carried in was gone, and he was forced to make two more trips back to his cart, making sure to leave enough to pay off the guards.

“Enjoy it, Citizen,” he rasped as he collected money from a young man and handed him a bottle. He made a quick study of each of the young men who came forward, trying to determine which one was François-Louis. He did not have much of a description to go on, other than the fact that he was tall with blue eyes and a fondness for frilly clothes. Since all the men had dressed for dinner, their outfits were generally ruffled and colorful, as if in open contempt of the darker, more sober fashions dictated by the revolution, so that piece of information was not much help. He was able to eliminate a number of men as either too old, or too short, or with the wrong eye color, and of course he did not consider those few who did not wear wigs. But when he had sold bottles to almost every man and woman who had come forward and still had not found him, he began to quickly scan the room, worrying that perhaps the Marquis de Biret was not there. If he had been moved to another prison, with prison records as disorganized and inaccurate as they were known to be, it could take weeks to find him. And if after all that it turned out he was already dead—

“What do you say, good citizen, is the wine really worth your price?” asked a voice with amusement, interrupting his thoughts. “The lady and I wish to celebrate, and are in the mood for a particularly fine vintage.”

The fellow who had been entertaining the group of women with his verses and song had come over to him. He had a pretty, dark-haired girl hanging on to his arm, but Armand was barely aware of her, so focused was he on the man. His eyes were blue, far too pale to be called striking, in Armand’s opinion, but blue nonetheless. He was tall as well. Certainly not as tall as Armand when he was not hunched over in disguise, but tall relative to the other men in the room. He wore a silvery wig, which was carefully groomed and well powdered. But what struck Armand most was the immaculate state of his clothes. He wore an elegant frock coat of emerald satin, which was intricately embroidered with silver and gold thread, and there was not one wrinkle or spot on the fragile garment. His shirt was the snowiest white, as if it had just been freshly laundered, with a lacy jabot that spilled down over his chest, and no less than three layers of ruffles bloomed from his wrists. He wore mustard-colored culottes, although the tight-fitting breeches had been abandoned by most French nobles because they were part of the dress code that had been exclusive to the aristocracy, and beneath them he sported silk stockings that were striped emerald and white. In that instant Jacqueline’s words struck him.
What I mean to say is that he loves clothes that are, well, colorful and highly decorated.

“The wine is good,” remarked Armand simply, almost positive he had found him. “If you have something to celebrate, it would be a pity not to raise a glass or two, especially on a night as cold as this.”

The man turned his attention to the girl who clung on his arm. “What do you think, my pretty Lucile? Shall we buy a bottle and drink to the gods who have kept us together another day?” He gave her a long, intimate look, and then added in a playful whisper, “And night?”

The girl colored prettily and gazed back at him with obvious infatuation. “Oh, François-Louis, you mustn’t say such things in front of others,” she scolded him in a high, appropriately shocked voice.

Armand was careful to hide the emotions that coursed through him as he heard the girl utter his name. The first was simply satisfaction. He had found the subject of his rescue and could proceed with his plans as scheduled. But the other emotions were more complicated. One of them was perhaps jealousy, although the feeling was so unfamiliar to him he could not be sure. Standing before him was the man Jacqueline was going to marry. The man who would share her world, her mind, and her body. Who would build a new life with her and spend long, passion-filled nights slowly making love to her and creating children with her. He was obviously found attractive by women. He was handsome enough, Armand supposed. He was entertaining. Charming. And he was also, without a doubt, sleeping with the girl who clung so possessively to his emerald satin sleeve. Armand did not know how or when they managed to arrange it, but he supposed no guard was immune to bribery. He also knew that many imprisoned women who realized they were probably going to be executed were eager to make up for all the years of abstinence society demanded of unmarried women, if the opportunity presented itself. He was not in a position to condemn François-Louis for indulging in a few carnal pleasures with an attractive woman before he left this world. Certainly Armand had indulged in more than his share when he was drinking. But when he thought of this man’s passion-filled letter to Jacqueline, which complained of his painful separation from her, of the cruel conditions of his incarceration, and practically begged Jacqueline to do something to save him, he was so disgusted by the hypocrisy he was tempted to abandon his plans and leave François-Louis there to rot.

“Very well then, Citizen, let us have a bottle of your precious drink,” said François-Louis enthusiastically as he reached inside his frock coat and produced a purse.

Armand looked down at the bottles that remained and selected the one he had held back specifically for François-Louis. “Here you go, Citizen,” he said as he passed him the bottle and took the money. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you, good citizen,” replied François-Louis. “We shall.” He turned, the bottle tucked under one arm and the girl clinging to the other, and made his way back to his post in front of the window.

Only a few others remained to purchase wine. Almost everyone had bought a bottle, and Armand felt confident that those who had not were simply relying on the generosity of their dinner partners. Once he completed his last sale, the guard who had escorted him to the room took him back to the main doors where his cart was waiting.

“How did it go?” demanded one of the guards at the door.

“My wife will have nothing to complain about tonight,” rasped Armand with satisfaction. “And now, good citizen, we come to your payment.” He lifted the blanket covering the cart and counted out the bottles he owed the guards, handing them over until he was left with only one.

“My friend, this is an extra gift for you,” he said as he handed it to the guard who had checked with the prison keeper and gained him entrance. “I shall not soon forget your willingness to help an old man make a few
livres
on a cold winter night.”

“Glad to do business with you, Citizen Laurent,” said the guard. “Maybe we can work out something again in the future.”

“Enjoy the wine, Citizen,” returned Armand. He paused to rub his hands together before lifting the handles of his cart. Then he slowly began to trudge through the blanket of fresh snow, down the path, and into the darkness. Behind him he could hear the sounds of the guards laughing and joking over their good fortune, and then silence as they started to drink.

So far, so good, he thought to himself with satisfaction.

It was almost three o’clock in the morning when Armand returned to the Luxembourg. The snow had finally stopped, and the sky was like a velvety black cape studded with diamonds. A slender arc of moonlight spilled down onto the city and reflected off the billions of crystals of snow, creating more light than Armand would have liked. Other than that, the night was perfect. A good night for an escape.

The elderly disguise of Citizen Laurent was gone. For tonight he had decided on the disguise of a guard, and in his bag he carried an extra outfit for François-Louis. A National Guard uniform was excellent protection when one was moving quickly through the streets in the middle of the night. If anyone inside the Luxembourg was awake enough to stop him, he would say that he was new that evening and had not yet met all the other guards. And just to be sure no one would have an accurate description of him once he was gone, he had colored his hair black, dirtied his face, and left his teeth with the brown smile of Citizen Laurent, except for one tooth that now appeared to be missing from the front.

From what Armand could see, the Luxembourg was almost completely dark. That was a good sign. He had been by several times earlier this week at the same hour, and usually there were candles burning in the hallways where the guards were posted. The fact that some of those lights had been allowed to go out was promising indeed.