Surrender to a Stranger (4 page)

“Who are you and what do you want?” demanded Nicolas harshly, obviously infuriated by the interruption.

The old man Jacqueline had noticed in the courtroom waved his gnarled hand at Nicolas as he continued to cough, a horrible, wet, choking sound that made it quite impossible for him to reply. A scrawny youth of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, who had been standing in the shadows by the door, stepped into the cell and pulled the chair that held Nicolas’s coat and jacket over for him to sit on. With great effort the old man leaned on his cane and slowly lowered himself into the chair. The boy reached into a pocket of the enormous black cape the man wore and produced a relatively clean handkerchief. The old man accepted it with one hand and proceeded to hawk into it noisily. It sounded to Jacqueline as if he might expire at any moment.

“His name is Citizen Julien. He’s an agent of the court,” explained Gagnon apologetically from the door. “Here to see about her personal affairs.”

“Debts to be settled, last letters to write,” managed the old man in a wheezy voice as he fought to control his coughing. “Distribution of personal effects, scraps of clothing, locks of hair. The lad here, Dénis, and I will see that they are safely delivered to loved ones, all for a modest fee. I am also able to take last statements or confessions of any counterrevolutionary activities, names, places. It is my duty to admit I do have some access to our most eminent public prosecutor, Citizen Fouquier-Tinville, and might even be able to get a final confession or denunciation to him if the information provided is worthwhile. Perhaps you have something to tell me, young lady, that might affect your sentence, hmm?” he said suggestively, with one thick white eyebrow raised in her direction.”

Jacqueline wanted to laugh, so grateful was she for this interruption. She was aware prisoners were entitled to settle their affairs in the brief hours before their execution, but did the Tribunal really believe she would denounce others who opposed the new Republic to try to save herself?

“I am afraid, Citizen, your timing is not ideal,” stated Nicolas in a tightly controlled voice. “The citizeness and I have a personal matter to resolve. You can come back later.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited for the old man to excuse himself from the cell.

Citizen Julien ignored him and motioned to the youth, who handed him a thick leather case. He laid it open on the table and moved the candle closer, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and began to mumble as he rifled through them. “Saint-Simon…Rabourdin…de Crussol…Pontavice…Coutelet…La Voisier…Dufouleur…aha!” he called out triumphantly. He separated a sheet of paper from the pile and held it beneath the light of the candle. “Jacqueline Doucette, formerly Mademoiselle Jacqueline Marie Louise de Lambert, daughter of the convicted traitor Charles-Alexandre Doucette, former Duc de Lambert,” he read from the document with squinting eyes. He reached back into the case, took out a quill and a little pot of ink, and began to set them up on the table.

Nicolas took a step toward him, clearly annoyed. “Citizen, I said you will have to come back later,” he bellowed into his ear, obviously thinking the man must be deaf.

The old man slowly lifted one pale, spotted hand to his ear and shook his head, as if the sound was rattling around in his brain. He looked at Nicolas impatiently. “No need to shout, boy, no need to shout,” he bellowed back. “I’m old, not dead,” he grumbled irritably as he turned his attention again to his papers.

“Actually, I have a number of matters to discuss with Citizen Julien, and would prefer to do so now,” interjected Jacqueline. As long as the old man remained in her cell, Nicolas would be unable to touch her.

“Citizen, if you would come back in about an hour, Citizeness Doucette and I will have concluded our business and you may talk with her for as long as you like,” suggested Nicolas pleasantly. He gave Jacqueline a warning glance that told her if she dared to speak again, it would be far worse for her once they were alone.

“Can’t do it,” said the old man as he began to write something on the paper before him. “Unfortunately, Citizeness Doucette is my only client at the Conciergerie. I have five others to see before the night is out, and they are divided among three different prisons.” He lifted up what appeared to be a note to himself, cleared his throat, and began to read: “One at La Conciergerie.” He lowered the note and looked at Nicolas. “That is here,” he informed him. He lifted the note again. “Two at La Force.” He lowered the note and looked at Jacqueline. “Not a very nice place, La Force.” He paused and looked around the cell. “Not a very nice place here, either,” he commented absently as he lifted the note again. “One at L’Abbaye.” He lowered the note and looked at the jailer, who was still standing in the doorway. “Ever work at L’Abbaye?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Enough!” ordered Nicolas in exasperation. He reached behind the old man and yanked up his jacket and coat.

“Two at Sainte-Pelagie,” continued Citizen Julien, obviously unimpressed by Nicolas’s outburst.

“I will return in one hour to finish what we started,” Nicolas ground out to Jacqueline. “I trust you will be waiting for me?” he drawled sarcastically. He turned abruptly and left the cell.

“Excitable fellow, that one,” commented the old man as he looked up from his paper. He fixed his gaze on Jacqueline. “He seems unusually fond of you.” He stared at her meaningfully.

“Call me when you want out,” said Gagnon as he closed and locked the door.

“Now then, Citizeness, what can I do for you today?” asked Citizen Julien brightly as he set a clean sheet of paper before him and dabbed his quill in the pot of ink.

“If you cheat me, I promise you will regret it,” stated Jacqueline in a warning tone. She had heard stories of dishonest agents who made a comfortable living by simply keeping the valuables they collected from their condemned clients. It was bad enough they were living off the misery of others, but then to charge prisoners for services they had no intention of rendering, and to sell or discard the last precious items bequeathed to their loved ones, was utterly despicable.

“Citizeness, er…” The old man paused to squint at his note, “Doucette, you need have no fear of my integrity. You may mount the steps to the guillotine with complete peace of mind, confident that your last wishes will be carried out to the letter,” he told her with pride.

“Very well,” conceded Jacqueline. She stood in the middle of the cell and thought for a moment.

The old man sat poised at the table waiting for her instructions. The boy Dénis, who like Gagnon was covered with years of grime, made himself more or less comfortable by sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. His loose, dark trousers, short, coarse jacket, and red cap was the typical outfit of the new sansculottes, revolutionaries who scorned the tight, knee-length breeches and long jackets aristocratic gentlemen had favored for most of the century. He folded his arms and closed his eyes, evidently undisturbed by the filth around him.

“Since our honorable Republic has, in its infallible wisdom, decided to confiscate all of my father’s investments, including my home and everything in it, my bequests are somewhat limited,” Jacqueline stated sarcastically. “I wish to send a letter to my maid, Henriette Mandrou, and with it I shall include my hair. She will know what to do with it.”

“Henriette,” repeated the old man as he began to write. With a shaking hand he slowly scratched the letters onto the paper, using long, embellished strokes. When he had finished he paused and stared at the name, as if trying to remember why he had written it. After a moment he smiled and looked up. “I knew an Henriette once,” he told her conversationally. “A dairymaid. Wanted me to marry her. Only difference between her and her cow was the cow smelled better.” He chuckled and looked back at his work.

“I would also like you to cut my hair, if you think you can hold your scissors steady enough to do it without slashing my throat,” continued Jacqueline, irritated by his cheerful attitude. She pulled the pins from her hair and shook it loose, running her fingers through the blond cape to feel its silky texture one last time before it was removed.

Citizen Julien stared at her as she did this, holding his quill in midair, the smile on his face quite gone. It appeared to Jacqueline that the sight of her hair had startled him, and his reaction made the impending loss even more painful.

“It is only hair,” she told him bitterly. “Tomorrow it will be my head.”

His response to that statement was to burst into an other terrible fit of coughing, so deep and choking he dropped his pen and began to gasp for air. Concerned, Jacqueline rushed over and began to pat him lightly on the back. The boy leapt to his feet, pushed Jacqueline aside, and proceeded to give his employer a solid thumping.

“He’s having one of his fits,” Dénis explained.

“Medicine—” wheezed the old man in between wallops. “Need—medicine.”

“Where is it?” demanded Jacqueline.

“It’s in his bag, downstairs,” Dénis told her. “We carry a lot of people’s stuff with us, and the wardens don’t usually let us take it up to the cells. Afraid we’ll smuggle in poison, or a gun maybe,” he explained.

“Gagnon!” shouted Jacqueline through the grille on the door. The old man’s coughing and wheezing was becoming more severe. “Citizen Gagnon!”

“What is it?” snapped the jailer as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He looked at Citizen Julien, who was huddled over gasping for air while the boy continued to bang on his back. “Here now, what’s his problem?”

“He needs his medicine, which is in a bag downstairs,” explained Jacqueline urgently. “The boy must go and fetch it.”

“Go on then,” said the jailer, motioning to Dénis. “And be quick about it.”

The boy raced out of the cell, leaving the old man to the care of Jacqueline.

“A drink—” he managed weakly before heaving into another fit of choking.

“Perhaps you should fetch some water, or wine maybe,” she suggested to Gagnon as she helplessly watched the old man hacking and spewing phlegm into his handkerchief.

“No wine!” wheezed Citizen Julien in between coughs.

“Water then,” said Jacqueline with a nod to the jailer.

“Do I look like your servant, Citizeness?” he demanded.

The old man let out a horrible, agonizing moan and clutched his chest, gasping for air.

“Please!” begged Jacqueline. “It won’t look very good if an agent of the court dies in your wing while you are on duty,” she added desperately.

Gagnon scowled. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll leave the door open for the boy, but don’t you be thinking about wandering off anywhere, Citizeness,” he warned. “If I have to go searching for you, I will demand payment for my trouble, and I might not be satisfied with just your hair. Maybe I’ll try some of what Inspector Bourdon came for.” He grinned at her, exposing his jagged, rotting teeth before leaving the cell.

He went to his table at the far end of the hall and was irritated to find that the bucket of water he kept there was empty. The old man’s dreadful hacking continued to echo through the vaulted corridor. Gagnon decided he had better do what he could to keep the poor bugger from croaking, so he grabbed the battered cup from the bucket and went off toward the east wing, hoping the jailer of that ward had some water handy. He was not concerned in the least that Jacqueline would escape. The Conciergerie was crawling with guards who would take great pleasure in stopping a woman prisoner and punishing her for wandering from her cell.

He returned after a few minutes with the battered cup full of murky water. Citizen Julien’s coughing had subsided considerably, and when Gagnon entered the cell he could see the boy had returned with the medicine. The old man, apparently somewhat recovered from his attack, was wheezing as he bent over Jacqueline, who was now lying huddled on her bed.

“There, there now, my dear, it is nothing to be concerned about, a little faintness and chills on the eve of one’s execution is perfectly normal,” he soothed in a raspy voice. He adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and sighed.

“What’s the matter with her?” demanded Gagnon. The Republic did not approve of its prisoners dying in prison. To do so was to cheat the guillotine of another victim.

“Citizeness Doucette is in need of a little rest,” explained the old man. “I fear the excitement of the day has been too much for her.”

Gagnon snorted loudly. “Tomorrow she’ll be getting all the rest she’ll ever need,” he joked.

“Quite so,” agreed Citizen Julien. “In the meantime, the lad and I will give her a few moments to collect herself before we resume our business.” He turned his attention back to his papers and began to read one of them by the dim light of the candle. The youth Dénis, who had been standing in the darkness staring at the woman lying on the bed, sank to the floor, bent his head into his chest, and prepared to take a nap.

“Call me when you want out,” said Gagnon with a shrug. He pulled the door shut and locked it.

After a time he could hear the sound of Jacqueline’s voice as she dictated a letter to the old man, evidently recovered from her spell. Citizen Julien read the letter back to her, and she pointed out several missing words. Then followed a very loud argument over the price of the old man’s services, which nearly sent him into another fit of coughing. The issue was finally resolved, at which point Gagnon could hear Jacqueline begin to sob. Evidently a compassionate man, Citizen Julien fussed over her again as he told her to lie down. A few minutes later the old man called for Gagnon to let him out.

“She is resting again, and should not be disturbed by anyone,” said Citizen Julien in a low, grave voice. “Especially that rather volatile young man who was here earlier. Clearly his presence is not welcome,” he stated with a raised white eyebrow.

Gagnon shrugged. “Citizen Bourdon is an inspector for the Committee of Public Safety and can see whoever he wants. What he does in this cell is none of my business.”

The old man looked at him in disgust. “Citizeness Doucette is sentenced to die tomorrow. Until then she is under your care, and if I hear of any impropriety when I return tomorrow to cut her hair, you can be sure I will report it to Citizen Fouquier-Tinville. Our public prosecutor is a man of the law, and he does not approve of the mistreatment of prisoners who are in the custody of the new Republic.”