Surrender to a Stranger (5 page)

“You did not cut her hair?” demanded Gagnon with interest. He squinted through the darkness and could see Jacqueline’s hair spilling out from underneath the black shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.

“She was too upset,” explained Citizen Julien with a sigh. “I offered to come back and cut it tomorrow so she would not have to suffer the loss of it tonight.”

“That was kind of you,” murmured Gagnon thoughtfully. Perhaps he would own that golden mane after all.

“Kindness is an act which is too little seen in these difficult times,” commented Citizen Julien as he collected his papers and put them into his leather case.

“Careful, Citizen,” warned Gagnon. “Lest your words come back to haunt you.”

“If they do, I will know who felt they were worthy of repeating, won’t I?” said the old man. “Come, Dénis,” he called, motioning to the boy. “We have four more clients to see before the night is out.”

Dénis handed Citizen Julien his cane, accepted his leather case, and then stood close beside him so he could lean heavily on his shoulder. “I fear I am getting too old for this,” Citizen Julien muttered irritably as they slowly shuffled out of the cell.

Gagnon looked at the candle on the table, which had burned down to almost nothing. Citizeness Doucette was sleeping and therefore unaware that the light of her precious candle was being wasted. Gagnon decided to wait until it had burned itself out before coming back to waken her. Then they could make a trade, he thought with satisfaction.

It was not to be. Barely ten minutes later Inspector Bourdon returned and demanded to be let into Citizeness Doucette’s cell.

“She had a fainting spell and took to her bed,” Gagnon told him as he unlocked the door.

Nicolas peered through the darkness at the sleeping form of Jacqueline, whose glorious hair was down and flowing like a river of honey across her back. He had never seen her with her hair down. The sight of her sleeping peacefully, unsuspecting and vulnerable, made him hard with desire. The candle on the table sputtered and went out.

“Shall I bring you another candle?” offered Gagnon.

“No,” replied Nicolas abruptly. “Get out.”

The cell was plunged into total darkness as the door eclipsed the faint light of the torch Gagnon held.

Nicolas held his breath as he removed his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket. He slowly unfastened his waistcoat and loosened his trousers, savoring the anticipation of finally having what had been denied to him for so long.

“Jacqueline,” he called softly as he moved toward the bed. He stood towering over her, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I have returned to finish what we began,” he whispered, bracing himself for the pleasure of the struggle that was about to begin. He reached out and touched the silky hair that adorned the thin, coarse blanket covering her. She did not stir. “I am glad you did not cut your hair,” he told her as he held her hair in his fist. “It would have marred your beauty, and when I remember you begging me to stop, I want you to be just as perfect as always.”

He yanked down hard on her hair, intending to waken her with pain.

“What the—”

He stared in confusion at the golden skein dangling lifelessly in his hand, tied at one end with a length of ribbon.

“What in the name of God—”

He tore away the blanket and wrenched her up from the bed. A terrible roar of rage echoed through the halls as Nicolas realized he held nothing but a tattered silk gown, stuffed with fetid straw and a shapely puff of fine linen petticoats.

The streets of Paris were unfamiliar to Jacqueline.

Until her father’s arrest she had only been in the great city once before, years ago when the Duc de Lambert had taken her and Antoine to see a play at the Comédie-Française. They had arrived in their magnificent carriage, all scarlet and ebony and gold, with the lavish De Lambert crest proudly gracing its doors. Although Jacqueline was only fourteen at the time, her father had permitted her to have her hair elaborately dressed and powdered for the occasion, and she had to be extremely careful as she got in and out of the carriage not to knock the stiff curls that rose in a rigid bouquet somewhere above the top of her head. Her gown was a cumbersome affair of the snowiest silk, richly embroidered with threads of silver and gold. The low-cut, fitted bodice was decorated with a lavish stomacher, a triangular piece heavily encrusted with pearls and sapphires. The beauty of the gown made Jacqueline feel like a princess, and in her heady excitement she imagined meeting a prince who, unaware of her tender years (for she was quite certain she did not look her age), would immediately drop to his knee and profess his undying love at first sight of her. She carried a little white-and-gold lace fan, which she had practiced opening and closing with an accomplished snap in front of a mirror for days. After listening to his wild declarations, she intended to give it to the prince as a token of their meeting, tearfully informing him that despite her womanly appearance, she was in fact too young to marry.

Her father looked magnificent that night as well, gloriously outfitted in a gold brocade jacket, ruffled shirt, white satin culottes, and silk stockings. He carried a gleaming sword at his side with graceful ease, as was expected of an aristocratic gentleman. Even Antoine, who had become rather tall and lean at fifteen, was particularly fine in his blue velvet jacket and silvery waistcoat. Their excursion to Paris was an attempt on the part of the duc to pull himself and his two eldest children out of the self-imposed mourning that had gripped their lives for over a year. Since the unexpected death of Jacqueline’s mother, the Château de Lambert had become a quiet, sad place, with little reason for merriment or celebration.

The opulence of that evening in Paris was unlike anything Jacqueline had ever experienced. After the theater the duc took his children and some friends to a fashionable restaurant, where they were attended to by a flock of waiters. A sumptuous five-course meal was ordered, beginning with velvety truffled foie gras and iced oysters, then on to a selection of elaborate dishes made with veal, mutton, duckling, squab, rabbit, beef, capon, partridge, and quail, and finally ending with fresh fruit, compotes, ice cream, cheeses, and pastries. The gay melodies of a string quartet drifted pleasantly around them as the happy group laughed and talked and quenched their thirsts with bottle after bottle of sparkling champagne. When dawn was painting pink-and-gold patterns against the sky, the De Lamberts climbed back into their carriage and returned to their magnificent hotel, where a respectful staff was only too anxious to cater to their every whim. For Jacqueline, Paris was a magical, glittering world of dazzling gowns and exquisite jewels, of theater and music and fine food, of wealthy people enjoying themselves and perfectly content servants seeing to their every comfort. It made life at the Château de Lambert seem rather quiet and provincial by contrast. Not any less enjoyable of course, but not nearly so exciting.

That was in 1788, a year before the start of the revolution. The next time Jacqueline came to the magical city of Paris, it was to see her father in prison.

It was the spring of 1793, and the world that Jacqueline had known had literally turned upside down. In their quest for a new social order, educated, idealistic men like the Duc de Lambert had disputed the absolute power of their king, Louis XVI. In doing so, they introduced a whole new philosophy of society, one based on equality rather than the rigid social hierarchy that had been in place for centuries. The new National Constituent Assembly, of which her father was a member, abolished the ancient system of feudalism and the collection of seigneurial dues and services, and drafted a Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. As the liberal ideals of equality and liberty took root, the assembly went on to eradicate the age-old privileges of the nobility, including exemption from the
taille
or tax, the use of hereditary titles and coats of arms, the monopoly on high office, and the wearing of the sword. The new France was to be a freethinking society of “citizens,” all equal under the law and not burdened by the accident of their birth. It was a romantic, poetic vision, started by aristocratic philosophes like her father and members of the wealthy new bourgeoisie, men who never dreamed that their ideas would quickly race out of control, manipulated and interpreted and perverted into something oppressive and tyrannical. It was not until the National Convention voted to chop off the head of their king, who ruled by the will of God and was supposed to be their partner in the new order, that the former Duc de Lambert realized something was going terribly wrong.

“Stop looking around and keep your head down,” commanded Citizen Julien.

Jacqueline obediently snapped her head down and watched her heavy wooden shoes dragging along the cobblestone street. Its broken surface was treacherous, and made more so by the refuse and slops that were carelessly strewn over it. The avenues they were taking were narrow and dark, without any sense of order or logic. They twisted up and down, circling around ancient, decrepit buildings that seemed to house many families, sometimes leading to a tiny square where a small, crumbling church pointed up to a dim patch of sky, and then heading off again into another dank, foul alley that never enjoyed air or light. Jacqueline could hear the screeching and scurrying of rats foraging through garbage. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was back in the halls of the Conciergerie, except that the stench was not quite as oppressive.

When they first left the prison Jacqueline had wanted to run, simply to release herself from the steady grip of the old man and move one foot in front of the other and just run and run, as fast and as long as she could, until she was sure that the guards of La Conciergerie and the jailer Gagnon and the members of the Tribunal and Nicolas Bourdon were far behind her. After passing all those guards and gates in such a slow, shuffling pace, with the terror of discovery churning wildly within her, and Citizen Julien pausing to exchange inane pleasantries with each and every guard they encountered, the exhilaration of walking away from that chamber of death almost made her shriek with excitement. She had started to move faster, and immediately felt the firm pressure of Citizen Julien’s ancient hand on her shoulder, restraining her from exceeding his tortoiselike pace.

“Walk,” he told her firmly as he continued to shuffle along beside her. Jacqueline realized that Citizen Julien was unable to run, and as he seemed to have some destination in mind, and Jacqueline did not have the faintest idea where she could go to hide from the National Guard that would be sent searching for her, she decided to slow her pace and stay with him, at least for the time being.

The streets were not crowded, and Jacqueline supposed that as it was late, most people were at home taking their supper. The few men they did pass were mostly drunk, hanging about gulping from bottles and glaring at whoever happened to pass by. The men seemed to eye her and the old man with interest, as if they knew there was something peculiar about the duo, or perhaps they were debating whether or not to accost them. Jacqueline felt herself shiver and told herself she was being ridiculous. In her ragged sansculotte outfit, dressed as a boy accompanying a frail old man, it was clear that neither of them could possibly have anything of value. Still, if they were stopped for any reason and it was discovered that she was a woman, she wondered how she would protect herself. Citizen Julien was far too old and feeble to render her any assistance, despite his planning and quick action during their escape.

After Gagnon had left the cell in search of water, Jacqueline was startled to see her elderly patient, still coughing and wheezing hard enough to burst a lung, rise from his chair and quickly open his enormous black coat, revealing a series of deep pockets bulging in the bottom half of the lining. From each pocket he produced an article of clothing that he threw at her, motioning for her to change into them quickly. Momentarily stunned, she simply stood clutching the garments to her chest, and was prodded into action only when he stepped behind her and deftly removed her shawl and unfastened the back of her dress. Without pausing to see if she was indeed going to change, he turned his attention to her bed, which he stripped of its blanket and began to fill with filthy straw from the floor. As Jacqueline stepped out of her gown and petticoats, Citizen Julien scooped them up and proceeded to stuff the dress with the soft linen. He created a rather well-endowed form, which he laid on the bed, carefully arranging the skirt of the gown over the mound of straw. Jacqueline continued to don the filthy, coarse outfit he had provided her, realizing by now that the clothes exactly matched those worn by Dénis. Citizen Julien artfully wrapped her shawl around a clump of straw before placing it at the head of the bed and pulling its edges over the shoulders of her gown. He then reached inside his coat and produced a pair of scissors and a piece of ribbon. Still coughing and wheezing away, he knotted the ribbon around her hair and hacked off a length of perhaps fifteen inches or more. Jacqueline watched with a twinge of regret as the old man tucked the end of her hair under the shawl and then fanned the rest of it out so it spilled gloriously over the shoulders and back of her silk gown. He reached into two pockets near the hem of his coat and produced a pair of sabots. Jacqueline removed her silk brocade high heels and pulled on the clumsy wooden shoes as Citizen Julien placed hers at the edge of the bed where they could be seen. Having lost almost two inches in height, Jacqueline now closely matched the stature of the boy. She stuffed what remained of her hair into the red woolen cap as Citizen Julien generously applied some dirt to her face, neck, and hands. He then turned and pulled the blanket up over the sleeping form on the bed, fussing and wheezing just as Gagnon walked into the cell carrying a cup of water.

Jacqueline froze, waiting for Gagnon to see that she was not the boy. But the jailer ignored her. He seemed much more concerned about his prisoner in the bed than the youth who stood in the shadows watching. Jacqueline had to admit that in the dim light the figure lying on the bed was rather convincing. Citizen Julien calmly returned to his papers and Jacqueline decided to sit on the floor and pretend to nap. Gagnon, evidently feeling that all was well, shrugged his shoulders and left the cell.

What followed was sheer torture for Jacqueline. Instead of waiting a few minutes and then asking to be let out, Citizen Julien continued with his assignment as if nothing had happened. He made Jacqueline dictate a letter to him, then slowly read it back to her before engaging in a loud argument over his abilities and his prices. He told her to sob and once again went through the motions of fussing over the sleeping form on the bed before finally asking Gagnon to let him out. Despite her terror of being caught, Jacqueline could not help but admire the old man’s calm presence of mind. As they left the cell and shuffled slowly down the hall, Jacqueline expected at any moment that Gagnon would call out for them to stop. With every guard and gate they passed she was certain she would be discovered. But the guards were evidently accustomed to the coming and going of visitors, and as Citizen Julien’s official papers for himself and the boy were all in order, no one seemed interested in delaying the passage of the coughing, wheezing old man and the filthy, ragged youth who accompanied him.

They were walking along a street that enjoyed considerably more activity than the others they had taken. Lively music was spilling out from a café at the end of the road, and colorfully dressed women were standing in doorsteps calling out to the men stumbling drunkenly along the street. A fleshy woman, fairly bursting out of the wrinkled red satin dress she had somehow squeezed herself into, left her post at the side of the street and approached Citizen Julien.

“A chilly night, isn’t it, Citizen?” she asked as she dropped the thin cloak around her shoulders to reveal a bulging bust. She stank of wine and too much cheap perfume.

“It is indeed,” agreed Citizen Julien, who kept his gnarled hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder and continued walking.

“Perhaps you need someone to warm you up,” the woman said suggestively.

“I am afraid, my dear, that I am too old to accept such a kind offer,” replied Citizen Julien.

Undaunted, the woman pulled up her cloak and began to walk with them. She fixed her gaze on Jacqueline.

“Pretty boy,” she remarked. Jacqueline could see that the woman’s wig was in much need of a dressing, and her heavily painted face made her look old beyond her years.