Her Own Revolution, page 14
I shook my head and looked back at Simon.
“Pierre’s son…” Simon looked like he might burst into tears.
My chest burned. Pierre had feared for his son. I had promised Pierre. Why, why, why had I risked his life? The answer stood before me. To save Simon’s life. I reached out and rubbed his arm. “Yes?”
“Little Pierre screamed for his Papa when they took him away.” A tear overflowed and trickled down his cheek.
“Was he with his mother?”
Simon nodded. “But he screamed. It was terrible. He’s only six.”
I had promised Pierre I’d save him, and now I had to make good on it. The list wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow, if then. It could take a week or a month. “I’m going to them, now.” I dug into my reticule for one of the louis d’ors I’d stolen from Papa and pressed it into Simon’s hand. “Go to the Auberge Mouton Blanc, around the corner from Saint Merri.”
He nodded. “I used to live near there.”
“Get a lodging room and wait there. I’ll bring Pierre’s wife and son.”
“What are you going to do?”
I wanted to say, Kill Martin, but instead, I whispered, “I’m going to get Madame Lochot and her son. Martin could turn them in, too.”
His eyes darkened. “I wish I had Madame Bourran’s walking stick.”
“Where is it?”
“At Pierre’s shop.”
“I’ll get it.” I patted his back and sent him out into the sunshine.
I waited for a few minutes, looked about for Martin, and then slipped out the servants’ entrance. Twisting my reticule strings, I imagined wringing Martin’s neck with my bare hands.
27
Paris
July 1794
I opened the printshop door and stood quietly waiting. Clerks moved about in the shop, working like Pierre was on an errand and would return soon. I hoped no one would recognize me. They could turn me in to avenge Pierre’s arrest, and I wouldn’t blame them.
An elderly clerk, with gnarled, blackened fingers looked up.
“Where can I find Madame Lochot?”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Top floor.”
As I headed for the stairs, I spotted Madame Bourran’s cane in the corner. I picked it up like it was mine, twisted it, and the blade clicked. I reset the blade. Simon needed this sign of manhood, to remind him of his own courage, and he could use it to defend himself and Pierre’s family. I wished I had one myself.
I climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked on the only door. There were no cooking smells, no sounds. “Madame Lochot, I am a friend of Henri Detré,” I whispered.
The door opened and sunlight spilled across a boy, his arms clinging to a petite blonde woman, his face buried in her skirts. The woman held the door and looked around me and then at me. “Where’s Henri?”
“In America,” I whispered. She began to push the door, but I slid inside and closed it.
She backed up, her thin arms wrapped around her son, her tear-stained face creased with worry. She wore no cap, no jewelry, no shawl. She shivered in the heat.
I leaned on the cane, like I needed it and to appear unthreatening. “Henri asked me to help you. That is why I am here.”
She lifted her chin. “Can you get my husband out of prison?”
“Maman!” The boy lifted his arms and gripped her shoulders, nearly pulling her over.
“Shh, Papa will be back soon.” She rubbed his back. The boy sobbed. His auburn curls glinted in the sunlight.
“Madame, the man who reported your husband, could report you. You’re not safe here.”
Her shoulders sagged. “No matter. Where would we go without Pierre?”
“He would not want you in prison. He’d want you to be safe.”
She jerked her head toward me. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I am Henri’s friend, and I give you my word of honor.”
She smiled for a moment. “Pierre never accepted help from anyone, except when Henri brought bread, when there was none to be had. We might have starved without Henri’s help.”
Her eyes were so filled with sorrow, I looked away. A small table and three unmatched wooden chairs. A cold fireplace. Broken metal letters from the printshop littered the mantel. Worn damask curtains hung on the windows and before a doorway that I figured led to a bedroom. I wondered if Pierre’s shop had been successful, for the money he made on false identity papers apparently had not been spent on luxuries or food.
She cupped her hand around her son’s head. “We cannot leave without Pierre.”
“I understand. But until he is released, you can’t stay here. I’ve sent Simon ahead with money for lodgings at an inn in the Marais. I will take you there now, where you can wait safely until Pierre is released. Then you can all go to Henri’s château.”
She tilted her head.
“Madame, do you know that Henri has a château on the Loire? He gave me money to help his friends and told me to take them there—if they were in danger. Henri would help you now if he were here. Let me help you. Pack a small bundle of things and come with me now.”
She remained straight and stiff. “What’s your name?”
“Geneviève.”
“Geneviève, what?”
I smiled, hoping I looked confident. “Knowing only my first name will be much safer for you and your son.”
She bent and kissed Little Pierre’s head. He whimpered. “I’ve no other choice, do I?”
I shook my head. “Pierre would want you both to be safe.”
She began placing clothing in a pile on the table.
At least I could keep Pierre’s family safe until I could get him out of prison. I’d have to be on guard against Martin. He’d just used Pierre to show me he had power over me. I shook my trembling hands.
First, I had to get Pierre’s name off that list. Then I’d worry about getting him out of la Conciergerie. LaGarde wouldn’t be happy when I told him we’d have to rescue another prisoner while I was getting him out, but LaGarde would have to help me. None of us had a choice.
28
Paris
July 24, 1794
Imberton stood at his desk, straight and unbending as a plane tree, scribbling away at a long document.
Every morning I arrived earlier and earlier, only to find all thirty clerks already at their desks. If I were not my father’s daughter, I suspected I would be reprimanded for my tardiness.
I peeled off my gloves, placed them in my reticule and stored it under my desk. I scanned the first paper on the pile atop my desk, the list of names of prisoners at la Conciergerie. My breath caught. Second name from the end, Pierre Lochot.
The room closed in around me. I pressed my fingers to my eyes until sparks of light flurried. I opened my eyes and reread. Pierre’s name was written in a different hand and bolder than the rest. Was that on purpose? Did someone know to look for his name? I scanned the room. Did anyone suspect me of changing the lists? I searched my memory of names I had collected at the cemetery, but all I saw were the faces of Pierre’s wife and son. I had to replace Pierre’s name with a similar one.
Imberton appeared before me and cocked an eyebrow. “Is something wrong, Citizeness?”
“No.” I picked up the quill.
“I wish to review your work today. Bring every document and its original to me as you finish it. Do not give anything to the delivery clerk.”
My corset was so tight. “Has my father changed protocol?”
“Spelling errors have been noticed by the Tribunal. It is now my responsibility to ensure those mistakes do not happen again. Get to work.”
I took the blade from under the inkwell and sharpened the quill. I never misspelled anything. Were other clerks required to give Imberton their work? I glanced around the room. Armand placed a finished document in his basket, picked up another, and began copying. Denis wrote with a fury, as if a deadline approached. Neither brought their documents to Imberton. A delivery clerk wove through the aisles between the desks, collecting documents from everyone’s basket but mine.
I watched Imberton as he scanned a paper and frowned. He was setting a trap. If I could delay copying the guillotine list by a day, I could make two copies this evening, after Imberton left, and burn the original. But how could I hide the original list from Imberton?
I began returning the blade to its place when a loud slam of a door made me jump, and I sliced my finger. I pressed a blotting cloth around the wound, but the nick continued to bleed.
I had no other choice but to hide the list. Holding the cloth against my finger, I lifted the sheaf of fresh paper from the shelf under my desk and placed it atop the guillotine list. I slid a piece of fresh paper onto my desk. Keeping the guillotine list at the bottom of the sheaf, I returned the fresh paper to the shelf.
I took the next document, a list of witnesses, and began copying it. I scanned the room, watching for anyone else bringing their work to Imberton but spotted none.
I brought the first document and my copy to Imberton. The people on that list weren’t in danger…yet.
He glanced at it. “This document is not urgent. Where is the guillotine list?”
I blinked. “I did not see such a list in my documents.”
“I placed it at the top myself.” He grabbed the pile and quickly reviewed page after page.
“Perhaps another clerk copied it?”
He shook his head. “I put it right here not thirty minutes ago.” He glared at me. “Did you move it?”
I tipped my head. If he found the list at the bottom of my fresh paper, would he dismiss me? Worse, would he tell Papa? “Maybe you assigned it to another clerk. Or the delivery clerk already collected it?” I walked to Armand’s desk. “Did you copy the guillotine list?” I asked.
Armand scratched his jaw with his ink-stained finger. “No.”
I hurried to every desk, questioning each clerk, until I reached the end of the row.
Imberton stood before me, his face red against his frayed white jabot. “Return to your desk.” His heels clacked down the corridor toward the Court.
I rubbed at the ink staining my middle finger where a callus had grown. I could not let Pierre die. I should have prepared for this. Was there another original list held by my father? If Imberton requested it, my father would know I’d caused a problem. Acid rose in my throat. I copied another document, dutifully placing it and the original on Imberton’s desk.
The clacking of Imberton’s heels made my hand jerk, spraying ink. I stared at my work.
He stopped before me, holding up the guillotine list.
“I’m so glad you found it.” I hoped I sounded convincing and reached for the paper. “Where was it?”
He snatched it away. “You will no longer be copying these lists, Citizeness.” He took it to his desk and began writing, his finger inching down the paper, name by name.
Bastard. A drop of blood from my cut splattered on my document.
I gripped my quill. Damn Martin. Why had he turned Pierre in? It couldn’t be just the money; my father paid Martin well. Greed? Was Martin using me to get more people to report? Papa might fire Martin if I concocted a story about Martin’s improper behavior. But Martin would be paid far more if he informed on me to the Committee of Public Safety.
I had promised Pierre I’d get his name off the list or go to the guillotine myself. The witnesses’ names I’d written blurred on the paper before me. I had to get Pierre out of prison. There was no other way to save him. And I had to, for his son’s sake.
I’d have to get Pierre out of la Conciergerie the next night when I got LaGarde out. LaGarde wouldn’t be happy about the added risk, but as a noble of the sword, he’d be happy to use his rapier to skewer Martin.
I dipped the quill. Blood had seeped through the blotting cloth. I imagined writing Martin’s name in blood. I felt no remorse about my desire, as any other lady would. But I was a woman who impersonated a man, and I imagined a man would feel just as vengeful.
29
Paris
July 25, 1794
Wanting to make certain none of the guards—who knew me as the man who visited LaGarde—would recognize me, I pulled my hair up into my bonnet and lowered my neckline. After tucking a few sous in my reticule for a bribe to see Pierre, I hurried to la Conciergerie. I had to reassure Pierre I’d get his name off the guillotine list.
A long line of visitors crowded the stone chamber before the gate, unusual for it was not a day of rest. I whispered to a woman standing before me, “Why are there so many people here today?”
“You haven’t heard? Le Proscecuteur,” she spat the word out like a bad seed, “has stepped up executions. We all want to see our loved ones before they’re headless, don’t we?”
My heartbeat thundered. I prayed, Please, Papa, don’t send him today. I knotted the strings of my reticule around my fingers, silently repeating my plea.
My hands trembling, I stood before the guards.
The same, yellow-eyed guard stuck out his dirty hand. “Papers.”
I presented them and pitched my voice high. “Lochot. I’m here to see Pierre Lochot.”
The guard checked his list. “Not here.”
“There must be some mistake.” I reached into my reticule for the sous. “He was brought here yesterday.”
“And he was taken out this morning.”
“To where?” I pressed my hand against my pounding heart.
“Where else? Madame la guillotine! Next!” he yelled.
A floating sensation pulled me from the room. I fell back, grasping at the damp wall as I slid onto the stone floor. I lay there, my lips and nose numb, a roaring filling my ears, darkness pressing around me.
“Citizeness!”
Something stung my face. Who was slapping me? Where was I? A crowd of people hovered above.
A woman with a white lace-trimmed bonnet framing her face like a delicate halo pulled me up and leaned me against a wall.
“Where am I?”
“La Conciergerie,” she whispered. “You fainted. I am sorry, Madame.”
How had I gotten here? An image of Pierre rushed at me. I blinked and blinked, but he remained before me, his face ablaze with anger as he shouted, My son. My son.
I pressed my cheek against the cool stone. I had promised him. My chest felt like a boulder was crushing it.
A hand touched my back. “Shall I help you outside, Citizeness?”
I looked up and quickly turned my face away as I balanced myself against the wall. It was the young guard who often led me to LaGarde’s cell. I could not let him recognize me.
I spoke in a high, breathless, feminine voice. “No, merci.” I rushed for the street, people and sounds spinning as I ran.
At the Quai de l’Horloge, I fell against a tree. The fighting currents of the Seine dizzied me. My hands trembled as I pulled my shawl to my nose, trying to block the stench of rotting flesh and offal from the abattoirs upriver.
The prisoners inhaled this putrid miasma every time they walked out into the courtyard for a breath of fresh air. It was a wonder they all didn’t die while waiting to be guillotined.
An ache throbbed in my chest. I had broken my promise to Pierre. My arms hung useless. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have enlisted him to save Simon. I couldn’t save Pierre just like I couldn’t save Magdeleine. Why did I even try?
Across the river, the black turrets of the Châtelet pierced the deep blue sky. Why, Papa? Why was it so important to put a man to death so quickly? What law told you to do that? If there was such a law, it was an insane one. And you’re more insane for obeying it.
Martin’s words filled my head. Your father has a long docket today! He’d been taunting me. If not for Martin, Pierre would still be alive. I stomped my foot in the dirt. Damn you, Martin. If I were a man, I’d kill you. Maybe I’d kill you anyway. Why shouldn’t a woman exact revenge just like a man? It would be a delicious satisfaction. But it would not bring Pierre back.
I dragged my hand over my face. How would I tell Madame Lochot?
The shadow cast by la Conciergerie chilled me. I had to get LaGarde out. Imberton suspected me, and he could review every document I had copied and discover every name I’d substituted.
LaGarde could take Simon and Pierre’s family to the château, and I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone anymore. LaGarde might relish helping me kill Martin, too.
I couldn’t tell Madame Lochot, yet. I’d tell her after Simon helped me get LaGarde out. I kicked at dried leaves that flew up and scurried away with the breeze. I’d have to face the darkness of the tunnels—again. But that might be easier than facing LaGarde. I had not visited him in months. He would be furious, livid. But I would get him out.
30
Paris
July 25, 1794
LaGarde paced his cell like the trapped bull he was.
“I told you to bring her to me,” he snapped, jerking his head toward me.
I shrank inside my frock coat and gripped the brim of my tricorne. “Her hiding place was no longer safe. I put her safety before your request.”
His shoulders dropped. “You were right to do so.”
His voice was so soft; did I hear correctly? “I moved her out of the city, to the country,” I whispered.
“Who cares for her?” His eyes watered, washing away his anger.
“Former nuns who cared for me when I was a child. I trust them.”
“Merci.” Anger sparked in his eyes again. “When are you getting me out of here?”
I crept close to him, trying not to breathe in his body odor. “Can you get out of this cell and into the kitchen?”
