Scarlet, page 19
Eleanor sighed. “Let’s go,” she said. “Quickly.”
All Eleanor’s daydreamed plans to evade the guards hadn’t been wasted. The great cathedral, Notre-Dame de Paris, was a linchpin in the skyline of Paris. Even if Eleanor couldn’t see it at the moment—couldn’t see anything beyond the boundaries of the current street, to be accurate—she knew which way to go. Their pattens clacked on the wet cobbles as the two women hurried down the street, heading for the Seine.
The roadside gutters were full of water now, and the street was slick with it; gouts of it spattered down from the roofs in secondary waterfalls, even more drenching than the rain. The dust from days of heat had been turned to mud, and trickled between the cobbles, spiced with the day’s garbage.
“What do you want to do at Notre-Dame?” Fleurette asked. “Pray? It was very wrong of me not to think that you might go to church—but there are other churches which are nearer and not so big. There might be all sorts of people at Notre-Dame.” Her voice was a mixture of prim shock and curiosity. Perhaps Adele wasn’t the only one who wanted more from life than Chauvelin’s household.
“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” Eleanor muttered. She couldn’t think of an explanation which wouldn’t give something away.
“Is it . . . a man?”
“Why does everyone assume that I’m running away to be with a lover?” Eleanor wanted to scream, but her voice was even when she spoke. “What sort of idiot puts themselves at risk for a handsome face and a few promises?” She stalked on, her pattens noisy on the road. “All that gets you is a single night with your skirt up and a fat belly in nine months.”
“Anne!” Fleurette exclaimed, shocked.
“No, it is not a man,” Eleanor hissed. “Besides, when in all my life would I have had the chance to actually fall in love with someone? I’ve always been in service. Lords and ladies don’t want their servants to fall in love with anyone that’d take their attention away. Even Lady Sophie—” She realized as the words fell from her mouth that she’d let a name drop which she should have kept to herself.
“But if you cared about someone,” Fleurette persisted. “Surely, then . . .”
Eleanor chose to misinterpret that. “Oh, doing something for a friend—that’d be different.”
A pause, then Fleurette squeezed her hand. “Yes. For a friend it’s different.”
Ahead of them, Eleanor could hear the noise of the Seine enlivened by and swelling with rain. They were on the north side, which she knew was called the Right Bank. She needed to get across to the other side—the Left Bank—and to the address which she’d memorized. The Cabaret de la Liberte, on Rue Christine, off the Rue Dauphine, which is next to the Pont Neuf bridge. Show up thoroughly disguised and ask for Citizen Rateau. All well and fine when she’d had a map in front of her, but now in the pouring rain—and with Fleurette determined to hang on to her . . .
At least Eleanor looked like a beggar. Her cape was soaked through, and her dress was rapidly following suit. There was little point wearing pattens to keep one’s hem off the street when the rain was being delivered by bucketloads from above.
Eleanor pushed a bedraggled lock of hair off her forehead, then froze as she saw it was a dull light brown—almost blonde. Her hair had been dyed with a preparation which should have lasted through several washes—but she was getting the equivalent of a bath’s worth of water dumped over her head every few minutes. It wouldn’t last much longer. Even if Fleurette had no idea of what Marie Antoinette looked like, dyed hair was suspicious. And if she told Chauvelin that Eleanor had dyed hair, he might put two and two together . . .
“Here, you! Citizens!”
The group of men came out of the rain without warning, circling them with clear suspicion. Fleurette squealed and clung to Eleanor.
“It’s just a couple of women, sergeant,” one of the men said, clearly disappointed. His tricolor cockade was wilted, and his previously smart red waistcoat was now a dribbling pink rag. All four men wore red Phrygian caps, and patriotic striped trousers in red, white and blue, which clung indecently to their legs.
“I can see that,” the first man said. He glared at Eleanor and Fleurette. “Papers, citizens!”
Eleanor and Fleurette exchanged looks of helplessness. “I haven’t got my certificate of residence yet, citizen sergeant,” Eleanor said, laying on the pitiful helplessness with a trowel. “I’m very sorry. We were just on our way to market—”
“To Notre-Dame,” Fleurette added earnestly.
“To the market and to Notre-Dame,” Eleanor said quickly. “We didn’t expect the rain to start like this.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask which market.
“Didn’t you know that citizens should carry their certificates at all times?” the sergeant demanded. Water from his mustache dripped down his chin and onto his scarf, and exploded in little droplets every time he shouted. “What excuse do you have for such counterrevolutionary behavior?”
“I’m so sorry, citizen sergeant!” Eleanor sniveled. She could recognize a petty tyrant when she saw one. He wasn’t seriously looking for traitors; he just wanted to impress his authority on them. “We’ll never do it again.”
“My father would say—” Fleurette started.
Eleanor kicked her ankle. “You know he’d say it was our fault, Marie,” she interrupted. “He’s a good citizen. He’d be annoyed that we took up these men’s time when they’ve got important work to do.”
Fleurette gave Eleanor a pained look, her big blue eyes deeply hurt, but—thank heavens—she kept her mouth shut and nodded. The chances of Eleanor wriggling out of this—and more importantly, reuniting with the League—would vanish if Fleurette breathed so much as a word of Chauvelin.
The sergeant looked grumpy, but eventually he shrugged. Perhaps he was being merciful—or perhaps they simply weren’t worth the time and effort. Especially in rain like this. “Well, be on your way, women. And be careful. They say that the Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris!”
“That evil man?” Fleurette gasped. “That fiend?”
“The very devil himself,” the sergeant said. “If you see anything, make sure to report it! Now be off with you.”
Eleanor tugged Fleurette down the street toward the river. Behind her, she heard one man mutter, “Forget Notre-Dame, the two of them are off to meet their lovers. What else would bring a girl out in rain like this?”
“I see what you mean,” Fleurette confided once they were out of earshot. “It is annoying when they make that sort of assumption. Though my Amédé . . .” She sighed. “I wonder where he is now?”
Eleanor wished he was here. Then she could throw Fleurette into his arms and escape. She couldn’t desert Fleurette in the middle of Paris, let alone in a dangerous situation. The moment Fleurette opened her mouth, she’d probably end up arrested on half a dozen charges of treason. And in that case, heaven help Eleanor when Citizen Chauvelin caught up with her. It’d be personal at that point.
Once past the soldiers, they came out into a wider road which emerged onto the Right Bank itself. The broad street which bordered the river was nearly emptied of passersby; those desperate enough to brave the sudden turn of weather picked their way toward one of the bridges. A stone parapet overlooked the river, but the kiosks which crowded alongside it were shut, canvas curtains drawn closed to shield the goods within. Boats bobbed on the swollen Seine beyond, only visible as vague outlines through the rain.
Beyond, midway across the river, was the Île de la Cité, linked by bridges to the shores on each side. Eleanor could see the vague outline of Notre-Dame through the downpour, but the other buildings clustered on the island were almost as weighty and significant. She knew one of them held the Conciergerie, where the Revolutionary Tribunal tried its prisoners and condemned them. One place she didn’t intend to visit . . .
“How much longer will this rain last?” she whispered, hoping that Anima could hear her.
Perhaps another five minutes at this strength, but then it will weaken, Anima said wearily. Is that girl still with you? Push her into the river and get rid of her! I’m sure she can swim.
A blare of sound to their left made Eleanor jump, and several men staggered out of a nearby tavern. They shouted insults back into the room from which they’d emerged, then charged back in again. The last thing Eleanor needed was to be caught up in a street brawl.
As if their appearance was a signal, the rain abruptly weakened to a drizzle as though the skies had run dry. Fleurette pushed her hood back with a sigh of relief. “That’s so much better.”
“Yes,” Eleanor agreed distractedly, but she was already trying to guess how long they’d been away. Adele would surely have raised the alarm by now when she noticed Eleanor missing. How long before Chauvelin’s men were out searching for her—or for Fleurette?
I told you to get rid of the girl, the thin voice in her head scolded.
“You also told me we had at least five minutes more rain,” Eleanor muttered.
There is little point in my explaining the intricacies of the heavens to an ignorant girl like you. Anima apparently did not appreciate criticism.
“It’ll take more than five minutes to get to Notre-Dame,” Fleurette said, having caught the end of Eleanor’s muttering and misinterpreted it. “But let’s get on our way. Perhaps we could buy something at the flower market while we’re there? Or—oh, can we look at the kiosks? I never have a chance to go and explore like this usually, Bibi’s so strict . . .”
Eleanor needed to get away now if she was to take advantage of the remaining confusion. “Go home, Fleurette. I’ll be back later.” The lie came easily.
Fleurette looked at her, her eyes deep blue and hurt. “You won’t, will you?” she said. “I’m not stupid.”
Perhaps that had been a little blatant. “It’s better for you if we part ways here,” Eleanor said. “I’m grateful that you want to help me . . .”
“If you meant that, then you’d listen to me and do what I ask! But you’re leaving me, and I don’t even know where you’re going. You might even be arrested and sent to the guillotine, and Papa won’t be able to save you—”
Eleanor cut her off. “Fleurette, you should take more care of yourself. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
Fleurette bit her lip. “Papa won’t let me help him, you won’t let me help you . . .”
If you’re going to stand here all day talking to the girl, I’ve wasted my time, Anima muttered.
“Well?” Eleanor demanded. “Are you going to grab me and make a scene? Or are we going to walk away from this like sensible women?”
Fleurette took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m not going to get you into trouble. I’ve never wanted to do that. Farewell, Anne. I’m sorry that we couldn’t come to a better understanding—and that I couldn’t persuade you.”
She walked away, her back straight, choosing not to look behind her.
“So am I,” Eleanor murmured to herself, watching her leave.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS EARLY evening by the time Eleanor found her way to the Rue Christine, after several backtrackings and excursions into side alleys to avoid officious-looking men with sashes and cockades. The rain had returned as a persistent drizzle, and her clothing was still soaked—and dirty now as well. She certainly looked the part of a poor beggar desperate for money. In fact, she looked a bit too desperate and had to avoid a couple of men who thought she’d be prepared to do anything for a few sous. She’d discarded her pattens, as no beggar could have afforded them, and walked the streets in her plain shoes, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. Better, after all, for them to assume a beggar than a runaway girl or an aristocrat in hiding.
As she stumbled down the worn and grimy steps into the Cabaret de la Liberte, she was hit by the smell. Sweat, dirt and smoke combined with the fumes of the single oil lamp to make the place as malodorous as it was gloomy and dark. Citizens—mostly men, but a few women—sat together at tables in close conversation, bundles in dark clothing crowned with darker expressions. The occasional laughter or oath split the air.
Eleanor made her way across the room, staggering from weariness and hunger. Few people bothered to look at her; she was far from the only beggar in the room.
The man behind the counter finished pouring half a dozen glasses of rum for a group of customers before turning to her. His gaze took her in and dismissed her in a single moment. “No work for you here,” he grunted.
“I’m looking for Citizen Rateau,” Eleanor said, keeping her voice low.
He didn’t seem surprised by her words. “In that corner,” he said with a nod.
The far corner held a large man in soiled shirt and ragged breeches, sprawled across a bench with a pipe. He looked up as Eleanor approached, raising one dirty hand to adjust his faded crimson cap. “Well, Citizen?”
“I was told to ask for you,” Eleanor said nervously. If this was a League contact, then surely he’d understand what she meant.
He brayed a raucous laugh, then put his hand to his broad chest as his whole body shook with racking coughs. “Look how the world’s changed! Once men like us had to look for women, but now they come and seek us out!”
The nearby tables, close enough to hear this witticism, roared with laughter, but Eleanor stood her ground. Regardless of how distasteful this man was, he was her only link to the League—she couldn’t back out now.
“But I’m not the man to turn a girl down.” He caught her hand, pressing a coin into it. “There’s your pay, now let’s see about earning your keep. Come with me . . .” Rising to his feet, he burst into another fit of coughing, which bowed him over as he towed her toward the Cabaret’s rear door. Laughter and mockery followed them, but only for a moment; it was clear that this sort of transaction was common enough here.
Outside, in the back alley, Rateau didn’t pause; he led her at a surprisingly quick pace through a couple of alleys, before dodging up a flight of stairs. The door at the top was locked, but he had the key. And though he moved quickly, he didn’t cough once. Eleanor followed watchfully; although there was nothing to distinguish him from any other tavern lout, she suspected that there was more to Rateau than her initial impression of him.
The room inside was cleaner than she’d have expected from someone like Rateau. But panic pricked at her as she heard the door lock, suddenly insecure; if she’d made a mistake, then she was trapped in a room with someone who thought she was a prostitute . . .
Rateau straightened, suddenly several inches taller with his stoop gone. He tossed his Phrygian cap onto the bed, running his fingers through lank hair. “Faith,” he said, the voice abruptly that of Sir Percy, “I’m glad you had the wit to make a move, Eleanor. I was starting to think we’d need to break in and rescue you ourselves, and that’d have made it far too obvious to my dear friend Monsieur Chauvelin how important you were.”
Eleanor felt herself beginning to sway as the stress of the day and the chill of her clothing caught up with her. “I was watched,” she said weakly. “I didn’t want to lead them to you.”
“You did the right thing,” Sir Percy said. “Well done. Now sit down here—deuce take it, you’re out on your feet . . .”
Eleanor closed her eyes as she sank down on the bed and let the darkness take her. Against all odds, she’d found the League. She’d found Sir Percy. She was safe.
Safe from everything except the inside of her own head . . .
15
“TRY TO GIVE her some soup and keep her quiet. The neighbors won’t ask any questions, but too much screaming is always a bad thing.”
“Where will you be, Chief?”
“Back at the Cabaret de la Liberte. The Committee’s being deucedly informative just through the questions that they’re currently asking, what? Nothing like knowing what the other person’s desperate to know.”
“Chauvelin’s keeping a low profile.”
“Yes, and I’ll admit that concerns me. If someone’s putting pressure on Monsieur Chauvelin, then I’d like to know why . . .”
Eleanor opened her eyes. She was standing in the doorway of an ancient manor house. Afternoon light came in through a wide arched window, gilding the spines of the books—dozens of them!—on the shelves and the glass flasks lined up below. A woman sat at the central table, a book open in front of her, not bothering to look up from her studies. She was wrapped in a heavy dark fur mantle with a vivid blue dress beneath it, and a plain white cloth was folded round her head like a nun’s wimple, concealing her hair. Gems flashed on her fingers as she turned a page. “Come in,” she said.
This was definitely not where Eleanor had found the League—and she was sure it wasn’t in Paris.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“Think of it as a shared space in your head where we can converse,” the woman said. She looked up from her book; her face was thin and fine-boned, her eyebrows barely visible lines of gray against pale skin. Her eyes were a washed-out blue, but as a whole she gave Eleanor the impression of a carving knife, sharpened and ready for use. “I am, of course, Anima.”
“Am I dreaming?” Eleanor asked as she sat down. The chairs were heavy oak and uncushioned.
“That’s as good a term for it as any,” Anima replied. “I don’t plan to invade your dreams on a regular basis. But I thought it would be useful for us to have a little talk without anyone else listening.”
“Thank you for your help with that escape. Though what was it that you actually did?”
“A fair question. Girl—no, let me be polite, Eleanor. How much do you know about history?”
Eleanor blushed: her conversations with the League had made her realize just how little she knew. “I have some knowledge, madame. But I certainly wouldn’t claim to be a scholar or a divine.”
