Den of Thieves

  ‘Both,’ said Pedro with a smile at me.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘But he really is free.’

  Used to taking life’s disappointments in his stride, Renard gave a shrug and, instead of bundling Pedro off to a bounty hunter, offered us a glass of tea.

  ‘So what brings you here?’ I asked, making sure I was paying J-F my full attention, as he expected.

  ‘I came to say milord is safe and well,’ said J-F, still glaring at Pedro.

  ‘I am very grateful.’

  ‘And what of Milord François’ family? Grandfather said you’d gone to visit them in the Conciergerie.’

  Pedro’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s going on, Cat?’ he asked in English.

  I quickly explained the events of the last two days.

  ‘But Johnny’s on the case,’ I concluded. ‘With his help, I’m sure the Avons will soon be released.’

  ‘I’d like to see Johnny again,’ said Pedro. ‘You will. He’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘No more English,’ said J-F petulantly, flicking crumbs off his lap in the direction of Pedro. ‘I do not like to be in the dark as to what you are saying. For all I know you could be plotting to call in the law officers.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t do that,’ I answered indignantly, annoyed by the little king’s treatment of us. He could not bear to be sidelined for a moment.

  ‘No? I know no such thing!’ he exclaimed, waving his hands in the air. ‘They could be outside now, clubs in hand, waiting to haul me off to the executioner.’

  ‘Don’t be such a muttonhead.’

  ‘Don’t you call me names!’

  ‘I’ll call you names when you deserve them.’

  Pedro looked taken aback to find me going hammer and tongs with a complete stranger. Renard chuckled. J-F rounded on his grandfather.

  ‘Shut up, old man! She’s a little vixen. I should’ve let them string her up today and good riddance! We can’t trust her – one moment she’s defenceless, about to meet her maker, the next she’s riding in carriages with American gentlemen and hugging strange African boys!’

  So that was it: he was jealous of my friends.

  ‘You really are the most ridiculous boy I’ve ever met,’ I snapped. ‘I thought you had to be sharp-witted to be king of thieves, but it seems not.’

  J-F sulked over his glass of tea, pretending not to listen.

  ‘You think I’d call in the law officers? Why, for heaven’s sake? You’re protecting one of my best friends from them.’

  He frowned and took a sip.

  ‘The American gentleman is an old friend. We saved his life last year: he owes us one.’

  J-F nodded. Debts he could understand.

  ‘As for Pedro here – he’s not a stranger. He’s like a . . . like a brother to me.’

  Pedro looked up and smiled, having understood the description. He felt under the table and gave my hand a squeeze.

  ‘In fact,’ I continued, holding on to his hand, ‘we’re the only family each has so of course I’m going to hug him when I see him. Nothing you say can change that.’

  ‘Don’t like him, don’t trust him,’ J-F grumbled.

  His attitude called for desperate measures. We could not afford to make him Pedro’s enemy. Time to call on our weapon of last resort.

  ‘Pedro, play for them.’

  My friend opened his violin case and took out his bow.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ J-F asked.

  ‘What do you think? Stirring the stewpot?’

  Renard guffawed and settled down to listen.

  J-F stuck his fingers in his ears. ‘Hate music.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ I put my feet up on the fender and prepared to be entertained.

  Pedro cast an appraising look at Renard and began to play a French folk tune he must have recently added to his repertoire. After only a few bars, Renard began to hum and mumble the words under his breath, foot tapping in time. I relaxed: we’d gained one supporter at least.

  ‘What do you think, monsieur?’ I asked Renard, giving J-F the cold shoulder.

  ‘Me? I think that – we need to do the dance!’ The old man leapt to his feet and pulled me up. ‘Here, Mademoiselle Firecracker, this is how we do it in Paris!’ He seized my hand and began to show me the steps of a lively jig involving much clapping and jumping. Pedro picked up the beat in honour of the dance. Renard shouted with laughter as I clapped on a jump and jumped on a clap. Even J-F’s face cracked into a reluctant smile.

  ‘Get it right, mademoiselle, get it right!’ Renard urged, ‘or they’ll never let you on stage at the Opera.’

  I laughed with him. ‘Slow down, slow down: you’re doing it too fast!’

  It was no good: he was remorseless. His feet shuffled and stamped as if he were twenty, not sixty.

  ‘Allow me, mademoiselle.’ J-F appeared at my side and took my hand. Pedro glanced at us and slowed to match the little king’s pace. ‘It goes like this.’ He took me through the steps, twisting and turning me skilfully. ‘Got it now?’

  I nodded. Pedro began to pick up the tempo again. The music filled the kitchen. I was tired after a long day, but the tune seemed to carry me along with it, providing me with the strength to match my tutor. J-F was a very good dancer. Deprived of his partner, Renard picked up the mop and began to twirl it around. I only hoped I was a little more elegant than it was.

  Pedro concluded the dance with a flourish and I curtseyed to J-F’s bow. The mop inclined its head as Renard blew it a kiss.

  ‘Eh bien, what is this?’ asked a man’s voice in the doorway. ‘A party?’ Our noise had disguised the fact that we had an audience. Madame Beaufort was standing with a handsome gentleman dressed in white breeches and a dark coat.

  ‘Le Vestris!’ muttered J-F in excitement, bowing low to the visitor. Renard dropped the mop with a clatter.

  ‘No, no, monsieur, you must not treat your partner like that!’ The man moved lightly across the floor and swept the mop-dancer up in his arms. ‘Mademoiselle, you were enchanting.’ He twirled the mop and placed it reverently back in the corner. ‘Until I next have the pleasure. Gentlemen, ladies.’ He bowed to the company and left, a bemused Madame Beaufort trailing after him.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

  ‘That? That was only Maria-Auguste Vestris, the principal dancer at the Opera,’ said J-F, his eyes shining with admiration. ‘He is the master – admired throughout Paris and beyond. There are few who wield more influence over the people than Le Vestris: when he dances, he is our heart and soul. We would all do anything for him. Surely you’ve heard of him?’

  I was amused by J-F’s unexpected admiration for a ballet dancer – but then perhaps the arts were more valued in Paris than in London.

  ‘I think I have. I think he came to Drury Lane when I was little.’

  ‘Littler than you are already?’ queried Renard, giving the fire a poke. I could tell he was delighted to have entertained a celebrity in his kitchen so I did not begrudge J-F and Pedro the laugh at my expense. At least the ice between them had broken.

  ‘Thank you for my lesson.’ I suppressed a yawn. ‘I’d better get to bed before madame tells me off for consorting with strange mops in the kitchen.’

  J-F stood up. ‘I’ll escort your friend home, Mademoiselle Cat.’ Pedro looked doubtful but J-F slapped him on the arm. ‘Remember, Monsieur Pedro, a friend of the Firecracker is a friend of mine.’

  So now he remembered!

  *

  The news that the famous Monsieur Vestris had discovered me dancing in the kitchen with a young stranger had filtered through to the ballerinas. At practice the next morning, I could not ignore the whispers as I tried to concentrate on the exercises. Madame Beaufort was kinder than I anticipated: apparently we had impressed her guest with our show of ‘animal spirits’, as he had put it to her, so she did not reprove me. That left Mimi, Belle and Colette to make up for it.

  ‘I suppose the little moll is
going to put it all in her next story – how she cavorted with a gutter-snipe before the great Vestris himself,’ whispered Mimi loud enough for me to hear.

  ‘Going down in the world, isn’t she?’ answered Colette. ‘I thought she had her cap set at that lord – now it seems she’ll pick anyone off the street.’

  ‘What do you expect? It’s where she came from. Like is attracted to like, they say.’

  I tried to imagine their gossip as nothing more than the clatter of knives in a cutlery drawer, but some of their words cut me. I wasn’t used to being the object of envy. The girls wanted to think the worst of me and there seemed very little I could do to mend their opinion.

  It was a relief to reach the end of lessons. Rather than dine with the dancers, I took a bowl of stew and sat on the front step with Renard. He pointed out the people on their way to take part in the Corpus Christi celebrations.

  ‘The processions are going ahead even with the king’s flight?’ I asked, watching a red-faced priest hurrying towards the centre of town, a rosary swaying at his side.

  ‘But of course. When we lose one certainty, we must cling to another.’ He crossed himself automatically.

  I’d never been in a Catholic country before but had heard much of the extravagance of their festivals, and so was eager to see for myself. I could now hear the tantalizing strains of music in the distance.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The choirs. The churches all parade their statues in the streets, seeing who can sing the loudest – it’s a fine show. Lots of pockets for the picking,’ he reminisced fondly.

  ‘So J-F will be busy?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘There’s one pocket I hope he has not picked.’ I spotted Johnny approaching on foot.

  ‘Off to see the show with him?’

  ‘Sadly not, monsieur. I’ve arranged to meet Frank to see how he is surviving in his new life.’

  Renard chuckled. ‘Milord will certainly remember his time in Paris. No feather beds, no silks and satins where he’s staying.’

  Johnny drew level with us and tipped his hat to my companion. He looked as if he’d passed a sleepless night – doubtless fretting about Lizzie. He still managed a smile for me. ‘Ready, Cat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘The Palais Royal – it was J-F’s suggestion,’ I added to Renard.

  Johnny presented me with his arm. ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s the only place the police aren’t allowed to go, thanks to the king’s brother who owns it – royal privilege,’ explained Renard.

  ‘Ah, of course, murmured Johnny. ‘Philippe fancies himself as the opposition to his older brother so it’s the favourite place of all rogues and rebels.’

  ‘That’ll suit us then,’ I said.

  We made our way south towards the river, heading for the rue St Honoré.

  ‘Did you make any progress today?’ I asked Johnny as we shouldered a passage through the crowd waiting on Place Louis le Grand. Johnny clapped his hand to his coat pocket automatically as a skinny girl darted between us. The girl turned round.

  ‘Don’t worry, monsieur: you’re safe while you’re with her!’ she called over her shoulder.

  Johnny looked down at me. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My friend, the king of thieves of the Palais Royal – he’s given me special privileges.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘As I was saying, any news?’

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘I’m trying to track down this Fersen character who had the coach taken round to the rue de Clichy but he’s disappeared – fled, they say. My next step is to confront the coach builder and see what he knows.’

  ‘My guess is he’ll know nothing for his own good.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’

  We rounded the corner into the rue St Honoré. Outside the convent of the Jacobins a man in a powdered white wig worn in two side rolls stepped out of the crowd to shake Johnny’s hand. They exchanged a few brief words while I stood back.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked Johnny when we set off again.

  ‘Only a lawyer I know by name of Robespierre. Very committed to helping the poor. Bit of a cold fish but useful.’

  ‘Can he help with the Avons?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s in parliament but doesn’t really have the ear of the men that count.’

  ‘Who does?’

  Johnny thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say with the king gone but I suppose Lafayette – he’s a soldier, head of the National Guard – and Mayor Bailly. I’ve been trying to get to speak to them, so far to no avail. They’re both too busy dealing with the crisis to talk to an unimportant foreigner like me. But I won’t give up.’

  We arrived outside the colonnade leading into the Palais Royal.

  Johnny patted my hand. ‘Ready? Take a deep breath.’

  We launched ourselves into the crowd pouring into the pleasure palace beyond. To a Londoner like me, it looked like Vauxhall Gardens and Piccadilly combined: two covered promenades full of clubs, cafés and shops, reverberating with noise and laughter, stretched on either side of the park. In the centre of the open space created by the galleries, tree-lined avenues were crowded with people coming to see and be seen. Here there was a mixture of high and low life such as I was used to at Drury Lane: guardsmen, gamblers, hawkers, students, women of good repute and of no repute at all.

  ‘Like it, Cat?’ asked Johnny with an affectionate smile at my expression.

  ‘Like it? I love it!’

  He could barely pull me past the window of the little waxwork exhibition as I admired the bust of the pope and the king. I noticed that someone had knocked the latter’s crown askew. I was next absorbed by the poster for the Palais theatre that occupied a large part of the wall next door:

  See the Wildman – caught in the Pyrenees!

  Hear the mermaid sing!

  For one night only, the puppet master of Turin!

  Johnny wrinkled his nose. ‘Come on, Cat, I thought you had better taste than a freak show. I thought you were all for Shakespeare and Dryden.’

  ‘But a real mermaid, Johnny! I’ve never seen one of them.’

  ‘And you won’t here, believe me. It’s just some poor scantily clad woman squeezed into a costume.’

  I let him pull me away but I couldn’t help wondering. This was France, after all, not London. Maybe they had mermaids here?

  Johnny led me to a seat at the Corazza café and ordered some refreshment. Watching me, he began to laugh.

  ‘Stop it, Cat! Your eyes are out on stalks!’

  I had been staring at a very fat man wobbling along like old gooseberry, accompanied by a tall, thin lady with a deep voice.

  ‘There’s something not right about that lady,’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘That’s because his name is Louvet – he’s in parliament. He likes to dress as a woman.’ Johnny snapped open a newspaper that was lying on the table as if it were perfectly normal to see members of the legislature walking round in evening gowns.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘How are you, chérie?’ It was Annette, still wearing my old dress. With her was Marie and a rather sombre looking Frank. Joseph was standing aloof, keeping watch.

  Marie shrugged at the footman as she took a seat. ‘I told Jo there was no need, but he doesn’t trust us.’

  ‘Oh, why would that be do you think?’ I asked innocently. ‘Was it because you stripped him of all his worldly goods and left him standing naked yesterday?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded.

  I introduced Johnny to the girls. They gave him their most charming smiles and began to flirt with him – a game I discovered Johnny was skilled at playing. Their attention diverted, I had a chance to talk to Frank.

  ‘So, Frank, how are they treating you?’

  ‘Fine, Cat, fine.’ Frank seemed distracted.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Suddenly, it all b
urst from him. ‘Do you know how these girls live? Imagine it: they don’t even have a bed to sleep in! Marie here – her father’s blind, lost his sight in the army, and has to beg for a living. Annette – she had to run away because her uncle used to beat her. Can you believe it?’

  Of course I believed it, but it seemed Frank had only just discovered how the majority live. He had only been playing in London when he’d run with Syd’s gang, going home at night to his ducal residence; he’d obviously not stopped to think what the rest of us were going home to.

  ‘They don’t know where their next meal is coming from, they have no money unless they steal, they get treated like dirt on the streets. I’ve never known anything like it! No one I know lives like that.’

  ‘That’s not true, Frank,’ I said quietly, thinking back to my days sleeping rough.

  ‘Who do we know in London who has to put up with that?’

  Poor, dear, innocent Frank. I felt both angry and sorry for him for being so blind. ‘Me for one. Most of Syd’s gang for two.’

  Frank opened his mouth to protest, looked at me and closed it.

  ‘You’ve never noticed, have you? Never noticed that I survive on charity?’

  ‘You – charity? No, you always lived in Drury Lane Theatre. I can’t think of a better place.’

  ‘But did you ever look behind the gilt and velvet, Frank, and ask how we theatre folk got by? Where was my bed? Where did my meals come from?’

  ‘Well, erm . . .’

  ‘Exactly. You’re only seeing it now because you’re having to live it. Most people of your class never do that so they don’t see it either.’

  Frank tugged at the ragged neckerchief he had knotted round his throat.

  ‘I suppose I am guilty of an acute lack of imagination, Cat. I’m sorry, I never thought to ask.’

  ‘None of us wanted you to. We have our pride.’

  At that moment, a man ran into the café where we were sitting, waving a piece of paper over his head.

  ‘The king has been found! The royal family were overtaken at Varennes!’ he shouted, leaping over a table in his passage through.

  An excited babble broke out and several political gentlemen of Johnny’s acquaintance jumped to their feet and ran off. Johnny poured himself a fresh glass of wine and raised it to us.