Den of Thieves

  J-F must have sensed a change in me for his face blazed with joy. For the first time, I was truly his match in the dance.

  ‘Terpsichore indeed!’ he breathed in my ear as I pirouetted into his arms.

  ‘No, just a daughter of the people,’ I grinned, catching my breath as Le Vestris moved forward with his partner.

  Now we repeated the dance in unison. I didn’t even need to watch Mademoiselle Angeline: I just knew I was in step with her. The music was running through us like an electric current through a chain, binding all together. There was something special in the air tonight. I could feel it surrounding me: it was coming from the audience, from Mimi, Belle, Colette, from Madame Beaufort and Le Vestris, even from the Duke and Duchess of Avon as they urged me on to success from their box. But most of all it came from the touch of J-F’s hand on mine. Looking back now, I can tell you what it was, Reader: it was liberty, equality and fraternity – the essential ingredients of the spell cast by the stage in all ages. The only difference here was that in Paris this heady potion had spilled over on to the streets and people were trying to rule their lives by it.

  The dance ended and the crowd erupted. Cries of ‘Encore!’ rang out. We had to obey our public. I looked across at Le Vestris and saw him smiling at me. To my astonishment, he handed his partner to J-F and took my fingers.

  ‘Again?’ he asked.

  I nodded. What else could I do? I was now dancing with the master. When he spun me round, I flew; when he lifted me, I soared. The feeling was so exquisite, it was almost painful. I couldn’t bear it when the dance finished. If I could have lived forever in that moment, I would’ve done. My one perfect moment.

  But such stage magic cannot last. J-F and I took our bow and exited with the applause ringing in our ears. Once in the wings, I found I was trembling again – no longer from nerves but from a quiver of excitement.

  ‘Wasn’t that fun?’ said J-F, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘It was more than fun. It was a revelation. I now understand why they do it.’

  ‘Do what?’ He pulled me with him past the scenery waiting for the next scene change.

  ‘Dance. It’s always escaped me. To be honest, I always thought the ballet a distraction from the real drama at Drury Lane. How wrong I was.’

  ‘So you are converted?’ He paused in front of a flat painted like a gloomy forest. ‘Thinking of quitting the life of a spy and making your career as a ballerina?’

  His comment was like a slap in the face, waking me from my dream.

  ‘What did you say?’

  J-F took my hand again – roughly this time – and led me to the dressing rooms. ‘I think you heard well enough.’

  My exhilaration was draining rapidly away, to be replaced by dread. My heart was pounding. ‘You’ve known all along?’

  ‘At least give me the credit for not being a complete fool. You, so inquisitive, involving yourself in everything you shouldn’t – as soon as the mayor put out the call for a spy, I knew who they really wanted. In here!’

  J-F pushed me into his dressing room. It was empty as the other performers were still on stage. I backed up warily against the mirror. J-F’s tone was light but that only made me more worried. We both knew that this was no joke for either of us.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  J-F began to wipe off his make-up. ‘From our first meeting, I was watching you, trying to make you out – and at every turn you’ve surprised me. I was going to hand you over – that would’ve been the most sensible thing from a business point of view, naturally – but then . . . then something stopped me. And now? I still haven’t decided. Tell me first who you were spying for.’

  ‘It wasn’t so much spying. I was just supposed to let my old patron, Mr Sheridan, know how things stood in Paris.’ He continued to remove his costume without looking at me. ‘I wasn’t trying to interfere with what’s going on here. I meant no harm by it – neither did he.’ His silence was worrying me. ‘Please believe me, J-F.’

  He opened his mouth to speak but we were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Enter the Bishop of the Notre Dame Thieves, splendid in a purple jacket and candy-striped breeches.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I groaned. My wonderful evening was fast turning into a nightmare.

  Ibrahim bowed to me. ‘Enchanting, mademoiselle, enchanting! You are truly a great dancer.’

  ‘Thank you, your eminence.’ I curtseyed. I looked from one thief lord to the other, wondering how this would unfold.

  J-F threw his face cloth into the wash basket and perched on the edge of the dressing table, his mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. ‘Well, Ibrahim, I do believe you are on my territory now.’

  The bishop’s eyes glinted. He straightened his cravat. ‘By invitation.’

  ‘Of course. But I prefer to negotiate with you here rather than at your palace over the water. We have one English spy to dispose of. I think it will be to our mutual advantage to do it together.’

  Dispose of? This sounded grim.

  ‘Please, J-F, I didn’t mean any harm,’ I pleaded. ‘Far from it: coming here has made me realize what the common people can do – I’ve learnt so much.’

  ‘So it is you, mademoiselle,’ interrupted the bishop with a satisfied smile. ‘I had almost begun to think I had got it wrong and had cause to regret informing the mayor that you were the one he should be seeking. That’s good, as I don’t want his men to be disappointed when they arrest you. If I’d been wrong, I would not have received my reward.’

  ‘They’re waiting to arrest me?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  J-F frowned. ‘I cannot allow that. You have no right to take her in my kingdom without my agreement – no right to keep the reward to yourself.’

  ‘Then you hand over the English boy – he’ll fetch something, I’ve no doubt.’ The Bishop moved towards me.

  J-F leapt from his seat and stood between us. ‘He’s worthless now his parents are free.’

  ‘Shame, but you have only yourself to blame for dallying with the girl, missing your chance while you had it. It seems you will be the loser tonight.’

  J-F looked from Ibrahim to me, his eyes calculating. ‘There’s another consideration,’ he said, not giving way.

  ‘Oh yes, and what’s that?’

  ‘That we might think that Mademoiselle Cat has earned her freedom. She proved herself a dancer as you asked, you said it yourself when you came in. I believe her when she says she was doing nothing to harm France. She deserves our trust.’

  ‘Trust? Since when have we thieves done business on the basis of trust?’ mocked Ibrahim.

  ‘Since the people of Paris began to think the unthinkable, and do the impossible,’ I said softly, remembering J-F’s words to me a few days before.

  ‘What?’ snapped the bishop.

  ‘That’s what I’ve learnt: you people are rewriting the rules here. Why not risk trusting me?’

  ‘You ask why? Because there’s no profit in trust!’

  J-F shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. Her friends will match the reward you would’ve received for her – perhaps even double it if we’re lucky, so we can both emerge richer men.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they will. Just ask Frank,’ I said eagerly, clutching at this straw.

  Ibrahim stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, J-F, I was beginning to fear that you were losing your touch. That’s not bad reasoning for a vagabond.’

  J-F bowed, his old playfulness returning. He waved his hand as if embarrassed. ‘Compliments, compliments, Ibrahim: you’ll turn my pretty little head if you go on in this manner. Time is short. Cat must write a note to her friends, pledging their support on her behalf, and we must do our part and get her away. But how to do this? I suppose the mayor’s men are waiting outside?’

  The bishop nodded. ‘I regret to say that they are.’

  ‘Hmm, tricky, very tricky.’

  Realizing that J-F was throwing me a lifeline wi
th this deal, my thoughts were employed on thinking of a way out of this dressing room without being seen.

  ‘Should I distract them perhaps?’ suggested the bishop, approaching the door to listen to what was going on outside.

  ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ I said.

  They both looked at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Shakespeare, Falstaff – surely you know it?’ J-F shrugged; the bishop looked blank. Clearly French education was deficient. ‘Falstaff escapes from the house in a buck basket – a wash basket.’ I opened the lid and emptied out the contents. ‘Put me in here – cover me with something. Ibrahim distracts the guard while J-F and Renard carry me out.’

  ‘Excellent,’ chuckled J-F. ‘I’ll fetch Grandfather.’

  ‘And I’ll make sure she writes that letter. She’s not going without giving her word of honour that we’ll see a reward for this,’ said Ibrahim.

  ‘We’d better hurry – the performance will be over soon. We want to get her clear of here before everyone comes backstage.’ J-F thrust a bill for tonight’s performance in my hand. ‘Here – use this. I’ve no ink so use the charcoal in the make-up case. Washing basket, indeed!’ he laughed. ‘I could make her my queen for that.’

  Ibrahim propelled me to a seat at the dressing table and put the eyebrow pencil into my hand.

  ‘Mademoiselle, it looks as if you will be la fille mal gardée* tonight, if this works,’ quipped the bishop.

  Interlude – A Ballet-Pastoral

  L’OPÉRA DE PARIS

  Donnera aujourd’hui samedi 25 juin 1791

  La première Représentation de

  La Fille Mal Gardée

  Avec un ballet-pastoral

  Dear Frank

  Forgive my scrawl – I write this in haste. It appears I have to make a rapid exit from Paris thanks to a bishop and a king. I have promised them that you will advance the expenses incurred in my removal – a sum which I will repay as soon as I can. I hope your parents will pardon my presumption but I have little choice.

  Tell Johnny and Lizzie that I regret missing their wedding. I send them both my love.

  Your friend,

  Cat.

  P.S. Bid Pedro farewell for me and say that I’ll see him back in London.

  * Badly guarded girl

  ACT V

  SCENE 1 – SLOW BOAT

  It was not perhaps the glorious departure from the Opera that I had imagined after my performance, but it was certainly better than the reception that otherwise would have greeted me outside. As I was carried aloft in my wash basket, I could hear the bishop chatting to the guardsmen, telling jokes as he bought them a round.

  ‘To France!’ The bishop gave the toast, which was followed by some satisfied glugging.

  ‘Don’t worry, monsieur, we’ll soon have that little English spy where she can do no more sneaking,’ chuckled one man. ‘Mayor Bailly is determined to get a result.’

  ‘Can’t have any more foreigners sticking their noses into our business,’ said the other. ‘Here, citizen, where are you going with that?’

  ‘To Le Vestris’s personal washerwoman,’ said Renard in a wheezing tone, completing his performance with a hacking cough.

  ‘The master’s things, eh? Better not get in the way then.’ The guard waved us through and turned back to his companions. ‘Clever, though, to use a girl. None of us suspected her until you alerted us to her double life.’

  Thanks, Ibrahim, I thought sourly as I was jolted past.

  ‘Yes, she certainly is full of surprises,’ agreed the bishop.

  Once out of sight, I was released from my wicker prison.

  ‘Where to now?’ I asked J-F. It struck me that I hadn’t given any thought past escaping the mayor’s men, and now I was standing in Paris dressed in a ballerina’s peasant costume with no money and no idea how to get home. ‘Do we have time to fetch my things?’

  J-F shook his head. ‘Not unless you want them to catch you. Here!’ He threw his cloak round my shoulders. ‘Now let’s get you your ride.’

  ‘This is where I leave you, mademoiselle,’ said Renard. ‘I must return to check our friend from Notre Dame does not double-cross us.’ He kissed me on the cheeks. ‘Farewell, little dancer. I’m sure we’ll meet again one day.’ He walked swiftly towards the Opera, waving away my thanks.

  J-F started off in the opposite direction. ‘We’d better hurry. It won’t take them long to work out they’ve missed you.’

  We threaded our way through the quiet backstreets to the river.

  ‘I think it best that we take passage on a barge,’ J-F explained as he jumped down the steps to the riverside. ‘It’s slow but all roads are bound to be watched and it’s far less likely we’ll run into trouble this way.’

  ‘We?’ What did this mean?

  J-F smiled at my surprise and linked my arm in his. ‘I was thinking it was time I took my summer holiday. It’s terribly unfashionable to stay in town out of season,’ he said, aping the languid tones of the aristocracy. Then he added, in his usual practical manner: ‘Besides, though I trust you, I don’t trust you to be able to talk your way out of trouble. Your accent’s pretty good, but no one would mistake you for a native. No, from now on, you are my silent sister, travelling with her brother to see a sick grandmother in Rouen.’

  ‘J-F, I don’t know how to thank you . . .’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Milord told me that you have a rare talent for telling tales of your life in London. I’m expecting to be well entertained for my trouble.’

  We arrived down on the quayside. I waited in the shadows while J-F ambled on to join some bargemen sitting on barrels, smoking long-stemmed pipes. He was soon chatting familiarly with them. I shivered, glancing nervously behind me: for all J-F’s ease, I still feared to hear the sound of pursuit. The discussion ended with him shaking hands with one of the men and handing over some coins. He looked towards me and gave a whistle.

  ‘Oi, sister! Hurry. We’ve got our ride!’

  ‘A whistle?’ I asked in a low voice as we followed the bargeman on to his vessel. ‘Since when did you summon me with a whistle?’

  ‘No need to explain to the bargeman who you are now, is there?’ J-F was acting very pleased with himself, relishing the adventure and his own cleverness. This struck me as both infuriating and endearing at the same time.

  ‘I suppose not,’ I acknowledged. ‘So am I allowed to whistle to get your attention?’

  ‘You could try – but I won’t answer.’ The king of thieves of the Palais Royal had obviously not forgotten the respect due to him, even if we were about to leave his territory.

  The bargeman led us to a long shallow-draughted boat moored opposite the Conciergerie prison. The roofs that had so recently housed the Avons were outlined against the dark sky like dunce’s caps – a fitting reminder if I needed it of the mess I had made of my errand for Mr Sheridan. It was I that should be wearing the fool’s hat, not the building. If ever my patron took the risk of employing me again on a similar journey (which I very much doubted he would), I hoped to act with more discretion. But then, Reader, I know myself well enough to realize that I’ll always be a jump-in-without-first-looking girl, so I expect I’ll continue to blunder from mistake to mistake. Let us hope I continue to live to regret it afterwards. It had been rather too close for comfort this time and I was still not safe.

  It seemed apt that my stay in Paris should have come full circle: I was close to the place where Frank and I had first spotted the towers of Notre Dame but this time I was fleeing the great city. I spared the cathedral a respectful nod as we climbed on board. Directed to a snug cabin in the stern, we prepared to settle down for what we hoped would be an uneventful night.

  ‘I’ve persuaded our captain to set sail immediately. You sleep – I’ll keep watch,’ yawned J-F, ever the gallant gentleman.

  I was too tired to argue the point. Not used to the frantic activity of the last few days, I felt I could sleep for a week. J-F had not failed me yet: I had l
earned the hard way that I could put my trust in him. He really was an extraordinary person. But I wasn’t so sure that his motive for accompanying me was merely to have a holiday. Somehow, somewhere along the journey we had travelled together the past few days, we had become part of each other’s lives. Brother and sister, he had said. Perhaps. But why then did my eyes always turn to him when he was in a room, only to find he was already watching me? There was something between us that we hadn’t yet had a chance to put a name to; maybe the time on the barge would give me the answer.

  ‘You’ve surprised me, J-F,’ I admitted.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You seem not to mind that you’ve spent the last few days getting me out of trouble.’

  ‘But you forget that I’m being well paid by milord – and besides, who said a thief can’t have a friend?’

  ‘I won’t forget it.’

  The last thing I remember before I closed my eyes was J-F sitting by the stairs to the deck, softly humming the tune to which we had danced.

  Life slowed to walking pace from the hectic career of that week in June. We saw out the month and the early days of the next making our way slowly downstream on the barge. J-F procured me some shoes and clothes at the first riverside market we came to and now we could stroll arm in arm along the bank among the meadows thigh-high in grass and summer flowers, keeping pace with the horses pulling our vessel along the sluggish waters of the Seine. Two town mice, we learned on that journey to take life more gently, to sit still and watch the water roll by, to cook over open fires under the stars. Every mile separating us from Paris made me feel safer. I was able to relax for the first time since coming to France and enjoy the companionship of my new friend. It was a magical interlude.