“You came.” Dupree felt a fierce burst of pleasure as he gazed at Nana Sarpelier. He hadn’t been sure she would obey him even though it meant displeasing the count. He had watched her closely these past weeks and knew she wasn’t hesitant about jumping into the bed of any man who took her fancy. Still, she seemed to be of a deplorably independent nature. “Come in.” He stepped aside as she came into the room. “I expected you, of course. You have seen Etchelet?”
She shook her head. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to contact him so quickly.”
“Tomorrow will do as well.” He closed the door, his gaze running over her. “Take off your cloak.”
She took off her coat and draped it over a chair. “I don’t like this, Dupree.”
“But you do like the extra livres the count gives you.”
“A woman must eat.”
“There are other needs that must be met as well.” He sat down in a cushioned chair and leaned his arm on the table beside him. “And you can imagine that in my present state I have great difficulty persuading a woman to pleasure me.”
“I understand the strumpets on the Palais Royal care little how a man looks as long as he has money in his pockets.”
“But they can’t give me what I need. I used to have a choice mistress who was quite wonderful. She was an actress at the Comédie Française. Camille Cadeaux. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
Nana shook her head.
“She looked a little like you. A tall, strapping, full-figured woman. She suited my purpose admirably.”
“Then I suggest you return to her.”
“Oh, I can’t. While I was in Spain she took another lover, and when I tried to get her to change her mind, she refused to accommodate me.”
“Perhaps you can persuade her to see how mistaken she’d be to discard a truly admirable gentleman such as yourself.”
“Sarcasm isn’t permitted,” Dupree said. “It’s clear I’ll have to train you as I did her.”
“It hardly seems worth your time when your Camille is already—”
“Camille is dead.” Dupree smiled as he saw the shock on her face. “I really couldn’t permit her to live and continue to go to another man’s bed. It would have desecrated the role she played.”
“Role?”
“I told you she was an actress.” He nodded to a large armoire against the wall. “You’ll find a gown and a wig in there. They were Camille’s, but I’m sure they’ll fit you just as well. Put them on.”
She simply stared at him. What was his game?
“Now, you know you would never have come here unless you intended to do as I wished.”
She went to the armoire. “Have you decided how you’re going to dispose of the king?”
“Poison, I think. I know an apothecary on the rue Marat who will oblige me with what I need. Poison would seem a safe, reasonable method for Robespierre to choose, and I no longer have the strength for a physical struggle.”
“The king is only eight. He wouldn’t struggle hard enough to—”
“I don’t want to speak of the king. Put on the gown.”
Twenty minutes later she stood before him in the pink brocade gown, tucking her own brown hair beneath the stylishly coiffed gray wig.
Dupree could feel the excitement rise within as he looked at her. “Magnificent,” he said breathily. “You have a strength Camille never possessed.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver snuff box. “Bend down. There’s one last touch.”
She bent close to him, her expression wooden.
He opened the snuff box, carefully extracted the heart-shaped beauty mark, and put it just to the left of her mouth. “There, you’re quite perfect now.” His hands were shaking as he closed the snuff box and replaced it in his pocket. “Kneel before me.”
Nana hesitated and then sank to her knees before his chair.
“Very good. Now the words. You must say them very sincerely or I’ll be displeased.”
“What words?”
His voice took on a high, simpering note. “Raoul, promise me we’ll be together always. You’re mother’s own sweet boy. I’ll never punish you again.”
She repeated the words.
His hand cracked against her cheek. “Sincerely. Again.”
Nana opened her mouth to speak, her eyes glittering with anger, then she drew a deep breath. A moment later she repeated the words.
“Better. Now say ‘I was so wicked to put you in the wood box with all those nasty creatures.’ ”
“I was so wicked to put you in the wood box with all those nasty creatures.”
He bent forward, his breath coming in short, hard gasps. “I beg you to forgive me.”
“I beg you to forgive me.” Nana looked up to see his face convulsed with pleasure.
“Say it again.”
“I beg you to forgive me.” Nana was silent for a moment. “Is that all?”
“Oh, no.” Dupree smiled, his eyes glazed with pleasure. “There’s much more. You may kiss my hand.”
The next evening Catherine carefully avoided speaking directly to Louis Charles during supper, concentrating instead on making herself agreeable to the Simons. She found to her surprise that it wasn’t such a difficult task. As François had said, they were rough, obscene, and not overly intelligent, but they appeared good-natured. Of the two, she preferred the woman to her husband. Madame Simon was a squat, tubby little woman with heavy masculine features and a pimpled face, but she had a warm smile and appeared genuinely fond of the child.
It wasn’t until the men had settled down to their card game and Madame Simon to her knitting by the stove that Catherine dared wander casually over to where Louis Charles was reading by the window.
“It’s overwarm by the stove,” she said. “May I sit here beside you?”
“As you like, Citizeness.” His gaze was wary and returned at once to his book.
A wave of pity swept through Catherine. François had said that Louis Charles was too old for his years and now she saw what he meant. His air of grave maturity was not so much quaint as saddening. She sat down in the chair across from him and studied the little boy from beneath her lashes. He was truly a beautiful child, though he bore only a faint resemblance to Marie Antoinette. He possessed the same fair hair and wide-set blue eyes, but his features were far handsomer than his mother’s.
“I don’t like people to stare at me,” he said without lifting his gaze from the book. “I wish you would not do it.”
“I was thinking you look a little like your mother.”
He looked up quickly. “You’ve seen my mother?”
“A long time ago when you were a baby. She was very kind to me.”
He nodded eagerly. “She’s always kind.” He lowered his voice. “But we must not talk of her here. They don’t like it.”
“Very wise. What are you reading?”
“A book by Rousseau. Citizen Robespierre thinks he’s a fine man. They took away all the books Papa gave me but they let me have these.” He nodded to the four books stacked on the table beside him.
She reached for a volume bound in dark blue leather.
Louis Charles swiftly put his hand on the book to keep her from taking it. “No.”
She looked at him in surprise.
His gaze met her own. “It’s not a book you should look at, Citizeness.”
“Why not?”
“There are pictures of unclothed men and women doing …” He stopped and shrugged. “It’s not a proper book for a lady who knows my maman.”
“But it’s proper for you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He nodded across the room at Simon. “He says it’s the only kind of book a man should read.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “How can I know what’s true and what’s false if everyone tells me something different?”
“Do you like Citizen Simon and his wife?”
“They
’re very jolly most of the time.” For an instant his air of maturity slipped as he said wistfully, “But I wish they’d let me see my maman sometimes.”
“But she’s—” Catherine stopped when she realized with shock that he had been referring to his mother in the present tense. Louis Charles thought his mother was still alive! She was silent a moment before asking, “Where is your maman?”
“In the apartment on the floor above us with my sister and aunt.” His hand tightened on the book. “They say she’s a wicked woman and I must not talk about her.”
Catherine felt a sense of poignant sympathy. “I didn’t find her wicked. I think you must make up your own mind about that, Louis Charles.”
“Charles. They call me Charles here.”
She smiled. “I’ll try to remember.”
“Yes, it’s hard to remember everything they want of you.” His gaze was as bleak and world-weary as a very old man’s. “Maman says one must do one’s best.”
Catherine knew she had lingered too long and must return to the group by the stove, but she found herself reluctant to leave him. Louis Charles was so terribly alone. More alone than he knew. “Do you like flowers?” she asked impulsively.
He nodded. “At Versailles we had beautiful gardens and even at the Tuileries …” He trailed off and then his gaze focused on her face. “My maman loves flowers. She wears a perfume that smells of violets.”
“My cousin has a garden in the city where the most beautiful violets grow. Would you like me to bring you a box? You could care for them and watch them grow.”
He frowned uncertainly. “I know nothing of growing flowers.”
“Then I’ll teach you. I have a garden even bigger than the one at Versailles. It’s called Vasaro and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Eagerness illuminated his features. “I think I’d like that.”
“I know you will.” She stood up. “And I’ll tell you all about my friend Michel. You’d also like Michel. He’s only a little older than you and knows all about flowers and perfume and—”
“Could he come and see me? We could talk and play ball in—” The enthusiasm faded from his expression. “I forgot. No one can come to the Temple.”
“But I can come here,” she said gently. “And at the least I can tell you about Michel. I have another friend who knew your mother much better than I did and you as well. Her name’s Juliette and we’ll talk about her too.”
He nodded, smiling tentatively. “That’s very kind of you. I know I mustn’t ask too much.”
Catherine felt the sting of tears. “I’ll come to see you day after tomorrow, Louis Charles.”
“Charles,” he corrected her gravely. “Only Charles.”
Catherine turned away and moved toward the group gathered by the stove.
She sat down by Madame Simon, who casually glanced up from her knitting. “You were talking a long time to Charles.”
Catherine stiffened. Had her absorption in the boy appeared suspicious? “He’s a sweet-natured lad.”
Madame Simon nodded. “Everyone always wants to stare at him and touch him. The baker’s wife even offered me an extra loaf if I’d cut a lock of his hair for her.”
Catherine relaxed and leaned back in her chair. “Did you give it to her?”
“Would I do that?” She shook her head. “The poor lad would be bald in a week if I gave a lock of hair to everyone who wanted it. Besides, they want the hair of a king, and Charles isn’t a king any longer. He’s only a good republican.” Pride and affection shone in the woman’s face as she glanced at the boy in the corner. “We’ve done a fine piece of work with the boy, if I do say so myself.”
Catherine avoided looking at her. “I see he’s reading Rousseau.”
“A republican book. I can’t read a word myself, but what Citizen Robespierre likes is good enough for me.”
“He doesn’t know his mother is dead.”
Madame Simon glanced at her anxiously. “You didn’t tell him?”
Catherine shook her head.
The woman looked relieved. “My husband wanted to tell him but I said there was no sense in making the lad unhappy.”
“I promised to bring the boy a box of violets. Would that be all right?”
She shrugged. “Why not? As long as he cares for them himself. I’m too busy to bother and my husband’s in his cups most of the time.” She smiled tentatively at Catherine. “I’m glad you’ve come to join François. A man needs a wife, even if he thinks he doesn’t.” She cast a sour glance at her husband. “It will be right pleasant to have another woman to talk to.”
Catherine smiled. “I hope we can become friends.” She carefully kept her gaze from straying to the boy across the room. “Very close friends.”
“I want to do something, François.” Catherine nestled closer to him, her eyes staring blindly into the darkness. “That poor child.”
“We’re doing all we can.”
“I want him away from here. Children are so helpless. First Michel and now Louis Charles. But at least Michel is happy and free. I want Louis Charles to be free too.”
François stroked her hair. “Soon.”
“How soon?”
“I have a few ideas. I need to talk to Jean Marc tomorrow and then go to the Café du Chat. Perhaps before the end of next month we might have him free.”
“Dear God, I hope so.”
“So do I, love.” François closed his eyes. “Now go to sleep.”
“Now?”
His eyes opened again. “You don’t want to go to sleep?”
“I thought we might … I know you weren’t happy last night” She drew a deep breath. “I thought we might try again.”
He lay still, his hand stroking her hair stopped in mid-motion. “You don’t have to do this.”
“It was pleasant I like being close to you.”
He slowly drew her to him. “Then I believe we’ll make a valiant attempt to get very, very close indeed, my love.”
“It’s like a flower releasing its perfume, isn’t it?” Catherine asked dreamily. “This is what you wanted me to feel?”
François chuckled. “Trust you to find a comparison that would bring us back to Vasaro.”
“Is it like that for you too?” She raised herself on one elbow to look down at him. “Is that what you feel?”
“Yes.” He kissed her shoulder, his voice husky. “An entire field of flowers releasing their perfume, sunlight shining and soft rain falling.”
“Is it always like this?”
“No, sometimes it’s only pleasant, a way to ward off the loneliness.”
She stared at him thoughtfully. He must often have been lonely in the years when he had lived two lives and never been able to trust anyone. “Did you—” She stopped. She didn’t have the right to question his past, yet she desperately wanted to know about those secret years. She wanted to know him. All of him. He had told her once that he was many people and she knew only Danton’s angry François, the François of Vasaro, and François, the lover. Now she wanted to know William Darrell. “Was there someone who helped you to—” She didn’t know exactly how to put the question into words.
He stiffened. “What is it, Catherine?” When she didn’t answer, his gaze intently searched her face. “There’s never been anyone but you since Vasaro. Not like this.”
“But there was someone?”
He nodded. “Someone.”
“Who?”
“Nana Sarpelier.”
“The woman you told me about who works at the Café du Chat. Juliette says she’s a fine woman.” Catherine was silent a moment. “You … cared for her?”
“I cared for her as a friend, as a comrade, Catherine. She helped me. There were dark days and sometimes she made life brighter.”
“I see.”
“What are you thinking?” François’s hands cradled her face in his hands and forced her to look into his eyes. “You’re my love. She’s my friend. There’s a differen
ce. Please believe me.”
“I believe you.” A thoughtful frown wrinkled her brow. “I’d like to meet her, François. Will you take me to the Café du Chat?”
“I told you—”
Her fingers on his lips stopped his words as she smiled suddenly. “I’m not angry. I may be jealous of her. I’m not sure about that yet. But I’m grateful she helped you and I think I should become acquainted with her.”
He chuckled. “You do realize your attitude is extremely unwifely?”
She settled down beside him and cuddled close to his naked strength. “I love you. I trust you. I want all that’s best for you. How can that be unwifely?”
The box measured approximately two feet by two feet and was filled to overflowing with deep green leaves and white violets just starting to bloom.
Louis Charles gently touched one fragile blossom. “It feels like velvet, like the skirt of one of maman’s gowns … only cooler.”
Catherine sat down at the small table. “Robert, my cousin’s gardener, says you must not water these more than every four days or they may die.”
“I’ll be careful.” He sat down beside her. “But there’s not much sunlight in here.”
“Violets like the shade. At home at Vasaro we plant them in great beds beneath the trees. Their scent is greatest in the middle of the night when it’s darkest.” Catherine drew closer. “You’ll see what I mean if you wake some night and smell the fragrance. Michel says the fragrance is the soul of the flower.”
Louis Charles’s solemn gaze was fixed in fascination on her face. “What a peculiar idea. Is he mad?”
Catherine laughed and reached out and gave him a quick hug as she might have done with Michel. “Not in the least. He just doesn’t think like anyone else.”
Louis Charles frowned thoughtfully. “You mean he doesn’t believe what people tell him to believe?”
“No.”
“It must be pleasant to be able to make up one’s own mind,” he said wistfully. He touched the blossom again. “Tell me more about this Michel.”
“Shall I tell you how I first met him? I was most unhappy about something that had happened to me and I awoke one morning and went down to the geranium field …”