Rendezvous (9781301288946) (46 page)

"No! Jean-Claude, no!” But her cry was
lost in the din.

The hubbub of excited and angry voices
in the theater sounded in Belle's ears like a dull roar. The stage,
the lights, the actors all became a blur of color. Belle saw no one
but Jean-Claude leveling his pistol at Bonaparte. The first consul
met the prospect of death unflinching, staring deep into
Jean-Claude's face, his expression slightly
contemptuous.

They seemed frozen in this horrible
tableau, time itself having come to a standstill. Jean-Claude
blinked, his hand beginning to tremble.

"Fire! Damn you!" Belle heard Lazare's
enraged scream.

Jean-Claude braced his arm, but he
could not stop the shaking. Sweat trickled down his brow, and with
a strangled sob he lowered the weapon.

Belle sagged back in her seat with
relief. But the next instant she saw Lazare. She knew not how he
had managed to clamber past the orchestra pit or gain the stage so
swiftly. With a bellow of rage, he leaped at Jean-Claude, wrestling
the pistol from his grasp.

With a hate-filled snarl, Lazare
whirled to fire into the box, but Belle found herself released from
the daze that had taken possession of her. She dove at Bonaparte,
carrying him, chair and all, to the floor of the box. The sound of
the pistol shot blazed above their heads.

A moment of breathless silence
descended over the theater, then the voices that had seemed so
distant crashed over Belle. She could hear screams and curses as
total confusion erupted upon the stage and the pit
below.

Glancing up, she met Napoleon's gaze.
Their eyes locked for a second, and she felt as though he read the
entire contents of her mind.

But he said nothing as he struggled to
his feet, helping her to do the same. Upon the stage she saw no
sign of Lazare but at that moment a familiar figure emerged from
the wings.

Sinclair. A glad cry choked her.
Somehow it did not astonish her to see him. He charged across the
stage, trying to reach her through the mill of terrified actors who
gaped at Jean-Claude.

The comte stood immobile, staring off
into the lights, seeming oblivious to the storm erupting around
him.

"Who was the fellow shooting at?"
someone demanded.

Lazare's voice unmistakably shouted
out. "Look in the box. It’s Bonaparte. That actor plotted to kill
Bonaparte."

Astonishment rippled through the crowd,
swelling to outrage. As Sinclair drew nearer, there was no way
Belle could make her voice heard above the crowd. She only hoped
that somehow Sinclair would understand her silent plea for him to
help Jean-Claude.

Sinclair pulled up short; the
understanding that had ever existed between them did not fail her.
When the first man made an effort to lay hands upon the comte,
Sinclair felled the one howling for vengeance with his
fist.

Before any more of the audience could
gain the stage, Sinclair yanked at Jean-Claude, thrusting the dazed
man through one of the trapdoors in the floor of the stage and
disappearing after him.

Belle judged that she could not linger
herself to see more. Bonaparte appeared calm, watching the
proceedings with almost an air of detachment. She backed toward the
door of the box, preparing to bolt.

At that moment, the door was flung
open. By her prearranged cue, two guards appeared, one of them
saying, "Citoyen Consul. We were alerted you were in the theater. A
riot has begun. We have come to escort you to safety."

But one glance at the men's faces was
enough to tell Belle that these were indeed the real guards and not
Crecy's agents. Still, she prepared to bluff it out.

"There has been as assassination
attempt," she said. "You must get the first consul away at
once."

But when she tried to move past the
guards to the freedom of the corridor beyond, she heard Bonaparte
say in a level voice, "Detain that woman."

Glancing back at him she feigned a look
of surprise. "I fear I don't understand."

"You understand perfectly well,
Isabelle Varens," he said coldly. "You are under
arrest."

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

The heavy wooden door closed upon
Belle, finality in the dull slam. Beyond the iron grill of the
door's narrow window, the turnkey disappeared with his torch,
leaving her in darkness, that ageless darkness that had ever been
so much a part of the Conciergerie. Behind the thick stonework no
light penetrated, no sound of life carried from the nearby quay,
not even the rush of the Seine. The proximity of the river caused
the prison walls to drip with moisture, as though weeping with the
tears of countless other unfortunates who had inhabited the cell
before her.

Belle wrapped her arms tightly about
herself, trying to still the lashings of panic as she found herself
thrust back into the prison that had haunted so many of her dreams.
Only this time her eyes were wide open and the darkness would not
lift. This time the dawn would not find her, To have escaped this
stronghold once had been a miracle. To beg such a favor a second
time was more than the fates would allow.

The silence of her cell pressed down
upon her until she fancied she could hear the echoes of the past,
all those who had gone from here to meet their deaths. The queen
Marie Antoinette, the bloody tyrant Robespierre himself, and a host
of others, the innocent, the not so innocent. Impossible that so
many tormented souls could pass through this place and not leave
some whisperings of their existence behind. The thought sent a
chill coursing through her.

She bit down upon her fist to stem her
terror. To give way to it would be to allow Lazare to triumph. This
is what Lazare had planned for her all along, this descent down
into the world of her nightmares. She knew not where Lazare was, in
hell, she hoped. But she would never accord him the satisfaction of
finding that he had broken Isabelle Varens.

Belle groped her way across the brick
floor until she located the cell's wooden bench. She sank upon up
it, closing her eyes. The darkness was just the same, but at least
it was of her choosing.

She would force herself to be calm, to
think of anything but this dread place which had once been the very
heart of the Revolution's terror. She concentrated instead upon her
rage against Lazare and all his twisted schemes.

How clearly she now understood what he
had been trying to do, but the plan struck her as incredible. To
prey upon Jean-Claude, persuade him to assassinate Bonaparte, while
Lazare waited calmly for Belle, in her ignorance, to make all the
arrangements which would enable Lazare to carry out his bizarre
plot. With Bonaparte collapsing dead at her feet, she would have
had to flee, but how could she have left Jean-Claude? They both
would have been arrested. As in her nightmares, she would have had
to watch him die.

A madman's fantasy and yet Lazare had
nearly pulled it off. He had been thwarted by two things—that core
of nobility in Jean-Claude's nature which rendered him incapable of
murder. And the other obstacle: Sinclair. Belle experienced a rush
of gratitude when she thought of his timely arrival at the
theater.

Somehow she was certain Sinclair had
gotten Jean-Claude safely away. Surely Baptiste also had no
difficulty slipping out of the theater amidst the chaos. These
beliefs afforded her some measure of comfort, her only
comfort.

She prayed that they would realize
there was no way to help her and would try nothing foolish. She
must count on Sinclair. He was ever a practical man. No matter what
he felt for her, he would recognize that any rescue attempt was
hopeless.

Such thoughts only tugged at the
despair she fought to keep at bay. She clung to her anger, cursing
Lazare, but even more so Merchant. Lazare, at least, bore the
excuse of being half-mad, but Victor had betrayed her, plotting the
assassination with Lazare behind her back, ordering her removal and
Sinclair’s cold-blooded fashion. When she returned to
England-.

A harsh laugh escaped her. When she
returned to England, she mocked herself. She could not be deluded
on that score. Bonaparte had known her name. Somehow he had
discovered who she was. Part of Lazare’s plot had succeeded. She
would be the one held responsible for planning the assassination
attempt. She could expect no mercy.

Shivering, she stretched out on the
bench. The bell mounted between the arches many floors above her
rang seldom these days to announce that the tumbril was ready. But
she did not doubt but that the peal would sound again soon.
Exhaustion crept over her, threatening to steal away her strength
and her courage. Sweet heaven, she dared not sleep.

Not here. If any place in
Paris had ever been formed to entertain nightmares, it was the
Conciergerie. She whispered the name of the one man who had been
able to hold those hideous dreams at bay. "
Sinclair
."

Her need of him no longer frightened
her, no longer shamed her. She sought his image in the darkness,
the memory of his voice, his eyes, his caress, his arms embracing
her, the fire of his kiss driving out the cold.

Only by holding fast to the
recollection of every tender moment they had shared could she at
last permit herself to relax, drifting into a deep dreamless
sleep.

How long she remained asleep, she could
not have said. A few minutes or a few hours—it was all one inside
the Conciergerie. She was startled awake by the sound of the key's
scrape in the lock. The cell door was flung open. She sat up,
shading her eyes from the glare of the torch.

"Isabelle Varens?" a gruff voice
called.

She nodded slowly, rubbing her eyes,
clearing the last webbings of sleep from her mind.

"You are summoned upstairs."

"So soon?" she began, but the protest
died upon her lips. She would as soon have the ordeal over with. It
had been the waiting that had nigh broken her the last time, that
unending succession of days, each hour dreading to hear her name
called to face that grim tribunal whose judges knew but one
sentence—death.

She felt almost a sense of relief as
she allowed the turnkey to lead her from her cell. The chill of the
prison seemed to have seeped into her soul, bringing with it the
numbness of resignation.

When the guard nudged her forward,
saying, "This way, madame," she nearly smiled. She could have shown
him the direction. This walk was most familiar to her. She had
followed the path through the narrow dark corridors a hundred times
in her nightmares.

As they approached the stairs that
twisted upward, she almost expected to see them thronged with
jeering spectators as they had been in the old days. But the worn
stone risers stood empty now, the light of dawn casting pearly gray
shadows through the small round windows.

When Belle moved toward the steps,
preparing to mount to the vast hall of justice above, the turnkey
caught her arm impatiently.

"Not up there," he said. "Go that
way."

He shoved her in the opposite
direction. Belle regarded the man in astonishment, but his laconic
expression told her nothing. But she asked no questions, fearing
she understood.

This time there would not even be the
mockery of a trial. She was being herded along a crosswise corridor
that she remembered led to the Galerie des Prisonniers, the area
where those waiting to board the tumbrils had been kept. Some of
her calm began to desert her. She had expected at least a little
more time to steel herself to face the guillotine.

Yet somehow she managed to keep herself
erect, taking her steps with dignity. She had never had many
dealings with God before, but feverishly her mind sought to recall
the words of a prayer she had oft heard Baptiste utter.

"Sweet Jesus, have mercy upon my soul,"
she whispered below her breath.

The guard yanked her roughly to a halt.
"In there," he told her as they paused before another
door.

She frowned in bewilderment, knowing
this was not the way that led to the courtyard where the tumbrils
were loaded. But she didn’t know whether to be relieved or
not.

"What is all this?" she demanded,
whipping about to face the turnkey.

"Inside!" the guard barked. Opening the
door, he shoved her backward across the threshold. Staring at him,
she saw him snap to attention with a smart salute, then retire
discreetly from the room, closing the door after him.

Belle knew the salute had not been
meant for her. She turned slowly, discovering that she had been led
to a small office, the reception area for new prisoners. But it was
not the captain of the prison guard who sat behind the battered
desk.

The pale light of morning glancing
through the windows only served to highlight the whiteness of a
marble complexion, the chilling intensity in the blue-gray
eyes.

Bonaparte.

Belle's breath snagged in her throat.
So the first consul, himself, had decided to sit in judgment of
her. She had heard once that he could be sentimental, easily moved
by a woman's weeping. But as she moistened her dry lips, she knew
that she could not summon up a single tear, not even to save her
life.