Storm Winds (53 page)

“You consider yourself an Englishman?”

François shook his head. “You know better.”

“Then why?”

“The Rights of Man,” François said simply. “They have to survive, but the bloodletting and corruption are washing them away. The Americans didn’t start cutting off heads after they won their battle for independence. If they had, the British would have come swarming back across the sea and they’d have been crushed. That’s what will happen to France if it doesn’t stop.” He met Danton’s gaze. “We both know it.”

“What you say is treason.”

“What I speak is reason. You’ve always told me the guillotining of the king was madness.”

“The madness has already been committed. It’s over. We’re already at war with both Spain and England.”

“And we’ll continue to be at war as long as the royal family remains in the Temple. It’s become a holy crusade to free them.” François urged softly, “Let
me
free them, Georges Jacques. They’re less of a danger out of the country than they are in the Temple. I’ll make sure no action of mine is traced back to you.”

Danton was silent a moment. “You’ve taken a terrible risk coming to me. You’ve betrayed me. First Gabrielle, and now you. Betrayal …”

François frowned in puzzlement. “Your wife didn’t betray you.”

“She died. She left me alone.” Danton cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I’ll think on it. You may go.”

François rose to his feet and stood looking at him. The risk was high. In his unstable frame of mind, Georges Jacques could go either way. “I’ll be waiting at my lodgings for an answer.”

Danton smiled crookedly. “And you’re scared gutless my answer will be delivered by the National Guard.”

“There’s always that possibility.” François bowed. “
Au revoir
, Georges Jacques.”

“No.” Georges Jacques coldly gazed at him. “Whatever my decision, I will not see you again.”

François experienced a sharp pang of regret Through these past two years they had been companions and, at times, even friends. Danton’s had been a clear, sane voice in a mumbling chorus of madmen. François’s life would be emptier and certainly lacking in color without Georges Jacques. “I understand.”

He turned and left the study.

The next day a messenger delivered an envelope to François’s lodgings. When he broke the seal and took out the document he found it to be a certificate of appointment for François Etchelet as special agent of the convention with orders to take up residence immediately in the Temple.

“You’re alone again,” Nana said disapprovingly to Juliette. “I told you—”

“But I’m not dressed at all richly,” Juliette interrupted. “I have on a linen gown just like your own, and I’m far less handsome than you and therefore should attract even less attention. You must tell everyone I’m your new apprentice.” She made a face. “It’s the truth, for I’ve found these fans impossible to make. I was far too sure of myself. It’s always been one of my most grievous faults. You must show me.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And there are questions I would ask.”

Nana stood up. “Come with me. I have my materials on a work table in the back room of the café.”

The small room to which Nana took Juliette contained only four kegs of wine against the far wall and a work table on which a variety of paper, ribbons, and wooden spines were scattered.

“Sit down.” Nana sat down across from her at the table and reached for the scissors. “What questions?”

“François. He’s one of you?”

“His real name is William Darrell.” Nana began to cut the coarse paper. “I think that should answer you.”

“For how long?”

“Since the start of the revolution.”

“Then when he came to the abbey he was trying to help us?”

Nana shook her head. “He was sent to the abbey by Danton. He didn’t know what was going to happen there.” She shrugged. “But even after he saw what was happening he could do nothing to help without revealing who he was. That would have meant his value to us would be ended. It was saving a few then or perhaps thousands later.”

“I don’t know if I could have made that decision.”

“He’s been making those choices for the last two years,” Nana said. “Who will die. Who we can save.”

“You admire him.”

“He’s a brave man.” Nana’s expression became shuttered. “And now I’ll show you how to make these fans. What was your problem?”

The subject of François was evidently closed as far as Nana was concerned.

Juliette shrugged. “Everything. But I had most trouble gluing the two pieces together without destroying my painting.”

“You’re using the wrong glue. I use only a special glue made for me of boiled-down shreds of hide, skin, and bones.”

Juliette made a face. “It sounds revolting.”

“It smells that way too, but it has firmness yet give. You must use only a little or it will destroy either the mount or the sticks.” Nana handed her a vial of glue and two wooden hoops. “Then you stretch the paper very tightly on the hoops and let it dry for two days. After that you can paint your picture.”

“What about the sticks?”

“After the fan is folded.” Nana gestured to a walnut mold into which were cut twenty grooves radiating out from the same spot. “You must get a machine like this and then take great care. You get no second chances when you’re pleating. Then the sticks are carefully inserted between the leaves. If the leaf is to be single, the sticks are attached to the back and some decoration must be painted on the back to hide them. You must let them dry a full day. More if you use silk or kidskin for
your mount. Then you put a rivet through the sticks to hold them together and thread your ribbons and decorations.”

Juliette laughed and shook her head ruefully. “Great heavens, and all this to alleviate the heat of the day.”

“In the time of the pharaohs the fan was used as a symbol of power.” Nana’s eyes twinkled. “But I think Madame Pompadour and Madame Du Barry wielded far more influence with theirs.”

“How did you learn all this?” Juliette asked curiously.

“My husband’s mother owned a fan shop in Lyon. My father delivered the fans to Madame Sarpelier’s clients but he was never overfond of work. When I was thirteen he married me off to Jacques Sarpelier.” Nana made a face. “Poor Jacques had a cleft mouth and was ugly as sin, but everyone believed it was a fine bargain for all of them. Madame Sarpelier thought I’d make a fine worker in the shop, Jacques thought I’d make a hardworking servant in his house and meekly accept him in bed, my father thought to secure his position in her employ.”

“And for you?”

She grinned. “I enjoyed being in Jacques’s bed, though I shocked him with my lack of meekness. I found to my delight that
le bon Dieu
had amply compensated poor Jacques for his ugly face. The rest of their plans didn’t please me at all. When Jacques died I bid them all
adieu
and came to Paris to make my way in the world.”

“It was a brave move for a woman alone. Have you ever regretted it?”

“No, I’m a woman who likes her freedom. If I’d stayed in Lyon, I would have been a slave to my mother-in-law for the rest of her life. Here in Paris I’m slave to no one.”

“How did you come to belong to a royalist group?”

Nana chuckled. “What a lot of questions you ask. I assure you it wasn’t because I have any great fondness for the aristos. I couldn’t bear some of the ladies who came into the shop and looked at me as if I were a
speck of dung.” She shrugged. “When I first came to work at this café I had little money and our friend, Raymond Jordaneau, was not overgenerous. However, soon I found out he was involved in something besides the café that paid extremely well. He was receiving regular payments from the king’s brother, the Comte de Provence, for helping aristos escape from the prisons.”

“The Comte de Provence pays you?” Juliette asked, startled. She had never liked Louis Stanislas Xavier, the wily, ambitious man the court and most of France knew by the sobriquet Monsieur.

“He did pay me at first, but after a little while …” Nana shook her head. “I couldn’t take it from him any longer. There was too much need for the money elsewhere.” Her expression became shadowed. “I found out aristos were like everyone else. They loved their children, they were frightened of dying …” She rose to her feet. “You must go now. I have to get back to the café. I’ll send word if I want a particular message on a fan.”

“No.” Juliette stood up. “I’ll come here twice a week unless you send for me. But in the afternoons, not evenings. Jean Marc often spends the entire day away from the Place Royale.”

Nana nodded in approval. “Afternoons will be safer for you.”

“Oh, I’ll be safe whenever I choose to come.” Juliette grimaced. “Jean Marc has hired a giant of a man to drive my coach and a footman who’s equally ferocious-looking. Léon could frighten a dozen footpads away just by frowning at them.”

“Have them wait around the corner from the café,” Nana said as she walked with Juliette toward the door. “It will do no good for you to discard your silk gowns if you arrive in a fine carriage.”

“I’d already thought of that.” Juliette ruefully looked down at her blue linen gown with its simple white muslin fichu. “Another disguise.”

Juliette found that deceiving Jean Marc about her activities at the Café du Chat was blessedly simple. On
the following Tuesday he was called away to Le Havre, where the local representatives had decided to place an exorbitant tax on the goods in the warehouses. He didn’t return to Paris until the afternoon of June 23.

She was in the garden painting Léon as Samson when Jean Marc appeared suddenly behind her.

“That will be all, Léon.”

Joy rippled through her. He was back.

The giant murmured in embarrassment to Jean Marc, snatched up his shirt, and almost ran down the path toward the house.

She carefully kept her gaze on the canvas and added a little more bronze to the flesh tones of the pectoral muscles of the figure in the painting. “I shall never get a canvas finished if you keep sending away my subjects.”

“I find I don’t like the idea of you painting that handsome behemoth without clothes.”

“You exaggerate. Léon was only without his shirt. I asked him to pose entirely without clothes but he was too shy. I told him that to expose his beautiful body as Samson was not shameful but a religious—”

“You asked him—turn around and look at me, dammit.”

She lifted her gaze from the canvas and turned to face him.

Jean Marc seemed exhausted. Deep lines grooved either side of his mouth and shadows rimmed his eyes. The desire to flow toward him, comfort him was almost irresistible. “You should have gone straight to bed instead of coming out here to harass me. You look terrible.”

“Not like your beautiful Samson?” he asked caustically.

“No.” She put down her brush and took an impulsive step forward. “You could never be a Samson. I could see you as a prince of the Renaissance or perhaps a pharaoh of Egypt, but I …” She shook her head. “No, I could never paint you as anyone but yourself. But why do you just stand here? Go to bed.”

He gazed at her for a long moment. “I wanted to see you.”

She met his stare and was caught, held. She had to force herself to look away. “Well, you’ve seen me. Did your business go well?”

“No. They wouldn’t lower the tax.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I … thought about you while I was gone. Did you think of me?”

Juliette was silent. She could not confess how many nights she had stayed awake thinking of him.

“I believe you did.” He smiled crookedly. He was silent again, simply looking at her. “I have a victory for you.”

“A victory?”

“I found myself thinking not only how much I’d like to be between your thighs but also how much I would enjoy your company.” He reached out and gently touched her cheek. “At times, I thought just being near you would be satisfaction enough. Do you not find that peculiar?”

She should move away from the bittersweet pleasure of his touch. She stood there, savoring it. “Only at times?”

“Be satisfied with a minor victory. I’ll not give you more.”

“I don’t regard it as a victory at all.” She turned back to the canvas and picked up her brush again. “I told you I wasn’t doing battle with you. Now, go to bed before you collapse where you stand.”

“Robert says you’ve been spending a good deal of time in your room. Have you been unwell?”

She went still. “Perfectly well. Am I not entitled to spend my time where I wish?”

“Bon Dieu
, I only asked. Did it never occur to you that I might worry about you?”

Such a rush of warmth surged through her, she was afraid to look at him. “No, it never occurred to me. I … thank you.”

She could feel his gaze on her back and she wanted desperately to turn around again.

“Juliette …” His voice was thick. “I missed you.”

She couldn’t answer him. If she spoke, her voice would tremble and he would know.

He stood silent another moment and then she heard his footsteps moving heavily away from her down the path.

She drew a deep breath and whirled to face him. She couldn’t let him go like this.

“Jean Marc!”

He turned to look at her. “Yes.”

She sought wildly for something to say that would not betray her. “I was looking at my painting of the Wind Dancer the other day and it’s really not worthy to be in the salon. I intend to paint you another one. Where did you put the statue when we arrived in Paris?”

He stiffened. “The chest is in the cellar but I don’t want it disturbed. It’s hardly safe to bring the statue out to the garden to paint it.” He smiled faintly. “Besides, I’m very fond of that painting in the salon. It brings back certain memories. I wish no other.”

The painting brought back memories to her also—Versailles, the inn, the abbey, Jean Marc. “Very well.”

He stood waiting, his gaze on her face. “Was that all?”

He was weary and discouraged and in need. She could not turn him away to protect herself. She could not yield but she must give him something.

“No.” She turned back to her canvas and said huskily, “I’m glad you’re home. I … missed you too.”