Storm Winds (55 page)

She smiled tremulously. “Because I’ve changed. What happened in Andorra changed me and I think you’ve changed me too, Jean Marc. When I was a child I was afraid to love anyone because I was sure they wouldn’t return my love. But now I know it’s the loving, not the being loved that matters. And, when you love someone, you have to help them.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I assure you, I’d much rather go back to the way I was before. I was ever so much more comfortable. You’re fortunate to be able to hold yourself aloof.”

“Am I?” His tone was weary. He didn’t feel aloof, he merely felt alone and terribly frightened for her. “I can’t convince you to stop this idiocy?”

She shook her head. “But I’m really quite safe, Jean Marc. I only paint the fans and carry an occasional message.”

“Only?” His lips tightened. “Very well. Whenever you go on one of these missions for Etchelet, tell me, and I’ll go with you.”

“No!” She tried to temper the alarm in her voice. “I’ll not involve you.”

“Then, if you don’t want me in danger, you’ll have to be very careful of yourself, won’t you?” His hands left her shoulders and fell to his sides. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of entering into this conspiracy. My only aim is to prevent you from losing your head. I find I’ve become inordinately fond of it as well as other delectable portions of your person.” He moved toward the door. “And, my dear Juliette, I became involved that first morning I saw you running through the woods. It’s far too late to go back and try to change that now.”

Their attempt to free the queen failed.

Juliette couldn’t believe it. “But we were so sure,” she said in bewilderment when Nana told her that evening at the Café du Chat. “Everything was in place. What could have happened?”

“The guards were changed at the last moment,” Nana said grimly. “Every single guard we’d bribed was mysteriously reassigned yesterday outside the Temple.”

Juliette shook her head dazedly. “It doesn’t seem possible. What do we do now?”

“Keep trying. Conceive another plan.” Nana shook her head. “Though, God knows, there’s not much time. William says they’re talking about moving her out of the Temple to the Conciergerie. We’d have little chance of success if that happened.”

Juliette shivered. The Conciergerie, a grim horror of a prison, squatting only a stone’s throw from the glory of Notre Dame, was the last stop before the trip to the guillotine. “You have no one in the Conciergerie?”

“We have two guards in our pay, but we’d need more than that. We’ll have to keep trying.”

On the twenty-ninth of July another attempt was made to free the queen from the Temple and it failed as dismally as the first.

Another attempt was planned for the tenth of August. Early on August third the queen was roused from her bed at two o’clock in the morning and moved to the Conciergerie.

One more attempt was made while the queen was awaiting trial in the Conciergerie, this time in cooperation with another group of royalists led by Baron de Batz. It also failed.

On October 14, 1793, the queen went before her accusers and stood trial. Though only thirty-seven, the queen was going through change of life and suffered terrible menstrual cramps. In spite of her pain, she defended herself valiantly against the most infamous
charges a woman could face, ranging from lesbianism to incest Her efforts were doomed from the outset and Marie Antoinette was condemned to die by the guillotine on October 16.

“For God’s sake, don’t go.” Jean Marc watched in helpless frustration as Juliette came down the stairs. Juliette’s dark blue gown hung loosely on her and her eyes looked enormous in her thin face. During the past three months he had watched the pounds drop from her slender figure and the vitality illuminating her gradually drain away. Today she appeared as wax-pale and fragile as one of the lilies of Vasaro. “You can’t help her and there’s no sense in you putting yourself through any more.”

“It’s almost over.” Juliette’s back was very straight as she went to the mirror in the foyer and tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin. “She has to see me. She has to know I haven’t forgotten my promise. She’s so alone now.” She looked up to meet his gaze in the mirror. “But it would help if you’d come with me. I know it’s an imposition and I’ll understand if you don’t wise to—”

“Of course I’ll come.” His voice was rough. “Why not? Someone has to be there to catch you when you swoon. Death by the guillotine isn’t pretty.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s ugly. She always hated ugliness. She wanted everything beautiful and—” She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “I must get very close to the platform. She must see me. I promise I won’t faint.”

Jean Marc moved behind her and his hands gently encircled her throat. “She’ll see you. We’ll make sure she does,” he said huskily. “Come along.”

He quietly held her hand during the long carriage ride to the Place de la Révolution. When they arrived at the square he pushed ruthlessly through the huge, excited crowd, making a place for them directly before the guillotine.

He took Juliette’s hand again as the throng roared
with delight when the cart bearing the queen arrived at the platform.

Marie Antoinette was dressed in a white piqué gown, white bonnet, black stockings, and red prunella high-heeled shoes, the finery in poignant contrast to her shorn head, sunken cheeks, and frightened eyes.

Juliette swallowed to keep back the bile threatening to choke her. She must not faint.

The queen must see her.

Fight the dizziness, fight the despair. She would be better soon. She had promised Jean Marc she wouldn’t swoon.

The queen climbed the steps, stumbling as she reached the platform and trod on the foot of Sanson, the executioner. “Pardon, Monsieur,” she stammered. “I did not mean it.”

Juliette could barely see through the veil of tears. The crowd was yelling, the queen desperately looked at those in the crowd, as if searching for help which would not come.

She
must
see her.

Juliette fumbled at the ribbons beneath her chin and tore off her bonnet, at the same time stepping closer to the platform.

At last, Marie Antoinette’s frightened gaze fell on Juliette. For an instant, the faintest flicker lightened the terror in her face.

Then the executioner pushed her toward the guillotine.

A moment later Sanson triumphantly held up the queen’s head for the approval of the crowd.

But Juliette was not there to see it. Jean Marc was already pushing through the crowd, propelling Juliette forcefully across the square toward the side street where the carriage waited.

“I’ve lost my bonnet,” Juliette said woodenly. “I must have dropped it on the ground by the platform.”

“Yes.” As they broke free from the crowd Jean Marc’s arm encircled Juliette’s waist and hurried her toward the carriage

“She saw me. Did you see her expression? Just for a moment, she saw me.”

“Yes, she knew you were there.” Jean Marc opened the door and lifted her into the carriage. “Home,” he called to the coachman before he climbed into the coach after her.

He pulled Juliette into his arms and rocked her in an agony of sympathy as the carriage rolled down the cobblestoned streets away from the Place de la Révolution.

“I didn’t swoon. I promised you I wouldn’t—”

She slumped against him in a dead faint.

When she awoke she was in Jean Marc’s bed, unclothed except for a white satin robe. Jean Marc lay naked beside her, his arms holding her with the same gentle strength as they had in the carriage. The velvet drapes at the window were drawn, and tall white candles burned in the candelabrum across the room.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I broke my promise. I didn’t mean to be so much trouble to you.”

“Be quiet.” Jean Marc’s gentle kiss on her temple belied the roughness of his words.

“Will it ever stop?” she asked in wonder. “So much blood …” She was silent a moment. “They were glad to see her die. Did you hear them cheering?”

Jean Marc didn’t answer.

“Why should they be so happy? Didn’t they understand? She wasn’t brilliant like Madame de Staël, she was only an ordinary woman. She made mistakes but she never truly meant to be cruel.”

Jean Marc reached over and took a goblet from the table by the bed. “Fruit juice. You’ve eaten nothing all day. Drink it.”

She obediently swallowed the tart drink and he put the goblet back on the table. He drew her closer, cradling her cheek in the hollow of his naked shoulder.

“I’m so tired, Jean Marc.”

“I know.” His fingers tangled in her curls. “Rest.”

“I want to see Catherine. I’d like to go to Vasaro and see Catherine. Do you suppose I could do that?”

“Yes, I’ll arrange it in the morning.”

“Catherine … François loves her.”

“Does he?”

“Yes, he does, Jean Marc. Every time he mentioned her name I could see … I knew something was wrong. I had to pull it out of him.”

“I’m surprised you succeeded.”

“I just kept at him.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“The dauphin. I have to help Louis Charles. I promised her …”

“You have time. Go to Vasaro and rest first.”

“I’m so sleepy … How peculiar. I just woke up.” She forced her lids to open. “The fruit juice. Did you put something in it?”

“Yes.”

“As you did to François at Vasaro.”

“Only enough to give you a sound sleep.”

“With no dreams?”

He kissed her forehead. “No dreams.”

Jean Marc entered the salon an hour later. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. But I do thank you for coming.”

François didn’t bother to rise from his chair or look up from his goblet of wine. “I didn’t miss you. Robert kept me very well supplied from your excellent cellar.”

“Juliette insisted on going to the Place de la Révolution. You weren’t there?”

François took another drink of wine. “My business is to get them out of prison, not to watch them die when I fail. I decided to get drunk instead. Unfortunately I have a very good head. However, I’ll arrive there eventually.”

“Why the hell did you fail? You had money, the time—”

“And Monsieur working against me.”

“Monsieur?”

“The good Comte de Provence, the king’s brother. He originally organized our group two years ago. Everything went very well while we were freeing only the nobles. What would a king be without a court?” François lifted his glass to his lips. “It was only when it became urgent to free the royal family he suddenly discovered a lack of funds. It seems the good Monsieur wished to become king of France … He has to have spies in both our group and in the convention. Every time we were ready to move, he blocked us. Oh, not in any obvious way. He didn’t reveal my identity or sacrifice the rest of us.”

“And you don’t know who the spy is in your group?”

“I have an excellent idea. I’ve initiated a plan to make certain.”

“The count wants the boy to die too?”

“Of course, he’s in the way. Louis Charles is now king of France. But I
will
get him out of the Temple.”

“I
will
get him out of the Temple. But I’ll have to do it alone.”

Jean Marc smiled. “Do you think Juliette would let you try to free him without her help? Which places me in the unenviable position of trying to stop her or making sure she accomplishes your common goal with all speed.”

François slowly lifted his head. “And which is it to be?”

“I’ll not stand by and see her suffer a second time like this. I’m sending Juliette to Vasaro tomorrow. Is it possible we could get the boy out before she returns?”

“Nothing can be done at once. The convention is expecting the royalists to be stirred up by the queen’s death into making some sort of rescue attempt. They’ve increased the guards at the Temple.”

“How long do we have to wait?”

“Perhaps a month or two.” François rose and swayed. “I feel … Perhaps I’ve succeeded in getting drunk after all.”

Jean Marc stepped forward and put an arm around François’s shoulders.
“Merde
, I seem to be doing nothing this night but acting as a prop.” He sighed resignedly. “You’d best spend the night here. I’ll take you upstairs and put you to bed.”

“How kind of you.” François’s tone was scrupulously polite even as his knees gave way. “Too kind …”

“I agree,” Jean Marc said dryly. “It seems to me I was a good deal better off when I wasn’t so kind.”

“She’ll see Catherine.… Catherine …”

The geraniums were in full bloom, burnishing the fields with flame and heady fragrance when Juliette arrived at Vasaro.

Catherine was waiting on the front steps and threw herself at Juliette who’d just emerged from the carriage. Then she held her at arm’s length, gazing into her face. Jean Marc had sent a letter by messenger on the day Juliette left Paris, warning Catherine of her dear friend’s condition. Indeed she did appear to be drained, sapped of her characteristic energy and vivacity. But there was more. Much more. When Juliette had left Vasaro she had retained remnants of the impatient, impulsive child Catherine had grown up with at the abbey. Now Catherine could catch only the faintest glimpse of that child in the woman who had taken her place. Catherine experienced an instant of poignant regret. They were both changing and being changed, but not together as she had once hoped. “It’s terrible what they did to Her Majesty.”