The Art of Seduction (22 page)

M
ason paced the confined width of her cell, back and forth in a continuous path that led nowhere. Frantic with worry for Richard and Lisette. Confused by the barrage of impossible developments. Terrified of where this monster of her own making might be carrying them all.

After her catastrophic meeting with Duval, he'd summoned a jailer who'd handcuffed her, gagged her, and placed a black hood over her head before forcing her down four flights of stairs to an empty basement dungeon. There she'd been freed of her restraints and prodded into a cell with padded walls. As he supervised her incarceration, Duval told her, “This is a holding pen for criminally insane patients on their way to the Charenton asylum. You are the only detainee we have down here at the moment. You might as well save your breath, because the guards will assume everything you say is the babbling of a lunatic.”

As he left, she begged him, “You can't do this, Duval. Even if you have to do it to me, please don't do it to Lisette. It's unspeakable. She never harmed a creature in her life.”

The door clanged shut behind him.

A day and a night had passed since then. She'd worn herself out banging on the door, trying to get the guards to listen to her. She tried to assuage her anxiety by telling herself Duval couldn't possibly keep this up. What did he intend to do, anyway? Throw her in Charenton for the rest of her life? Try Lisette for her murder? It was beyond belief! He would have to come to his senses and see the absurdity of his scenario. Once he talked to Lisette and she corroborated the story, he would realize his mistake and set them both free.

But in her bleaker moments, she thought of the injustice that was so prevalent in the French legal system. It was a major theme in their literature. Half the novels of Balzac, Jean Valjean in
Les Miserables
, Edmond Dantes in
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Hadn't they'd put Dantes in prison and thrown away the key?

Another day and night passed. A jailer sat on a stool outside her cell for much of the day. She demanded to see the inspector, begged to be taken to Lisette, asked the whereabouts of Richard. But all of it fell on deaf ears. He sat reading his newspaper, as oblivious to her as if she were a raving madwoman.

If only she knew what was going on. She'd asked for news and he'd ignored her. He'd always snuck in a bottle of wine and nipped at it during the day. By late afternoon, he was usually asleep. She heard him snoring and got an idea. Looking through the slot in the bottom of the door through which a plate of food was shoved twice a day, she could see that he'd put the newspaper he was reading on the floor beside him. Her hand was slender, and if she could just reach it a little farther…just a little more…It was really tight now, but pushing just a tiny bit harder, she was able to get the end of it between her two extended fingers and pull it through the slot and into the cell.

Its front page headlines screamed the scandalous story. The American painter Mason Caldwell had not committed suicide: She'd been murdered…her best friend, the popular circus performer Lisette Ladoux, had been arrested and refused to comment on her guilt or innocence…a speedy trial date had been set…Inspector Honoré Duval, who had miraculously solved the crime, was the hero of the hour…the scandal had explosively boosted the interest in the artist's paintings and in her upcoming retrospective on the Champ de Mars…the victim's sister, broken by the revelation of the murder, had gone into strict seclusion…

The paper dropped from her hands and she curled up in a ball on the floor, feeling queasy. It was even worse than she'd imagined. Lisette awaiting trial for murder, too loyal to Mason to defend herself. Strict seclusion…Did that mean they intended to keep Mason locked up forever? And Richard…Where was he? What was happening to him? Had they reached him in time? It was all such a mess.

What she would give to go back to the Pont de l'Alma and start all over.

 

Finally, Mason had worn herself out and fell into a deep sleep. But she was awakened by the sound of a metallic clang, then voices, one of them Duval's. She had no idea what time it was, but it had to be some early hour of the morning.

Momentarily, she heard the key turn in her lock. The door squealed open. The light hit her eyes, briefly blinding her. “What's happening?” she asked groggily.

“We are going for a ride,” the inspector answered calmly.

A ride?
“Charenton?” Mason asked.

“It is best if you not ask questions, Mademoiselle.”

“Inspector, you're an intelligent man. You must know the sequence of events you've outlined can't possibly be true. You must know I'm telling the truth.”

“I
do
know you're telling the truth,” he said gently.

Her heart lifted. “Then…you're here to set me free?”

“Sadly, no.”

No?

He gestured to the two men accompanying him and they lifted her to her feet. All three men wore rain slickers. One of the guards asked, “Should we use the hood, sir?” “Never mind. There will be no one about at this hour.” They took her upstairs and out into the courtyard where a tempest was raging. The wind was howling and the rain pouring in a way it hadn't since the night this had all started for her. A coach and three mounted men were waiting. She had no coat and was soaked to the skin before Duval could hustle her into the coach.

It pulled out of the courtyard, crossed the Pont Notre Dame to the Right Bank, and headed off into the night, the mounted escort leading the way. As they rumbled along, the inspector seemed to have lapsed into deep contemplation. After a moment, she said to him, bitterly, “You're a policeman. Your business is uncovering the truth. How can you turn your back on it now?”

Mason detected an air of melancholy. “It brings me no pleasure.”

“Then, why?”

“Because I have no choice.”

She stared at him. “No choice?”

“They are going to make me a member of the Legion of Honor.”

Mason didn't understand. “For what?”

“For solving the murder of the decade.”

“But you know now there
was
no murder.”

“Yes, but by the time you told me who you really were, it was too late. I had already convinced the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Culture, and President Carnot himself that a dastardly murder had been committed. Your friend Mademoiselle Ladoux had already been arrested. The press conference announcing my ‘spectacular detective work' had already been scheduled. I was the man of the hour. So you see, I could hardly step forward at that point and admit that I had been a complete fool. It would ruin my career, my reputation…my very life.”

“You'd let an innocent woman die for a crime she didn't commit to save your
career?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I do not expect you to understand. But a man's reputation is everything. Without it, he is nothing—a pariah. Even if I could weather the storm, my wife could not. She comes from an old and proud family, and she married a mere policeman. The promise of the Legion of Honor will exonerate her—and me—in her family's eyes. Besides, her health is poor, and the scandal would kill her. So you see, my course is clear.”

“So it came down to a choice between your wife or Lisette.”

He averted his eyes. The silence was deafening.

Suddenly she
did
understand. “It's not just Lisette, is it? You won't be able to get a night's sleep as long as anyone who knows the truth is still around. It's not enough for Mason's ‘sister' to be in seclusion or off in a mental institution. After all, she might escape. She might convince someone of the truth. No, that's much too risky.”

“Regrettably, true.”

At that moment the coach pulled up at its destination and Duval opened the door. “I am afraid the only logical end for Amy is that she join her sister in Mother Seine.”

As they helped her out into the wind and rain, Mason realized they were at the Pont de l'Alma. It was only then that Mason came face-to-face with the full, impossible dimensions of her dilemma, of what was about to happen to her.

And the unavoidable truth was that she'd done it all to herself. Her desire for success, and her willingness to take shortcuts to achieve it, had been the cause of a mountain of misery.

She turned to Duval with tears in her eyes. “What about Richard?”

“It is too late to worry about him, child.”

Of course. They couldn't very well have let him live either.

“It's time to make your peace with God. I promise you won't suffer. One quick blow and it will be over. You will simply go to sleep in the Seine's embrace.”

A poetic ending. Distraught over her sister's murder, Amy goes to the scene of the crime and hurls herself into the river.
Kindly, he added, “You can go to your rest knowing you will not be forgotten. Your paintings will be confiscated and become part of the national heritage of France. The campaign you started to make yourself immortal will go on as before. The retrospective at the Exposition will open on schedule under my personal charge with all the amenities you would have wanted. You see, my child, the greater the name of Mason Caldwell, the better it is for France, and the better it is for the reputation of the man who solved her murder.”

She looked down at the raging water below, barely discernable in the storm. It had been her fate all along to die in its depths. If only it had happened that first time, months ago. If she'd known what would come of it, she'd never have fought to stay alive.

She stepped to the rail, no longer minding her fate. She deserved it.

But before she closed her eyes, she looked about her and thought of the symmetry of the situation. This bridge. This night. A night so eerily like that other. And even…another pedestrian suddenly appearing from the darkness behind the coach, coming her way.

But this time, it wasn't a suicidal woman. It was just some man crossing the bridge. He was slumped over, weaving from side to side. A drunk on his way home from some late night revel. As he came closer, she could hear him slurring the words of a popular cabaret song.

They would have to wait until he passed. The policemen raised their collars so he wouldn't see their faces.

“
Bonsoir, messieurs,”
he greeted them.

“
Bonsoir
,” they called back curtly.

But he didn't continue on. He stopped before them and gave them a drunken smile.

For a moment, she thought she was seeing a ghost.

Richard!

R
ichard staggered toward the nearest of Duval's men. “Such a miserable night. Might you spare a few sous for a poor unfortunate with no dry spot to lay his head?”

“Be gone, impudent lout,” the man retorted.

He reeled closer to the man, taking his arm beseechingly. “Have pity, kind sir.”

The man shook him off. “If you're not out of my sight at once, I will give you my boot.”

“Your boot? Ah…You mean like this?” Richard leapt into the air and kicked the man squarely in the face, sending him tumbling against the rail with such force that he fell careening backward over the edge and into the water below.

This had happened in less than half a minute, which was all the time the second man needed to unholster and aim his revolver. But in a lightning draw, Richard had produced his own pistol from his belt and, without aiming, fired a shot that hit his opponent's hand, sending his gun clattering along the bridge.

With that, the inspector reached for his own weapon, but Richard was on him like a panther. In one swift movement, he grabbed him by the arm and leg, raised him above his head, and flung him into the Seine, kicking and screaming and flailing his arms as he dropped.

Mason rushed to him. “I thought you were dead.”

“Far from it. Are you all right?”

She went into his arms. “I am now.”

He held her for a moment, then said, “We have to go.”

As he turned, he spotted the three men on horses in the distance: Duval's escort, which had stopped and was standing vigil several leagues from the bridge. One of them had a rifle. In the pouring rain, they couldn't see exactly what had happened; for all they knew, it had been Inspector Duval who'd fired the shot at his intended victim. But their rapt attention indicated a suspicion that something might be going wrong.

Richard quickly unfastened the horse from the coach, leapt onto its back, grabbed Mason by the arm, and hoisted her up behind him. The escort, seeing this, moved into position to block the fugitives' easy escape. They could cross the bridge to the Left Bank, but that would make them an easy target for the marksman with the rifle. Instead, Richard kicked his heels and charged the three men head-on. They hadn't expected this, nor had their horses. Two of them reared, unbalancing their riders. The third Richard kicked off his mount as he barreled past.

They galloped down the cobblestone street. As Mason tightened her arms around his waist, the sound of gunfire echoed behind them. She felt a sting in her upper back, as if she'd been hit by a flying stone chipped off a building. It hurt, but only for a moment, and then the pain went away. She clutched Richard with all her might as the rain beat against them.

“They came and arrested me,” he called back to her. “But I managed to get away from them in the crowded lobby.”

“It's my fault. I went to Duval. I had no idea he would do anything like this. I was so confused. I just wanted to make it go away and start over.”

“It's not your fault. Nothing is your fault.”

She felt so strange. Her head was spinning. She wasn't even cold anymore. “I told Emma who I really am and she tried to kill me. So I went to Duval and told him, and
he
tried to kill me. Can this really be happening?” Her voice sounded to her as if it were coming from a tunnel far away.

“Don't think about it now. Just hold on.”

Her body felt numb and weak. It was all she could do to force out the words. “We have to help Lisette.”

“They have her locked up in Santé Prison. We'll have to figure out some way to get her out.”

“How did you…find me?” Again, it was an effort to wring out the words. Every ounce of energy had drained from her body. It was taking everything she had just to hang on.

“I had a feeling they were going to try something like this. I've been keeping watch outside the Prefecture, waiting. As your coach left the Cité, I jumped onto the back of it. Luckily, the escort went ahead, so they didn't see me.”

Mason felt herself losing her grip on him. She began to slip to the side.

“What's the matter?” he called back.

She couldn't answer. He reached around to keep her steady and slowed the animal. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered in blood. “Christ, you've been hit!”

Abruptly, he reined in the horse beneath a gaslight, slid down, and pulled her off into his arms. As he held her, he tore the back of her dress and examined the wound. Propping her against him, he yanked his shirt from out of his trousers and ripped it to make a bandage, which he pressed to her back with great pressure to stop the bleeding.

“I've got to get you to a doctor, but I have to keep the pressure on this wound with my hand or it will start bleeding again. So we're going to have to do this on foot. I'm going to carry you. All you have to do is just try to stay awake. Can you do that?”

Mason tried to speak, to reassure him, but she was so lightheaded she couldn't tell if she'd spoken aloud.

As he trotted through the empty streets, holding her as gently as he could, the deluge continuing to pelt against them, she could hear his words coming to her as if from a dream. “What have I done to you? This is all my fault. How can I ever make it up to you? You've got to hang on so I can find a way. Do you understand, Mason?”

The tenderness with which he said her name buoyed her. She rested her cheek on his chest, feeling his strength pour into her. It wasn't long before they stopped. She heard his fist pounding on a wooden door. It was met by silence. He pounded harder, not stopping. Finally, she heard the door crack open and Richard's voice, demanding, “I need the doctor at once.”

“The doctor is asleep,” a female voice complained. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Still holding her as gently as possible, he pushed his way through the door and past the startled maid. “Wake him up.”

After that, there was a series of sensations. Arguing voices. A bright light shining in her eyes. The feel of a hard wood table against her stomach and face. Richard's tormented voice saying, “She has to pull through, doctor. Do you understand? She's—got—to—pull—through!”

Then the smell of alcohol, a burning pain in her back, the sound of a metallic object hitting a tin pan. The pain dissolved into darkness.

That darkness was broken by Richard's voice. “I've got to get you to a place of safety. Duval's had time to be fished out of the river by now and to have wired every precinct in the city regarding our escape. They'll be paying visits on everyone we ever knew and watching all the roads. The doctor says it's dangerous for you to be moved, but I have to get you out of here. Can you hang on, just a little while longer?”

It took all her strength to nod her head.

She felt him pick her up again, and soon after that he laid her onto an upholstered surface, wrapping several blankets around her. “I'm commandeering the doctor's carriage,” he told her. “I'll take it as gently as I can.”

The concern in his voice was cradling, giving her a sense of safety and well-being. It was warm inside the blankets, cozy and dry. But where was he taking her? He was going relatively slowly for her sake, and the pleasant sensation continued. In the distance she could hear the hum of his deep voice, talking to her, gentling her. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but it didn't matter.

Time passed. She had no idea how much. Then the carriage pulled to a tentative halt.

“Good evening,
messieurs,
” Richard's voice said.

“Get down,” a male voice responded. “We have to search your vehicle.”

“Working on a night like this?” Richard commented dryly. “How barbaric.”

“Stand aside and hold your tongue.”

A moment passed before she heard a thud, then sounds of scuffling and cries of alarm. Then gunshots.
Dear God, please keep him safe!

Someone jumped back into the driver's seat, a whip cracked, and the horse raced off, this time at a full gallop. Now she was bouncing up and down in the carriage and the pain shot through her. Before long, she felt the damp stickiness and realized she was bleeding once again.

After several minutes of racing through the night at breakneck speed, the carriage pulled to a sudden halt. She felt herself being lifted in powerful arms, smelled Richard's sweet breath against her cheek as he said, “You're bleeding again. I've got to keep the pressure on the wound, so I'll carry you the rest of the way. It shouldn't be that far now. Just stay with me.”

He held her to him, keeping pressure on the wound as he ran. Soon his breath became labored. She felt herself slipping away again.

As if sensing this, his voice sought to steady her.

“I don't know why I've treated you the way I have. I've never understood myself, or why I do the things I do. But I do know this. I love you, Mason. I've never loved anyone else. I can't lose you. I can't. I won't! Hold on, my love. Hold on…hold on…hold on…”

Finally, he stopped, dropping to his knees as he held her, breathing so heavily she feared his heart might burst. “We made it,” he panted.

“Where…?”

“Belleville.”

He waited for his breathing to slow, then stood again, taking her with him. Another banging on the door. More voices. Being laid on a soft bed. Her bandage being changed. Someone putting cognac to her lips. Her clothes being removed with infinite care. A warm cloth sponging her.

Then it was dark again. She felt someone sit beside her on the bed, felt his warm lips on her cheek. Then he shifted, lying down beside her, to tenderly pull her into his arms.

Blackness claimed her again. But every time she awoke in the night she was aware of him beside her, holding her close.