Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
The Conciergerie, with its square clock tower on one end, two round towers on the other, and a hodgepodge of structures in between, was a testament to the centuries of floods, fires, and reconstruction that the former royal-palace-turned-prison had withstood. The structure was massive and imposing.
But not, Marcus told himself, inescapable. All he had to do was figure out how.
It hadn’t taken him more than a few strolls around the high, thick walls, with their barred and boarded up windows, and guards at every gate, to determine that they wouldn’t be able to break in—at least not in the usual ways.
He’d come up with the beginnings of a plan.
Complicated, yes, and dangerous, but not impossible.
That is, if the lady would just send for them.
Three days had passed since their meeting in the courthouse, and there had been no word. Nothing.
And so, now he was sitting before an easel outside the prison gate with Andre playing the role of his current model.
Marcus glanced up from his sketch at the ornate blue and gold clock set into one of the towers.
Even if it hadn’t been smashed by revolutionaries, he knew exactly how much time remained.
Not that they’d spent the last three days wasting it.
Andre and David had paid a clerk to obscure Marguerite’s name in the prison register which would, at least temporarily, delay her return to court for trial and sentencing.
Marcus, meanwhile, had set up his easel outside the prison as a means of studying the timing and methods of the changing of the guards and the flow of traffic through its arched gates.
Sitting there also was proving an effective method of advertising his work as painter-for-hire of ‘consolation portraits’ to the people gathered beneath the prison’s windows in the hopes of glimpsing an imprisoned loved one.
The only hitch had been that, while Marcus was, as David remarked, “a dab hand” at sketching portraits, he was also, as the big man pointed out “complete rubbish” at painting them. Fortunately, Andre knew a local artist, who, for a handsome fee, was turning the sketches into miniatures.
David had taken on the task of ferrying Marcus’s drawings to the painter and of creating tiny frames for them.
A row of the pocket-sized works was prominently displayed beside his easel.
They, and the cards he’d passed out in the courtroom, had attracted sufficient attention to earn Marcus several appointments for sittings within the prison.
He’d memorized the layout from a floor plan they’d obtained through their Paris network.
Now he just needed to get inside to survey it firsthand.
Setting a pastel down in the grooved tray of his easel frame, Marcus drew his pocket watch out of his red and blue patterned waistcoat.
“It’s five minutes past the last time you checked,” Andre said. Taking advantage of Marcus’s inattention, he wriggled his shoulders and scratched his nose. With a relieved sigh, he added, “I told you I’d let you know when it’s time to go.”
Frowning, Marcus turned back to the sketch, picking up the pastel, and shading in the slight cleft in Andre’s square chin.
He rose and stepped back to examine the effect.
Not bad, he thought, his mind’s eye flashing back to the stunning portraits and sketches in Marguerite’s apartment, but not in a class with hers.
He hated to think of the canvases and portfolios left behind being tossed out like so much rubbish.
But at least he’d managed to save the very best. Including that haunting self-portrait.
Damn her eyes, why wouldn’t she send for at least one of them? He glanced up at the prison’s barred windows.
“She’s in a cell with five other women. First floor,” Andre said, following the direction of his gaze.
The same clerk who’d altered her name in the register had included this useful piece of information. After much time and effort, Marcus had secured an appointment to paint a prisoner who shared her cell.
“Eh, Citizen Tisset, you here again?” The question, from a guardsman, drew Marcus’s attention away from the prison’s windows.
The guard was one of the many red and blue uniformed soldiers, guarding the Conciergerie’s gates, overseeing the loading and unloading of carts and carriages, or (when they had nothing better to do) amusing themselves by harassing passing citizens.
They were a constant presence—as the team well knew from long hours of surveillance.
At night, they clustered like hostile well-armed moths beneath the pools of light cast by streetlamps hung from ropes suspended between posts and from the facade of the prison.
“Plying my trade,” Marcus said in response, gesturing with his pastel at his half-finished sketch of Andre.
“Have you finished my portrait yet?” The guard strode over, taking up a place beside Marcus, and eyeing the row of miniatures beside his easel expectantly.
Recognizing the jutting lower jaw that gave the otherwise perfectly pleasant man an expression of perpetual sulkiness, Marcus set down the pastel, flipped open his art box, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cotton wrapped package marked with the initials JLB. “Here you go, Citizen Bault.”
Private Bault took the package, unwrapped it, and studied it with the air of a serious art critic, murmuring “Not bad, not bad at all.” Slipping it inside his white waistcoat, he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you among the prisoners and other guards.”
He made no effort to pay for the work, which Marcus didn’t mind; gratis portraits of the guards had earned him the right to inspect the prison walls, windows, and gates without rousing suspicion for as long as he liked.
It had also given him an idea.
“What do you think of that one?” he asked Andre, cocking his chin in the direction of a boyish-looking soldier who was changing guard positions in front of the building. He fumbled with his rifle as he switched it from one shoulder to the next.
Andre studied the slim figure for several long moments before responding. “I’d have to get closer to be sure, but I think he might just suit.”
“I noticed him earlier and I did a sketch of him. Gave it to David and Suzanne. Suzanne says his name is Allard, and that when he gets off duty, he usually stops for a meal at a place around the corner. The Cock’s Roost. It’s apparently a popular haunt for guardsmen.”
“With plenty of dark alleys nearby, one hopes.”
“Is there a part of Paris that isn’t full of dark alleys? I hear they’ve even got alleys underground...”
“They say hiding out in those tunnels is how Marat got his skin ailment,” Andre said.
They lapsed into silence and Marcus knew they were both thinking of that damned fish-in-the-tub drawing. What had she been thinking? He reminded himself that wondering about what went on in the lady’s head wasn’t his job—saving it was. He reached for his pocket watch.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Andre said.
Marcus shifted his hand away from his pocket, picked up his pastel, and returned his attention to his sketch.
As he moved the colored stick from the square of Andre’s chin to the curve of his cheek, his mind reviewed the details of the plan he was formulating.
“I’m worried about shoes,” he said lifting his pastel.
“Shoes?” Andre raised an eyebrow.
It only took one missed detail for everything to go sideways.
Andre sighed. “I’ll look for shoes, too. Though how we’ll get them inside... Perhaps David can come up with something.”
“Why hasn’t she asked for us?” Marcus burst out, no longer able to contain the tide of frustration that was steadily rising as each day, each hour, passed. “Doesn’t she understand what’s at stake?”
Andre’s bright blue eyes drifted towards where a group of prisoners, hands tied behind their backs, were being loaded into a cart. A guard wrestled with an elderly woman in a lace cap who’d thrown her arms around the neck of a young man and was refusing to let go. “No, no, no,” she wailed.
No one stepped forward to intervene as the guard wrenched her arms loose from the young man’s neck and threw her to the ground.
“I’ve no doubt she does.”
“Then why…” Marcus bit back the words, why won’t she let me save her?
“Did you think our handsome faces would be sufficient to convince her?”
“I would have thought our offer of help might have at least piqued her interest...”
“Aren’t you the one who always says the suspicious man is the one most likely to survive?” Andre shook his head, adding softly. “The man who doesn’t trust his friends enough to mention that he has a child, wonders why the lady hesitates to place her fate into the hands of complete strangers?”
“Must you keep moving? You’re destroying the pose,” Marcus growled. It was always challenging to argue with Andre, even more so when the man was right. “I haven’t time to start over….”
Andre drew out a gold pocket watch, the back and sides engraved with a delicate pattern of vines. “You have twelve minutes.”
“Oh my, that’s lovely.”
Marcus turned to see a pale woman, all cheek, collar, and wrist bones, peering over his shoulders at his sketch.
“I’ve often been told that I am a work of art,” Andre struck a pose—different than the one Marcus had been drawing, and winked.
A smile, like a hint of sun on a cloudy day, briefly glimmered on the woman’s face. “Have you a card?” she asked tremulously.
“Have you someone inside?” he said gently, pulling one out of his waistcoat pocket and handing it to her.
She took it and nodded; chapped lips pressed together.
“Do you wish me to paint a portrait of you, or…?”
“My…” She hesitated a moment, then lifted her chin, apparently deciding she had nothing left to lose and said firmly, “My lover. Simon Montrachet. Will you paint a miniature of him for me? Like those,” she pointed at the row of miniatures beside his easel. “I can pay.”
“How soon will you need it done?”
“By tomorrow.”
“So soon? I will do my best, Citizeness.”
“Gorneau. Thank you, Citizen.” She looked down at his card, more to hide her tears, he suspected, than to check his name which was emblazoned on a card below the miniatures. “Tisset.” She reached into a worn silk reticule hanging from her wrist.
“No, no.” Marcus put out a hand to stop her. “I only accept payment after the work is delivered,” he lied.
“What of a downpayment?”
“There is no need.”
He watched as the woman returned to a spot beneath a row of windows, then studied her for as long as it took to commit her profile as she stood, looking up, to memory.
He thought he might draw a quick sketch and deliver it to Montrachet, the local painter.
If time permitted. He felt for his pocket watch.
“Seven minutes,” Andre said, holding up his own. “I’m watching the time.”
Marcus set Andre’s portrait aside, pulled out a fresh square of paper, a piece of pencil, and began to draw. As he did so, couldn’t help thinking of the roll of paper and pencil he’d slipped into Marguerite’s sleeve. Was she using them now?
“It is a shame Citizeness Rouvroy refuses to allow any of us to visit her,” Andre said. “Particularly me. Sending you in to try and find a way to speak with her is a bit like sending a stone mason to do a sculptor’s job.”
Marcus kept his attention focused on his rough sketch of Citizeness Gorneau.
“If you do manage it, for the love of all that’s holy, try to avoid ordering the lady around.” Andre leaned forward, his tone unusually earnest. “Show her your better self, scribbler.”