Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
“Tisset,” called a ruddy-faced officer with eyebrows that looked as if they’d been arranged by nesting birds. He leaned out of the doorway of his office in the Conciergerie. “Heard you were here. Have you got my miniature?”
“Captain Laurent,” Marcus said, acknowledging the man’s greeting. He patted the art box strapped over his shoulder. “Finished it last night.”
“Come. Show me.” Laurent beckoned. “Your other customers can wait.”
Marcus glanced over at the guard who’d been assigned to escort him, a grizzled man missing part of the index finger on his right hand. The guard shrugged.
Marcus stepped into the captain’s office, a windowless room which he suspected had once been a closet used to store weapons.
It was furnished with a small table and three ladder back chairs—one chair set behind the table in which Laurent seated himself.
Against the wall behind him, hung a large wooden shelf filled with an array of bottles, jars, lanterns—and, of greatest interest to Marcus, keys.
Laurent gestured for Marcus be seated, while he attempted to clear a space on the table. He pushed aside a tricorne hat, a spill of playing cards, a pamphlet with lurid drawings of Marie Antoinette, and three glasses with red wine sediment dried to their bottoms.
Once there was sufficient room, Marcus set down his art box. Opening it, he made a show of searching through the paper-wrapped packets of miniatures, though he knew exactly where Laurent’s was—second from the bottom.
At the same time, he made a mental note of the size and shape of each key hanging from the shelf. He handed the captain a packet marked with his initials. As he’d anticipated, the man was immediately absorbed in unwrapping and examining the piece.
Marcus used this distraction to stroll over to the shelf, hefting the bottles as if curious about their contents, but in fact, memorizing the dimensions of each key. It would have been tempting to steal one if he’d had known which unlocked Marguerite’s cell.
Laurent glanced over his shoulder, then cocked his chin at the dirty wine glasses. “You will join me for a drink?”
Wanting more time to study the keys, Marcus feigned hesitation. “Tempting…but, I mustn’t leave my escort or my customers waiting. A man must earn his daily bread, no? Perhaps…later?”
“Later,” Laurent agreed, pocketing the miniature. He made no effort to withdraw payment from said pocket.
“Shall I bring another of these,” Marcus lifted one of the wine bottles on the shelf. “To add to your collection?”
“You’re a most thoughtful man, Tisset.”
Marcus walked around the table and set about repacking and closing his art box. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “You wouldn’t…”
Lauren cocked his head like a curious bird. “Wouldn’t what?”
“I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t what?”
“I’ve an appointment on the first floor…”
“Ah, the ladies’ accommodations…” Laurent smiled knowingly.
“One of my subjects is quite the lovely. If I might be granted a few moments of…”
“Privacy?” Laurent suggested waggling his eyebrows in a way that made Marcus want to scrub his skin with lye.
An image of the lady, those large intelligent eyes blazing, rose in his mind’s eye. Marguerite still hadn’t sent for him, but he felt certain with a bit of extra time and some privacy, he could convince her to accept his help. He made a silent vow not to mention the damned fish drawing.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew one of his carefully forged assignats and slid it across the table.
“You are indeed a sensitive soul.” He was well aware that many of the prisoners in the Conciergerie were awaiting a death sentence for forging assignats, but he’d be damned if he’d waste honest currency on this man. “A small gesture of my gratitude.”
“Precisely the right sized gesture,” Laurent said, glancing at the amount, before slipping the bill into his pocket. “Argen, a word.”
Marcus’s escort, who’d been waiting outside in the hallway, stepped into the tiny office.
After a brief discussion, which included the exchange of bills smaller than the one Marcus had given Laurent, they continued on their way; Marcus committing to memory the twists, turns, and series of wickets that led to Marguerite de Rouvroy’s cell.
He prided himself on his eidetic memory. But he was distracted by Andre’s admonition to show Madame de Rouvroy his better self. Not to mention, the memory of the lady herself. He saw again those blazing eyes, the flushed cheeks, the distractingly lovely face framed by waves of chestnut hair.
Marcus waved a hand in an attempt to erase it.
His better self. Who was that? The hopeless romantic who’d returned from the Americas, dreaming of settling down with the woman he loved. Who had faithfully, fervently believed their union was destined to be.
His better self had been an ignorant ass.
Marcus had buried him as deeply as his eight- year-old self had buried any mementos he could salvage after his mother and sister had died of the pox.
He’d placed a button, a scrap of his mother’s favorite gown, and his sister’s cloth doll into a small wooden box, then dug as deep a hole for it in the garden as his small hands could manage.
It would be much easier to convince Marguerite to believe in his baser self.
“Turn left here,” Argen ordered. “Up these stairs.”
As they mounted the stairs, the noise of the place, the cries, the conversations, and the curses, rose up to meet them—as did the smells. His eyes and nose stung with the nearly-overwhelming odors of sewage, sickness, and rank despair.
“Visitor escort.” Argen’s call to the guards waiting ahead was met by the sound of a wicket being unlocked, and the admonition to “have your papers ready.”
On the battlefield a man had a fighting chance, could force the tide to turn, but here?
They stopped at the top of the stairs, before a wall of iron bars inset with a wicket. There were two guards standing on either side of it. “Papers,” one demanded, holding out his hand.
Marcus pulled out his identity papers, the guard, Agen, pulling out his, as well as the orders allowing them to proceed. The guard gave the documents a cursory review before handing them back and swinging the little barred door open.
What if he’d misread the spirit he’d seen in Marguerite’s portrait? And in the courtroom. What if she hadn’t sent for them because she’d given up hope?
He recalled the way her slender shoulders had sagged when the evidence of her betrayal had been revealed.
Pain, spiky and raw, twisted in his chest and he lengthened his stride, even as he reminded himself of how she’d caught herself immediately, stiffened her spine, and stuck out her chin.
How she’d challenged him in the courthouse.
They stepped through and continued walking. The hallway was dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. Between the sounds and the smells, it was like entering the mouth of hell.
“It’s this one,” Argen said, stopping abruptly.
Third cell on the right after the gate, Marcus noted, adding the location to his internal map.
Argen pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and began sorting through them with the stump of his missing index finger.
Marcus watched him, committing the shape and size of the key to memory.
The guard swung the cell door open, motioning for him to enter. “Take your time. I’ve other duties to attend to.”
Marcus stood for a moment, as the pieces of the plan forming in his mind snapped into place. Marguerite de Rouvroy was a fighter.
He was going to bet his life on it.