Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Captain Laurent used swallows of wine the way other men used punctuation. Marcus quickly discovered that he didn’t need to listen to the man’s entire conversation to keep him talking; all that was required of him was to nod whenever the man reached for his glass.
A row of bottles on the floor by the captain’s chair attested to how many glasses it had been.
Marcus regretted giving Marguerite his pocket watch.
But he’d been worried she wouldn’t be ready when the time came to set the plan in motion for her rescue; now he was worried he was going to be late.
It had been at least an hour since he’d heard the last echoes of the guards doing the evening’s cell checks.
“And the new prosecutor,” Laurent said, refilling his glass, “Fouquier-Tinville. They appointed him last month.” He took a swallow of wine. “You’ve heard of him, of course?”
Ah, the bastard prosecutor who’d held up Marguerite’s sketchbook in the courtroom, demanding to know if it was hers?
Marcus nodded. He’d set up this drinking bout figuring that it would allow him to stay within the prison until nightfall and that at the rate the captain was drinking, he’d soon pass out.
How long had it been? Two hours? Three?
Laurent showed no signs of flagging. He set the glass down.
“You know he used to be Fouquier de Tinville? As if dropping the ‘de’ makes him a man of the people. He’s Desmoulin’s cousin, the journalist who’s in the National Assembly?
And he went to school with Robespierre.” Lifting his glass, he took another swallow.
“Supposed to be all about merit, isn’t it? ”
Marcus nodded, his mind working furiously. Could he knock the man out with a single punch? Without making so much noise it would raise an alarm? Could he get to Marguerite’s cell, release her and get her through all the gates before the captain’s unconscious body was found?
“Not that he isn’t a hard worker,” Laurent said, grudgingly.
“Man barely leaves the place.” He glanced around darkly, as if the prosecutor might be lurking outside the door, then took another swallow.
“I hear he doesn’t drink.” Laurent shook his head.
“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink. Do you? ”
Marcus lifted his glass, touching it to his lips without swallowing. He set it down with enough force to slosh half the contents out onto the tabletop.
“It’s not like the rest of us aren’t working hard,” Laurent said, refilling Marcus’s glass. “It’s not just about how many hours a man spends on the job.”
Marcus nodded, eyeing the spot on Laurent’s chin that would render the man unconscious if he struck him just there. But he needed to stand, to step back, needed room to swing his fist with sufficient force.
“Do you think it’s easy keeping your eye on this lot of counterrevolutionaries and spies? They’re everywhere. Like rats, fast as you kill ‘em, bam!” He slammed a hand on the table, setting the glasses and half-empty bottle to rattling.
If he knocked over the bottle…
“More of ‘em scuttle out.”
Jumped up as if trying to avoid the spill. Then…
Did you hear what happened in Rouen?”
“Rouen?” Thoughts of how and when to punch the man vanished. “What happened in Rouen?”
“They found seven soldiers dead in a field. Seven. Covered with straw. Can you imagine?
“I cannot.” As if he could forget.
“And they haven’t caught the killers,” Leaning forward conspiratorially, he exhaled a cloud of wine. “But they say one of them is in Paris.”
“In Paris?” He repeated, leaning forward as well. “How do they know the fellow’s here?”
“They know,” Laurent waved a dismissive hand. “Probably looking for more soldiers to kill.”
“Do you really think so?” The captain was probably repeating gossip, but he had to be sure he didn’t have any more information. “Do they know who the killer is? Where he is?”
“Probably a Girondin.” Laurent took a long pull from his glass, shrugged. “Could be anywhere.”
“Anywhere.” Marcus nodded, wishing anywhere was outside Marguerite’s cell. By now, she must be dressed in Allard’s uniform. Bundled under her blankets so no one could see.
He had to get out of this damned office. Had to get her out of this damned prison. But he had to wait until Laurent gave him an opportunity to leave. Wait. The word set his teeth on edge. Pushing back his chair, he rose, stepping back and muttering, “Must find a privy…”
“No need.” Laurent glanced around the room, then ducked his head under the table. “Got a pisspot in here somewhere.”
Marcus closed his eyes, stifling a groan. Curling his hand into a fist, he planted his foot and began to pivot. It was now or never. He’d have to take his chances.
“Laurent? Are you there?”
Marcus swung around to see a man standing in the doorway. A man with winged eyebrows and a long nose which combined to give him an expression of disbelief that the rest of the world could be so hopelessly incompetent.
Not that Fouquier-Tinville was wrong in Laurent’s case
The captain scrambled up from under the table, striking his head in the process. “Citizen Prosecutor,” he sputtered, a pisspot clutched in one hand.
“I have a question to ask of one of your prisoners.” Fouquier-Tinville gave the captain a name and cell number.
“Allow me to escort you,” Laurent said, setting down the pisspot.
He turned towards the row of keys hanging on the shelf behind his desk, knocking several to the floor in the process.
“Shit,” he muttered, wobbling into a crouch, searching amongst them for the one he needed.
The empty wine bottles beside his chair rattled precariously.
“Ah hah.” Waving a key triumphantly, he rose and stumbled around the table. “This way, citizen prosecutor, if you’ll follow me.”
Fouquier-Tinville cast a brief glance at Marcus with an expression on his face that suggested whatever business Marcus had with the captain, it was far less important than his own.
Then turning back to Laurent, he gave the man a curt nod, and the two headed off, leaving Marcus alone in the captain’s office.
Fouquier-Tinville might be far from Heaven-sent, but he was as close to a miracle as Marcus Tyndale was going to get. And by God, he’d take it.