Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Marcus forced himself to slow his steps—it wouldn’t do to tread on the heels of Laurent and Fouquier-Tinville.
Having memorized the layout of the prison, he could have found his way with his eyes closed.
A good thing, too, given how poorly illuminated the place was at night.
Its few lanterns stretched arthritic fingers of light towards the great Gothic arches of the old palace’s ceilings.
Despite the darkness, the place was far from quiet, the rows of cells echoing with occasional bursts of animated conversation, bouts of manic laughter, prayer, and weeping.
What was Marguerite doing? Did she think he’d abandoned her? The urge to race past the two men was nearly overwhelming.
Laurent was making slurred attempts to curry favor with the prosecutor. “So dedicated, citizen, working so late into the night, have you even spared a moment to dine this evening? Your good health, citizen prosecutor…so vital to the Republic.”
Marcus offered up a silent prayer that whomever Fouquier-Tinville had decided to question at this late hour was in a cell far from Marguerite’s.
“You, there.” The prosecutor stopped at the fifth cell door from the gate by the stairwell and demanded, “What are you doing?”
Heaven, apparently, was actively ignoring him.
He stepped back, blending into the shadows. For once, he didn’t miss the pocket watch he’d given Marguerite; he could practically see the minutes ticking by.
And then a voice he knew was attempting to sound manly, but more closely resembled the inconstant tenor of a pubescent boy, replied. “Searching, citizen prosecutor. I was told there was a report of a…” Marguerite hesitated.
Laurent was surely too drunk to notice, but the prosecutor? Knife, Marcus mentally willed her to say, counter-revolutionary pamphlets.
He could almost hear the wheels of her brain turning, searching for an explanation of why a young soldier was alone, at night, in a women’s cell.
His own were spinning. Gunpowder, poison…
“Escape attempt,” she said after what seemed an eon, but Marcus knew was only seconds.
“Escape attempt?” Laurent repeated with disbelief.
No. Marcus bit back a groan. Rumors of an escape attempt would put the entire prison on alert.
“From the Conciergerie?” The captain’s voice dripped with drunken contempt. “Don’t be absurd. Step forward, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t look familiar.” Laurent said.
Marcus held his breath. In the dim light would they see a beautiful young woman dressed as a man? Or simply a pretty boy?
“I’m new here, captain.” The tenor of her voice was still high, but it didn’t waver.
“New.”
He exhaled.
“That explains it. Someone’s been pulling your leg, boy.
Prison guard pranks,” Laurent said, apparently addressing Fouquier-Tinville, added.
“When I was a raw recruit serving at the Bastille, they sent me to check on the man in the iron mask. No such thing, of course. Just like there’s never been an escape attempt from this prison.
Look around you boy, the place is impregnable.
How do you think anyone, let alone one of these women, might escape? ”
“I…I don’t know, sir. Wasn’t thinking, sir. You’re right, sir.”
“Damn right. Enough of this nonsense. Out you come…”
“Let me get my key,” Marguerite said.
The key. He hadn’t had an opportunity to test it.
There was a click as she slid it into the lock. Heaven had to be listening now.
Please God, let it work.
Even as he prayed, his hand moved to a particular button on his sleeve, careful not to touch the edge, honed sharp enough to slash a man’s throat. With a quick tug, he snapped the thread holding it in place. Slid it between his index and pointer fingers.
Another metallic click. A rattle. “Ugh,” Marguerite’s voice, “I always have trouble with these.”
Was she too nervous to turn the key properly, or was the design flawed?
“Damned raw recruit, give it here.”
Marcus knew she couldn’t. Even drunk Laurent would see it wasn’t a proper prison key.
“Just let me…” There more furious rattling. “I’ve got it”
“Damn it, boy. You’re wasting the prosecutor’s time.”
Marguerite’s nervous—or was it desperate? laugh, “Of course, it has to happen in front of Paris’s most renowned prosecutor…”
Marcus slid a foot forward, his eyes fixed on Fouquier-Tinville’s throat. One quick slash and the man would be dead. It wouldn’t save Marguerite, would doom him as well, but at least he’d die knowing he’d put an end to the bastard and saved Marguerite’s paintings.
“I’ll do it,” Laurent growled, keys jangling as he yanked at the ring on his belt. There was a click as he fitted the correct key in the lock. A squeal of hinges and the clang as the cell door banged open. “Out.” Laurent barked.
Marcus took a step back into the shadows as Marguerite’s footsteps echoed in the hall.
The door slammed shut. The lock turned.
Say as little as possible, Marcus prayed fervently. Salute. Then turn left. Come to me. He resisted the urge to spread his arms wide.
“You recognize me?” said Fouquier-Tinville.
Shit, shit, shit. His hands curled into fists, the button edge sliding into the soft flesh of his palm.
“But of course, citizen. Who doesn’t recognize France’s most dedicated prosecutor?”
Marcus ignored the sting, the sticky feel of blood trickling through his fingers. Did Fouquier-Tinville recognize her? How could he not?
“Do you know where I live?”
Odd. Why had he asked her that? Blood trickled between his fingers. Did she know?
“Just down the street, isn’t it?”
He forced the button in deeper. Her answer was vague, but not inaccurate.
“Yes.”
Marcus released his grip on the button, as Fouquier-Tinville gave Marguerite the number of an apartment several blocks away on the Quai d’Horloge. “I’m going to be working late,” the prosecutor added, “Run and tell my wife not to hold supper for me.”
“Yes, citizen,” Marguerite replied breathlessly.
“Be quick about it,” Laurent snapped.
Marcus, too, wanted to tell her to run. It was marvelous. Miraculous. Except… His fingers curled around the button. The identity papers for ‘Private Bernard’ were in his pocket.
How could she pass through the wickets that lay between her and freedom without them?
Silence stretched, heavy as dough.
“What’s the problem now, soldier?” Laurent’s voice was a warning.
Marguerite gave another, even more nervous laugh.
“I’m embarrassed to say, citizen prosecutor, that I was finishing my final inspection rounds when I heard about the escape rumor.
I was in the wardroom, and I ran out so quickly…
I didn’t want to fail the good Captain Laurent or let my fellow citizen soldiers down by allowing such a thing to happen…
and well… I…I left my identity papers behind... ”
“Incompetent sod,” Laurent said with disbelief.
The lady was quick and clever; but would the lie be sufficiently convincing?
“We’ve all been new,” Fouquier-Tinville said soothingly. “I cannot fault your enthusiasm, but I would caution you to be more careful in the future.”
“I will, citizen prosecutor,” she said earnestly. “I swear on my honor, it will never happen again.”
A smile curved Marcus’s lips, as he pried the button from his skin.
“What’s your name, son?”
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t fumble for a name.
“Seurrier.”
He frowned, the name seemed oddly familiar.
“Come with me, Seurrier.”
Marcus waited until the footsteps of Fouquier-Tinville, Laurent, and Marguerite de Rouvroy faded away. He counted to 120 before starting after them, thin blade now between his fingers, the blood from the cut in his palm a sticky ooze.
Nearing the first set of gates, he heard the prosecutor bark, “Attention. This is Private Seurrier. He is carrying special orders from me, Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville. Let him pass!” Heard too, the clatter of a wicket being unlocked, the clang as the door was opened, and the sound of Margurite’s steps as she hurried through.
He followed. Close enough so that each time he presented his papers, he heard the echoed commands “Open for Private Seurrier. Let him through without delay. Special orders from Citizen Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville.”
Marcus shook his head in disbelief as he began to walk ever faster. Marguerite de Rouvroy was about to become the first escapee of the Conciergerie in its history; with the help of the very prosecutor who’d sent her there.
Dropping the button into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief to wrap around his bloody palm, he winced. The woman who’d been so suspicious of his offers of help was slipping through the prison gates. When she got free, would she wait for him?