Chapter 50
Fifty
Expressions of shock, suspicion, and utter delight warred on the face of the dung collector at Andre’s offer to rent his horse and cart for the day. He was an elderly man with lank gray hair and a spine as bent as a barrel hoop.
“And you’ll be bringing it back this evening?” He licked his chapped lips as he eyed the pile of coins in Andre’s outstretched hand. “And I can keep the fees from whatever you collect?”
Andre nodded, hefting the coins so that they clinked against each other.
Unable to resist this metallic siren’s song, the dung collector snatched the pile with both hands.
As he shoved coins into the pockets of his stained tunic, he explained the idiosyncrasies of his cart and his sorrel nag, a bony creature named Colette.
“She’s a hat stealer, a belcher, and you’ll have to keep a steady hand on the reins to keep her from stopping to sniff other horse’s shit.
” He slapped Colette’s angular rump, “but she’s a hard worker. ”
Andre climbed onto the bench of the cart, a three-sided affair made from a sorry collection of stained and splintered boards.
Marcus eyed the base and wheels; deciding they seemed solid enough, he found a relatively clean spot on the cart’s back edge and sat down.
David perched next to him, his feet nearly touching the ground.
“Wait, wait,” the dung collector cried, “You’ll need these.” He handed a shovel and a broom to Marcus.
“Thank you, citizen.”
“No, no, citizen,” the dung collector gave Marcus a gap-toothed smile. “Thank you.”
Andre gathered up the reins, then clicked his tongue at Colette. The nag lifted her head and they rolled out of the stable yard, the dung collector waving them a cheerful farewell.
Colette moved through the streets at a pace that was steady, but too slow to outstrip the cloud of flies accompanying them. They stopped periodically to shovel droppings into the cart.
“One can’t help wishing Andre wasn’t quite so creative with his disguises,” David said, waving at a cluster of flies dividing their attention between the dung and his hair.
“But you have to admit it’s working. We’ve passed through three sections since we set out and not a single guardsman has stopped us to ask for papers or inquire about our business.”
“They do seem rather eager to wave us on,” David admitted. He nodded at Marcus’s disguise. “And at least I don’t have to wear all that.”
In addition to a fake wooden stump on his left hand, Andre had outfitted Marcus with a wig made of none-too-clean hair, blackened several of his teeth and applied gum to one eye so that it appeared to droop.
Marcus rubbed the stump against his thigh as they bumped down the rutted street; It was hot, heavy, and it itched. But this venture was critical to ensuring their safe passage out of Paris.
And the flies, smell, and discomfort were almost enough to distract him from thoughts of Marguerite.
Almost.
It had taken every particle of his resistance to leave her, when he’d seen the panicked look in her eyes as he put on his coat. To kiss only her forehead. His ability to resist the lady, much like this cart, was absolute shit.
He tried to distract himself with thoughts of his studio, the sunlight and blessedly fresh air streaming through its long windows. And found himself picturing her standing in front of them, brush poised over a canvas.
Marcus shook his head. Less than two weeks. Then they’d both be back in England. She’d go her way, and he’d go his. He told himself it would be a relief to be left in peace, alone again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” David cleared his throat. “About the lady…”
Marcus turned to him with a practiced, warning glare.
Which Aylesworth blithely ignored. “Do you really intend for her to learn your, ah…” he glanced around in case anyone might overhear, though given their conveyance it was unlikely anyone would dare get that close, and lowered his voice, “particular skills?”
Marcus studied the street traffic, wishing he had his sketchbook. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss was how he felt about seeing Marguerite struggle to draw.
“Because you certainly spent a good deal of time setting her up with supplies,” he persisted. “Those canvases you saved. She’s a talented artist. With skills like hers, no doubt she ought to be a quick study.”
“Good god, no!” He was trying to save the lady, not introduce her to a life of crime. “I thought she might appreciate a distraction…”
“Ah. Good. I was just wondering. You do seem…well…unusually sensitive to the lady’s needs.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I’m usually insensitive?”
It was David’s turn to fall silent.
The downside of working with spies, Marcus reflected, was that they were trained to constantly observe and analyze the people around them.
“You know what’s at stake here,” he said, pretending to misunderstand David’s concern.
“These are dangerous times. Are you suggesting I pay less attention to all the moving parts?”
Andre glanced back with an expression of amusement. “Moving parts, Scribbler? Have you ever considered reading Shakespeare’s sonnets? It would vastly improve your store of romantic terminology.” He turned to David, “Marcus assures me his tendresse is not going to be a problem.”
“I found her. Freed her. All that remains is to deliver her safely.”
“Is it all that remains to be done? The lady is young, beautiful, remarkably talented, a widow from a good family. You wouldn’t even have to conceal our rather unusual occupation from her.”
“She thinks we’re mercenaries,” Marcus said.
“A mistake that can easily be corrected. And…” Andre frowned. “Are you so certain that’s what she believes? She seems…less than convinced.”
“She’s made reference to my fee several times…”
“Almost as if she’s taunting you with the lie...”
“Or flirting,” David supplied.
“She’s been through hell. She’s not thinking clearly…”
“She seems quite level-headed to me,” David said, batting at a fly circling his hair. “I don’t know many men who’d have had the nerve to walk out of that place with the chief prosecutor at her side.”
Marcus didn’t either. He tried to think of Margurite’s flaws. “She’s reckless.”
“Is she, though?” David cocked his head. “Seems to me she surveyed the situation, calculated the risks, and acted with remarkable coolness.”
“Much like…” Both men turned their keen gazes on Marcus. “One of us,” Andre finished smoothly.
“Still,” Andre added in a wondering tone, as he drew the nag up in front of a particularly large mound of manure. “Given three such fine specimens of manhood, one has to wonder why she’s set her cap at him. Seems a striking lapse in judgement.”
Marcus handed him a shovel and pointed at the dung. “You should get that. Given your talent for it.”
Sometime later, the cart trundled over the bridge and passed the Conciergerie in silence. After they passed it, all three men agreed in muted tones that they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of search teams being sent out or an alarm being raised.
A short distance from the Cock’s Roost, David and Marcus leapt off the back of the cart. They separated then, each taking a different route to the tavern.
“Rags? Rags?” A bearded vendor in a red cap waved a handful of worn fabric in Marcus’s direction.
“Fresh oysters? Fresh oysters?” A woman called, as Marcus passed an array of buckets filled with shellfish and gray water.
“Wet your lips?” A gap-toothed man with a barrel on his back stepped in front of Marcus, holding out a cup chained to the keg.
Marcus wasn’t certain whether it was the way he swung his fake stump towards the man’s face or the aroma of fresh dung rising from his clothes that made the fellow hastily step back.
Catching sight of the sign featuring a bantam rooster sporting a bicorne with a tricolor rosette, he lengthened his stride.
Entering the tavern, he saw David leaning against the bar, a glass of wine in his hand.
Marcus threaded his way around the crowded tables, taking a seat at the end of a long table at the opposite end of the room.
Its surface was littered with half-empty wine bottles and glasses, the seats around it with national guardsmen engaged in heated conversation at one end.
Motioning for a serving maid to bring him a bottle of his own, he pulled out a clay pipe.
His fake stump served as a handy excuse to slide closer to the soldiers and request assistance with a light.
As the nearest one waved a hand at Marcus’s pungent aroma, and fumbled with his flint box, Marcus listened.
“It’s not fair. They’re always assigning us to the lower cells.”
“I swear, I’m turning into a bat, I spend so much time in the dark. And don’t get me started on the stench. Worse than that fellow there.” He eyed Marcus.
“What I wouldn’t give for a few days on a floor with windows.”
“And women.”
Over the course of the next two hours, Marcus consumed a mediocre cassoulet, nursed a bottle of wine that was well on its way to becoming vinegar, and listened to a litany of complaints about wives who couldn’t prepare a proper veal stew, mothers-in-law who didn’t know when to mind their own business, and officers who couldn’t tell the difference between a treacherous whoreson and a truly honest, hardworking soldier.
He was preparing to ask for the bill when a new group of soldiers pulled up chairs at the table. They sent the serving maid rushing off to fill their orders before Marcus had a chance to attract her attention.
“So, I’ve been on my feet all night, and I take one moment—just a moment to lean against the wall.
I mean, it’s dark and the cell doors are all shut tight as you please, and this son of a bitch comes by and starts lecturing me on how I need to straighten up because I’m representing the people,” said a soldier with thinning brown hair.
His companions made sympathetic noises as the serving maid set down a tray of glasses and two bottles of wine. She uncorked one and began pouring.
“I’m guarding enemies of the people.” The soldier slapped his chest. “Most of ‘em will be headless in a ditch by the end of the week. Why the hell does it matter how I stand?”
The soldier next to him, a man with eyes so close set he appeared fascinated by his own nose, nodded in agreement. “Bastard lectured me about how my uniform looks sloppy. Like that’s his job as a prosecutor?”
Prosecutor? Marcus’s pipe had gone out; he nudged his neighbor for a light.
“Sloppy,” the man repeated, shaking his head, “As if the rat fuckers are going to escape because my waistcoat’s unbuttoned.”
“It’s hot as hell in there.”
“I’d like to see him stand guard all night.”
The bar maid finished filling their glasses and left after reassuring the men she’d be back shortly with their food.
“Fouquier-Tinville’s wife must have changed the stick up his ass last night.” The guards’ snorts of laughter were accompanied by cautious looks to determine whether anyone might be listening. “Because he was on a tear this morning.”
One of those looks landed on Marcus; he tilted his head back and blew a neat set of smoke rings into the air.
“I hear a prisoner escaped last night,” a young guard with greasy blond hair said in a hushed voice.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“No one has ever escaped the Conciergerie.”
“No, no,” the brown-haired guard said, “I heard it, too. A woman.”
“How?”
“No one knows. All I heard is when they did the roll call this morning, one was missing.”
Marcus took another puff of his pipe, schooling his face to appear disinterested.
“I heard it was the daughter of that old finance minister.”
“Necker?”
“No, he’s in Geneva. De Joley. Comte Verignac.”
“Now there’s one that’s overdue for a date with Mme Guillotine.”
“I heard he’s in Austria.”
“I’ve heard he’s hiding in Jura.”
“I heard he took half the treasury with him.”
“Bastard.”
“Someone must have paid to get her out.”
“Who’d they pay?” The soldiers all leaned closer. “Not Fouquier-Tinville?”
Marcus set down his pipe and leaned forward, pretending to scratch his ankle.
“They say he takes money to let certain people go,” the blond guard hissed.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Man’s so straight, I bet he doesn’t even bend to take a shit.”
“If he’s been paid to let this one go, then why’s he in such a foul temper?”
One of the soldiers snickered. “Maybe the assignats turned out to be fakes.”
“I haven’t heard of any alarms. Are they out looking for her?”
Marcus froze mid-scratch.
“Not that I know of. That’s what makes the whole thing smell….”
“And here, I thought the smell was you.”
“More like that fellow there.” One of the soldiers cocked his thumb at Marcus. “He smells like horse shit.”
“Citizens.” The serving maid had returned with a tray full of bowls; she began setting them down.
The clatter of dishes and utensils interrupted the conversation and by the time all the soldiers had been served, the conversation had moved on to protests over the cross-eyed man’s attempt to steal food from his neighbor’s plate.
“Dubois, you’re such a pig.”
“Liberty, equality, fraternity. Means I’m free to take your chicken leg because we’re brothers, doesn’t it?”
Marcus waited a bit longer, but the conversation moved on and he heard nothing more useful.
He glanced over at the bar, wondering if Aylesworth’s eavesdropping was proving any more productive.
Catching his eye, David made an almost imperceptible gesture with his fingers, signaling he was ready to leave.
Marcus rose, dumped the ashes from his pipe into his half-empty plate, and tossed a handful of coins on the table.
“Good news,” he said, when he met up with Aylesworth several blocks from the tavern. “They know she’s missing, but they haven’t sent out any search parties.”
“Seems you were correct about the good prosecutor’s desire to cover up his role in the escape.”
Marcus began to whistle.
“Though I wouldn’t be quite so cheerful if I were you,” David’s tone was so grim it stopped Marcus mid trill.
“They may not be looking for the lady, but they’re sure as hell looking for you.”
“We already knew that.”
David drew a wrinkled pamphlet out of his pocket. “Yes, but now they have a picture.”