The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 6

She peered into the bag again and saw lots of other containers made of roughly the same material-maybe ten of them. She pulled out several. There was another Pureology-lavender one, but this sloshed in a very different way. The liquid inside was more the consistency of water. There was no cork or stopper. How did one get into it? Wait. A little half -moon on the top of the bottle looked like it could be pressed. The top popped up, revealing a small hole. She sniffed. It smelled almost like alcohol, medicinal.

She shook several other containers. They all sloshed like the second one, no matter what was written on their outside.

Experimenting, she found that some had tops that twisted off. The medicinal smell of the liquid inside was overwhelming. She quickly capped them up. Medicine? Someone must be very sick.

What a strange valise. Prost.i.tute's clothes, a sword, hair soap, and lots of ... medicine?

Who would use this motley collection? And such odd things in themselves: bottles that gave to the touch, clothes that stretched without appearing to be knitted. They seemed the accoutrements of a lewd sorceress of some kind. She heaped the contents back inside.

Why hadn't the servants brought the valise to the wicked duc? How had the footman thought she had dropped it? She had never seen this strange case in her life.

Yes you have.

The feeling was so strong it washed over her in waves. Nausea swept over her. She hung her head for a moment until the feeling pa.s.sed.

This was ridiculous. She was in dire straits. A kind old lady was in prison and likely to be executed. She had lost her livelihood and might end in a brothel, if she didn't fall prey to the wicked duc first, or anger him so that he abandoned her to the tender mercies of Robespierre and his supporters. She had no friends in a world gone mad with suspicion and bloodl.u.s.t. Things were bad.

But she had to get hold of herself.

She stared at the bag. It seemed squat and almost evil sitting there, its contents spilling out. She c.o.c.ked her head. Her hand reached for the sword handle. The leather strips were rough.

Use it.

She dropped the sword as though it were a coal from the grate. What was happening here? It was almost as though she had heard the words inside her mind. Shaking, she pushed the sword into the bag with the very tip of one finger and pulled the little tab.

The metal teeth closed together, sealing it. She should march down right now and return this valise to the footman.

That would be a mistake that would change everything from now until forever.

She felt the knowledge in her bones. It was the strangest feeling. How would it change things? Was the dreadful thing she'd been worried she'd have to do tonight all about this valise and its contents? She wasn't going to use a sword on anybody, least of all the duc who was the only thing standing between her and the guillotine.

This thing was evil. She should get rid of it.

A stab of pain shot through her head. She couldn't do it. She couldn't get rid of the valise when she wasn't sure about the consequences. Mother Mary, she wasn't sure of anything.

Maybe your purpose can wait until you try to save Madame ...

The pain eased. She looked around. If she couldn't get rid if it, she still didn 't want anyone else finding it. The wardrobe?

Annette would look in there. Her dressing room?

In the end, she stuck with the tried and true and shoved the valise under the bed, right under the headboard. Then she doused the candles and crawled up under the duvet. She was sure she wouldn't sleep a wink tonight in a house like this, waiting for its owner to come back from whatever debaucheries he was indulging, with such a thing stuffed under her bed.

Thoughts whirled in her head. The fire and Madame Croute shouting for her death. The full feeling she 'd had all evening. The feeling of deja vu that wouldn't go away. And then the image of her cleaving the wicked duc's neck with the sword. Was that a vision? It had seemed so real. But she would never do something like that. She hoped. Was she going mad? And now she must get Madame out of prison, or her friend would go to the guillotine. How, if the wicked duc wouldn't help? And who would hire her?

She couldn't think ...

She was talking to Avignon. Just talking. And it was the most frightening experience she'd ever had. Her soul trembled as she watched his mouth. She couldn't hear what he was saying. The cut-gla.s.s tumbler he held caught the light and gleamed. The gla.s.s was evil. She knew it, and the man who held it even more so. And then he stared at her and deliberately dropped the gla.s.s. It shattered in a thousand evil pieces. One separated from the others, and defied gravity to bounce back up and cut his hand. Blood, bright red, bloomed on his wrist. She reached out ...

Francoise started up, clutching her hand to her chest as though to trap it. She gasped for breath as fear washed through her.

What kind of nightmare was that? She was afraid of a gla.s.s?

She shook herself back to reality. She was in the wicked duc's house. Dark shapes of the furniture huddled in the corners. It was so stuffy in here. No wonder she couldn't catch her breath. She rose and went to the window where a lighter sky peeked through the draperies. She pulled them back. The trees in the wide park across the street were alive with birds. Their sleepy calls foretold the sun. Already servants scurried to be first at the market. Wagons rumbled through the side streets. Horses were being exercised on the tracks in the huge park. The city exploded with noise and smells though the day had hardly begun. This was the Paris she knew. And loved. Paris had been so foreign and so overwhelming when she had first come from Lady Toumoult's estate in Provence. But now being here seemed right and true.

Then she saw him below her. One figure that stood out among the others, if only by its insouciant, strolling gait as it moved out of the darkness across the park.

Her lips drew together in a thin line. It could only be the wicked duc. She had risen early many times to watch for his return and dream that he gave up his depraved ways for the simple girl he loved more than life itself. How stupid that felt now. She didn't even like him.

Well, she needn't like him. What she needed was for him to intercede on behalf of Madame LaFleur. She was afraid to ask him.

He might just throw her out. But what choice did she have? She watched him disappear into the arcade below her window.

There was no time to dress. Avignon would be on his way to bed. She pulled on a scandalous cherry -red dressing gown.

Hurrying down the hall, she tried to think of some argument that would weigh with him.

There he was, just coming up the stairs. Even now, with her mind fully on Madame and her plight, the coruscating energy around him made her feel a bit light in the head.

"Your grace." She dropped a hurried curtsy.

He looked resigned. "You're up early."

She stepped to the top of the stairs, blocking his path. She could look him in the eye from here. Those eyes were impossibly dark. Yet, they were not flat black as one would suppose if one only saw them from a distance. Silver-gold flecks floated in them.

Really, they were quite the oddest eyes she'd ever encountered. They looked like the night sky, gleaming with stars. No one would ever suspect that his eyes held such depths unless they were close enough to see them as she did now. A lover perhaps, an enemy.

And she, what was she? She should have been surprised at his eyes, but she was not. She knew those eyes, had always known them.

She almost forgot herself. It was that easy to get lost in those eyes. "I ... I wanted to talk to you about Madame."

He raised a black eyebrow. She'd never seen an expression so disdainful. "Another time."

"You helped me-"

He grasped her upper arms and set her firmly aside. His touch burned her even through her dressing gown. He froze, his hands locked about her arms. She looked into those dark eyes and saw a flame ignite there. Did that touch affect him as it did her? She felt again that she had always known him. Or that she had never known him at all.

"Your grace, will you take some refreshment before you retire?"

Both Avignon and Francoise jerked toward the sound of Gaston's voice. The servant glanced from one to the other. A look of surprise crossed his face before it went blank.

"I am going directly to bed." And with that, Avignon set Francoise aside and pushed past her. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushed his right arm.

He jerked his head around to look at her, as though arrested by the effect of that touch. She could say nothing. Her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth. The man could make her womanly parts ache with just a touch.

He pulled his gaze away and strode down the hall in the opposite direction of her own bedroom. He opened the last door on the right. That must be his bedroom. A dapper gentleman in a well -cut coat hurried up from what must be a back stairs for the servants.

"Your grace?" he asked as he followed Avignon in. "May I a.s.sist ... ?"

The door closed. Francoise felt as though a light had been doused. She looked around in a daze. How was she ever to ask Avignon to save Madame, when he wouldn't even speak to her? And she had to move quickly. She had the worst feeling that Madame did not have much time.

"Be ready at a moment's notice today, mademoiselle." Gaston bowed.

"For what?" she asked, a little dazed still.

"For your appointment with La Fanchon, of course." Gaston smiled under his prim mustache. "I feel sure I shall achieve success in arranging one." He retreated down the stairs.

She turned back to her own room. Madame couldn't be condemned immediately. It took weeks to be brought before the Committee of Public Safety. And more time still to join the parade of tumbrels on the way to the Place de Revolution and the hungry Madame Guillotine.

But knowing all that didn't remove the sense of urgency. She must help Madame before it was too late. And something inside told her it would be too late very, very soon.

Francoise, dressed in her charred morning dress, stood near the front of the long, sweating line that twisted up to the gatehouse of the Conciergerie under the Tour d'Argent. It had taken her all day to get this far. The fourteenth-century palace was now the largest prison in Paris and the least savory. The fumes off the Seine added to the stench from the twenty -four hundred or so prisoners inside at any given time. Madame LaFleur was here, or so said the guard after he consulted a long scroll br.i.m.m.i.n.g with names. It was the fourth prison she'd tried. She'd hoped Madame would have been taken to one of the converted monasteries.

Conditions were better there. If she didn't get in before they closed the gates at sunset, she'd have to start all over again tomorrow.

If only she'd had money for a bribe she could have seen Madame at noon.

Some in line had been coming here for months. They carried packets of food, clothing, pillows, bottles of wine, small children, anything that could be a comfort to those within. Francoise wished she had thought to bring something for Madame. The garrulous woman in front of her was finally let in the gate. It must be after seven.

As she drew closer to the guardhouse, she'd heard them talking.

"But how is it done? How?"

"Me, I would like to see that captain do any better job than we have done preventing it."

"They just disappear ... Alors, one cannot prevent that."

"And the prisoners, they will not say how this thing is done no matter our persuasion."

"Me, I think they do not know," one said almost under his breath. Francoise strained to hear. Were people escaping from prison? Hope thrilled in her breast. At least someone got out of here other than in a tumbrel or a casket. But maybe the guards just miscounted.

"And now we count, and count. What good? The numbers, they only get smaller."

She wasn't the only one to think they'd miscounted.

"Always it is families or children. It is strange, n'est-ce pas?"

"Perhaps it is over. It has been, what, three days?"

"Your money is mine if you care to wager on that." This was said with disgust.

She might have heard more, but it was her turn. A youngish guard in a blue and red uniform that had seen better days and needed a good cleaning jerked a thumb in Francoise's direction. She hurried forward, through a small side gate. She hurried past guards playing cards, guffawing loudly, and contributing to the general aroma of sweating human bodies.

"Come quickly, girl," her guard said impatiently. "I am nearly off my shift."

She hurried behind him. He led her down narrow stone stairs into a huge, windowless room. It must be belowground. The stone ceiling was supported by Romanesque arches disappearing into the shadows above. The click of their boots echoed in the immensity. At least it was cool down here. But then he opened a heavy wooden door strapped with metal fittings and led her down a corridor lined with cells. Huge bolts secured the grated doors. The cells themselves were packed with people. Each cell must have more than fifty prisoners in it. Old, young, women, men-they were all packed in together. The noise in the stone corridor was deafening from conversation, shouting, even laughter, as out of place as that seemed. With a start, she saw that some cells held children. She had heard that the committee had taken to condemning whole families just to make sure the antirevolutionary fervor was rooted out, not only of this generation, but of generations to come. To see children in such surroundings brought home that these policies were lunacy.

Hands stretched out to her as she walked by, but other prisoners just stared, vacant-eyed. They were by far more frightening.

At last the guard stopped in front of a cell no different than the others. "In here," he said.

She could see nothing behind the first row of prisoners pushed up against the bars. "Madame?" she called. "Madame LaFleur?"

"She is in the back," a sad-eyed man of perhaps thirty said. He carried a towheaded boy of about four in grimy short pants in one arm, pressed up against the bars. Perhaps the air was better toward the front. "She will never be able to push her way to the fore."

"Oh, dear." Francoise's eyes welled. Was Madame even alive back there? The sad-eyed man pursed his lips as though making a decision. He set down the child in the crush against the bars. "Watch my boy," he said to Francoise and began to shove his way back into the throng. "Make way there! Make way." The little boy began to cry.

Francoise knelt. "And what is your name, brave boy?"

"Emile," the child snuffled. He turned up a dirty face streaked with tears. "Is Papa coming back?" The throng had swallowed his father but his continued progress was betrayed by the wave of angry protests.

"Of course he'll come back," she said briskly. "Where is your mama?" Tears welled again in the child's eyes. Francoise had a horrible feeling she shouldn't have asked.

"They took her. Papa says she isn't coming back."

Francoise stuck her arms through the bars and held the child, shushing softly. What villainy was this that could tear families apart?

A woman pressed above them murmured soft encouragement. They stayed like that, aching, until Emile 's father reemerged, a breathless Madame LaFleur in tow.

"Oh, madame, how glad I am to see you," Francoise said. "Thank you, monsieur. May I know your name?"

The sad-eyed man picked up his clinging boy and smiled. "I was the Comte d'Ambroney. In these troubled times, call me Christophe St. Navarre."

"You have a brave boy, Comte."

The man smiled at his son, but the smile was wistful. "He is the best of me."

Madame pushed the last few feet through to bars. She reached through the grating and grabbed Francoise 's hand, her expression clouded. "You should not have come here." She glanced to the guard. "It is too dangerous to be seen with me."

"And could I let you languish here alone? Not likely." She leaned in. It was not as if their conversation could be private what with people pressed in on either side of them. "My benefactor will secure your release, I'm sure," she whispered.

Madame's old eyes held pity in them. That surprised Francoise. It was she who should pity her friend. Madame was about to say something, then thought better of it. "Of course," she said lightly. "Your benefactor, he is good to you?"

"I had lobster for dinner last night with a salt cellar on the table."

Madame frowned. "I'm sure you did. But is he good to you?"

Francoise snorted. "Good? Avignon? The two words cannot exist in the same sentence."

Madame shook her head. "I mean ... is he a gentleman?" she whispered.

Francoise smiled ruefully. "What would a man like him want with a girl like me?"

Madame grimaced. "If I need to tell you that, you are in more danger than I thought."

Francoise blushed. "You needn't worry. He thinks me a nuisance. But he will intercede on your behalf and then we will be comfortable again."

Again the look of pity. Francoise was about to protest that look when the guard interrupted. "You there, girl. Enough. You come back tomorrow if you want to chat." He prodded Francoise away. She stretched her hand back to Madame, who reached out through the bars to prolong the human contact.