A reluctant smile touched François’s lips. “Perhaps I’m in error, but Georges Jacques and I assumed you were seeking the same object after which Marat sent Dupree.”
Jean Marc’s expression hardened. “I could have wished you’d told me Dupree had been sent to Spain.”
“Perhaps I would have told you if I hadn’t been ‘taken ill.’ You encountered Dupree?”
“Yes.”
François looked quickly at Juliette. “He recognized you?”
She nodded. “But Jean Marc killed him.”
“Good.” An expression of savage pleasure flashed across François’s face before he turned to Jean Marc with his former composure. “Georges Jacques isn’t at all pleased I failed to obtain the object for him, but he would have been even less pleased to have it fall into Marat’s hands.”
“Marat won’t have it.” Jean Marc met François’s gaze. “You can assure him of that.”
François turned away. “Then I’ll leave you. I have to visit Georges Jacques at his home this afternoon. He hasn’t been at the convention all week.”
“Danton’s not well?”
“No, he’s not well at all,” François said, troubled. “His wife died last month and he’s been—” He searched for a word. “He’s not been acting reasonably.”
Juliette had a sudden memory of the pretty woman who had taken her to Danton’s study. “How sad. She was young, Jean Marc.”
François nodded. “Very young. Her death was unexpected and happened while Georges Jacques was in Belgium. When he returned, Camille Desmoulins said he went quite mad for a time. He made them dig up her coffin so that he could kiss her good-bye.” François shook his head regretfully. “I should have been with him.”
“You weren’t in Paris?” Jean Marc regarded him curiously. “Where were you?”
François hesitated. “Vasaro.”
“You didn’t return immediately to Paris?”
“No.”
“When did you return?” Juliette asked.
“Only a week before you arrived here.”
“May I ask why?” Jean Marc inquired.
François gazed at him levelly. “No, you may not I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and left the salon.
“Wait!” Juliette caught up with François as he reached the front door. “Then you left Catherine only a few weeks ago. Is she well?”
“Very well.”
“Why don’t you look at me? She’s not ill?”
“I told you she was well.” François reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I’m glad you followed me. This is for you.”
Juliette took the folded paper. “From Catherine?”
“No.” François opened the door. “Not from Catherine.”
Juliette frowned in puzzlement as she watched the door close behind him. His manner had been most peculiar when she mentioned Catherine, and she was not at all certain she believed him when he said all was well at Vasaro. She absently unfolded the paper he had handed her and glanced down at it.
She stiffened in shock. She knew that handwriting well.
The paper contained only one line of script.
