François experienced a sharp pang of regret Through these past two years they had been companions and, at times, even friends. Danton’s had been a clear, sane voice in a mumbling chorus of madmen. François’s life would be emptier and certainly lacking in color without Georges Jacques. “I understand.”
He turned and left the study.
The next day a messenger delivered an envelope to François’s lodgings. When he broke the seal and took out the document he found it to be a certificate of appointment for François Etchelet as special agent of the convention with orders to take up residence immediately in the Temple.
“You’re alone again,” Nana said disapprovingly to Juliette. “I told you—”
“But I’m not dressed at all richly,” Juliette interrupted. “I have on a linen gown just like your own, and I’m far less handsome than you and therefore should attract even less attention. You must tell everyone I’m your new apprentice.” She made a face. “It’s the truth, for I’ve found these fans impossible to make. I was far too sure of myself. It’s always been one of my most grievous faults. You must show me.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And there are questions I would ask.”
Nana stood up. “Come with me. I have my materials on a work table in the back room of the café.”
The small room to which Nana took Juliette contained only four kegs of wine against the far wall and a work table on which a variety of paper, ribbons, and wooden spines were scattered.
“Sit down.” Nana sat down across from her at the table and reached for the scissors. “What questions?”
“François. He’s one of you?”
“His real name is William Darrell.” Nana began to cut the coarse paper. “I think that should answer you.”
“For how long?”
“Since the start of the revolution.”
“Then when he came to the abbey he was trying to help us?”
Nana shook her head. “He was sent to the abbey by Danton. He didn’t know what was going to happen there.” She shrugged. “But even after he saw what was happening he could do nothing to help without revealing who he was. That would have meant his value to us would be ended. It was saving a few then or perhaps thousands later.”
“I don’t know if I could have made that decision.”
“He’s been making those choices for the last two years,” Nana said. “Who will die. Who we can save.”
“You admire him.”
“He’s a brave man.” Nana’s expression became shuttered. “And now I’ll show you how to make these fans. What was your problem?”
The subject of François was evidently closed as far as Nana was concerned.
Juliette shrugged. “Everything. But I had most trouble gluing the two pieces together without destroying my painting.”
“You’re using the wrong glue. I use only a special glue made for me of boiled-down shreds of hide, skin, and bones.”
Juliette made a face. “It sounds revolting.”
“It smells that way too, but it has firmness yet give. You must use only a little or it will destroy either the mount or the sticks.” Nana handed her a vial of glue and two wooden hoops. “Then you stretch the paper very tightly on the hoops and let it dry for two days. After that you can paint your picture.”
“What about the sticks?”
“After the fan is folded.” Nana gestured to a walnut mold into which were cut twenty grooves radiating out from the same spot. “You must get a machine like this and then take great care. You get no second chances when you’re pleating. Then the sticks are carefully inserted between the leaves. If the leaf is to be single, the sticks are attached to the back and some decoration must be painted on the back to hide them. You must let them dry a full day. More if you use silk or kidskin foryour mount. Then you put a rivet through the sticks to hold them together and thread your ribbons and decorations.”
Juliette laughed and shook her head ruefully. “Great heavens, and all this to alleviate the heat of the day.”
“In the time of the pharaohs the fan was used as a symbol of power.” Nana’s eyes twinkled. “But I think Madame Pompadour and Madame Du Barry wielded far more influence with theirs.”
“How did you learn all this?” Juliette asked curiously.
“My husband’s mother owned a fan shop in Lyon. My father delivered the fans to Madame Sarpelier’s clients but he was never overfond of work. When I was thirteen he married me off to Jacques Sarpelier.” Nana made a face. “Poor Jacques had a cleft mouth and was ugly as sin, but everyone believed it was a fine bargain for all of them. Madame Sarpelier thought I’d make a fine worker in the shop, Jacques thought I’d make a hardworking servant in his house and meekly accept him in bed, my father thought to secure his position in her employ.”
“And for you?”
