“Catherine is gentle. Did it save her?” Her fingers rose to rub her temples wearily. “I can’t really trust anyone. Everything is different now, isn’t it?”
François gazed at her for a moment. “Yes.” He turned. “I’ll have a word with Robert.”
As he left the room Juliette could feel the tension flow from her muscles, and a wave of exhaustion caused her to sway. She reached out blindly to clutch at the table next to her. She mustn’t give in to weakness. Catherine needed her, and the saints knew there was no one else she could count on. François Etchelet’s aid had been grudging at best, and he might balk at any moment. Danton obviously would help only to the extent Etchelet could persuade him, and Jean Marc Andreas was somewhere flitting around the countryside when Catherine needed him. Those strangers had no connection with Catherine, but Jean Marc had a responsibility toward her. Why hadn’t he come to the abbey for her before this monstrous thing could happen?
The surge of anger against Jean Marc momentarily banished her exhaustion and she welcomed it. She could deal with anger as she could not with fear and frustration. She needed to hold on for just a little longer and then she could rest. She would talk to Marie and Robert and then go find a bedchamber for herself. She would wash and then sleep and gain strength for the morrow.
She had picked up the candelabrum from the table and started for the door when a glimmer of color in the corner of the room caught her eye. She stopped abruptly, her gaze on the wall to the left of the doorway. Holding the candelabrum higher, she moved slowly forward until she stood before the small painting on the wall.
The Wind Dancer.
She could execute it much better now, but it wasnot such a bad effort. Still, it was not as superior as the Bouchers, Doyens, Fragonards, and other artists whose works graced the walls. She frowned in puzzlement as she glanced around the room. The salon was decorated with restrained good taste, its white-paneled walls covered with exquisite gold arabesques, the furniture carefully fashioned of finest woods. Everything in the room whispered of excellence. So why had Jean Marc Andreas hung her painting here? She moved her shoulders uneasily. For that matter, why had she painted it for him? It was the real Wind Dancer he had wanted, not its likeness. She had told herself it was gratitude for arranging for her to be sent to the abbey, but was it something else? The memory of those days and nights at the inn had never entirely left her. Had she wanted him to remember her as she had remembered him over the years?
Nonsense. It was fascination with his face that held her enthralled. Nothing else. She had paid her debt and they were quits. She walked quickly from the room, returning the painting of the Wind Dancer to darkness.
“Your wounded lambs are settled?” Danton asked as François reached the carriage.
François nodded curtly.
“You don’t appear to be pleased to be rid of them.”
“I’m not rid of them. Juliette de Clement just told me she killed a man before she left the abbey.”
Danton gave a low whistle. “Which means we’ve not only aided an enemy of the state but a murderess of a hero of the revolution.” He chuckled. “I admit to respect for our little aristo. She has claws and is willing to use them.”
“On us.”
“Dupree’s been known to bargain. You could turn them over to him in return for forgetting our part in their escape.”
François had a sudden memory of Catherine Vasaro’s strained, bewildered expression in that last momentbefore Juliette had come back into the room. He knew well how she would fare in Dupree’s hands.
“Well?”
François climbed onto the driver’s seat beside Danton. “It would give Dupree a weapon to hold over our heads later. The more reasonable course would be to get the women safely out of Paris.”
Danton gave him a shrewd glance. “And we’re both reasonable men, are we not?” His lips twisted in an ironic smile. “Why else would we be here amid these ‘reasonable’ men who guard our nation?” He snapped the whip and the horses lurched forward. “Do what you will. But if you involve me in your downfall, I’ll deny you.”
“As Peter did Jesus?”
“Exactly.”
François slowly shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t deny me.”
“You think not?”
“You might curse me, you might even lay open my head with a bludgeon, but you wouldn’t deny me.” He shot Danton a sidewise glance and smiled faintly. “Why do you think I chose to come to you when I arrived in Paris two years ago? Everyone knows of your loyalty, Georges Jacques.”
Danton grimaced. “Life is not always so simple. Loyalty can waver in trying times.”
François didn’t reply.
“You stubborn idiot, listen to me. I’m like any other man. I became frightened and weary and greedy. And who should know better than you how corrupt I can be? Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone.”
François only smiled.
Danton sighed. “Very well. How do you intend we should get them out of Paris?”
François shrugged. “Something will occur to me.”
