Page 46 of Souvenir Heart

He caught her before her head could strike the cell’s stone wall. His movement was swift, his hand firm against her skull.

Mustn’t deliver the goods damaged. She righted herself and he released her.

“For the money?” she repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Your father promised me a handsome sum if I returned you to him.” He shrugged. “And I’ve sworn to do so.”

She frowned. Did mercenaries usually swear oaths? And then another thought struck her. If he’d been paid to take her to her father’s, might he accept more to take her somewhere else when they reached England? She had more than enough money to tempt him in her account in Geneva.

“Still, since you still seem unconvinced I’m here to help you, try thinking about it another way: you may not trust me, but you can trust what will come to pass if you don’t allow me to help you.”

“There is no need to seek to frighten me, Citizen Tisset,” she said stiffly. She had no trouble imagining the cart, the plank, the whistle of the blade as it hurtled towards her neck. No need to be reminded she was dithering…again.

She squared her shoulders, noticing that even as he was attempting to frighten her, Marcus’s arm remained stretched behind her back as if preparing to catch her again. “So, what do you propose?”

Some of the coiled tension in his body eased. “You’ll find a slit in the far side of your mattress.”

Marguerite reached out a hand to feel for confirmation, but he moved with startling speed, catching her wrist. She was keenly aware of her pulse beating against the rough warmth of his fingers.

“Apologies, madame, if the lumpiness causes any discomfort, but I’d suggest you not rummage about now. While your cellmates may believe we’re lovers, flipping the mattress might rouse suspicions among even the most romantically inclined among them.”

“What did you put there?” She eyed him with suspicion. “If the guards stage one of their infrequent inspections, it would be useful to know what I will be accused of smuggling…”

“Just a few items of clothing,” he reassured her, adding, almost as an afterthought, “Men’s clothing. If the guards do find it, tell them you wanted to keep something of your lover’s close to you. When I return, I’ll bring more. And request a visit from your lawyer Andre de Saint-Just. He’ll bring some too.”

“De Saint-Just, is he…” She wanted to ask if he was related to Louis de Saint-Just, Robespierre’s most zealous ally. She wasn’t ready to trust Marcus, but he was right, she did trust what would happen if she didn’t take the chance he was offering. So instead, she asked, “Is he truly a lawyer?”

“Truly?” A wry smile altered the line of his severe mouth. “Truth and Andre are rarely in the same room. But what we say in the moment, Mme de Rouvroy, is far less important than what we do.”

He released her wrist and placed a finger to her lips.

Marguerite resisted the urge to bite it.

“Send for Saint-Just. Wait. Watch. You have my word. We will not let you die in here.”

Thirty-Two

The setting sun was making the prison’s limestone walls look as if they were bathed in water-washed blood. David Aylesworth leaned against the wall across from the Conciergerie, idly observing the flow of traffic through its prison gate. In his hands, he held a piece of soft wax which he’d used to shape the design of a key Marcus had drawn for him.

He’d made the finished piece in iron. Small enough to smuggle into the prison without being detected. A seemingly impossible task, but then, that was his favorite kind. It had taken him nearly three days to find a smithy within their network of spies and to craft a satisfactory replica. The key was inside a small box in his coat pocket.

David dropped the wax into a different coat pocket and pulled out a clay pipe and tobacco. He had no idea how anyone could enjoy filling their mouth and lungs with what tasted to him like burning garden trash. But, as Andre was fond of pointing out, “when you’re having a pipe, no one questions why you’re hanging about or whether you’re waiting for someone. You’re just a fellow enjoying a smoke.”

Filling the pipe’s bowl, he clamped the stem between his teeth and drew out his tinderbox. Flipping open the lid, he slipped the steel onto his finger, struck the flint, and caught the spark on a match.

Before touching the splinter to the tobacco, David took a moment to admire the instant flammability of the chemicals he’d applied to the wood. He had several ideas for how the concoction might come in handy.

Puffing on the pipe and trying not to cough, he passed the time speculating on how he could design a portable laboratory. Something similar to the art box he’d built for Marcus, but on a larger scale? Of course, then he’d have to make more modifications to the coach. And compensate for the added weight on the vehicle’s springs.

The sky darkened from orange to red, gradually deepening to blue, as he waited. Lanterns flared to life on the barges moored along the banks of the Seine, as well as on the exteriors of buildings facing the river, and atop posts along the Pont au Change.

He continued to smoke, observing the comings and goings at the gate, and resisted the urge to check his pocket watch.

A short time later, he heard Andre Scott’s rich tenor singing a verse from the “Carmagnole,” “Antoinette had decided to drop us on our arses, but the plan was foiled and she fell on her face.” Andre was dressed in a suit of marine blue that made him nearly invisible in the deepening shadows.

As he neared, he drew a pipe with an elaborately embossed bowl from his pocket, held it out and said, loudly enough for anyone who might be observing them to hear, “Hey, citizen, have you a light?”

“But of course.” David pulled a match from his tinderbox, touched it to the embers in his pipe, and, when it flared to life, held it out.