Page 51 of A Fierce Wind

In his clothing at least, her uncle looked more like a merchant than the nobleman he was. A white cravat was the only adornment to his black coat, waistcoat and breeches. Zoé, too, had changed her clothing and now wore a gray dress of simple design.

Once the carriage passed through the arched entrance to the courtyard, it stopped in front of glass doors leading to the salon. Her uncle climbed down and greeted Flèche, who beamed his delight at the sight of the man he still called “Capitaine”.

Taking her uncle’s hat and sword, the butler passed them to a waiting footman. Where once Flèche had proudly worn a wig and elaborately embroidered waistcoat, now he dressed in a simpler style, as did the household servants, so as not to raise suspicions of wealth when they traveled about the streets.

Her uncle handed her down from the carriage and Zoé set her hat aright with its mandatory tricolor cockade. Surveying the inner courtyard, she wondered at the peaceful setting in a city where so much turmoil prevailed.

“Lest you worry,” said her uncle, “it might interest you to know that Robespierre moved in the last few years to a rather elegant apartment on rue Saint-Honoré. Not every revolutionary lives in squalor.”

Émile climbed down and muttered to Flèche, “’Tis good to be back,” before handing his tricorne and sword to the waiting footman.

As they entered the salon, Zoé took off her hat, marking the few changes in the room she noticed. The walls were still paneled in bird’s-eye maple inlaid with slabs of cream-colored marble. The red velvet chairs and comfortable salmon-colored sofa remained around the fireplace, but the silver candlesticks and her uncle’s gilded desk had been removed to Guernsey.

“Gaspar will be along shortly,” Flèche informed them before directing the footman to serve coffee and tea.

Her eyes darting from M’sieur Bequel to her uncle, Zoé accepted a cup of tea but did not take a seat. She was anxious to be about Freddie’s rescue.

In a grave tone, her uncle said, “We come on a matter of dire importance, Flèche, to rescue one of our own from the Conciergerie.”

The butler’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Why, that prison is one step from the—”

“To be specific,” her uncle interrupted, “the man we hope to rescue is my wife’s brother, Frederick West.”

In other words, thought Zoé, they were committed no matter the danger. For that, she was grateful.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Flèche. “An Englishman in the Conciergerie. We must make haste.”

“Pray we are in time,” said her uncle. “Meanwhile, I intend to call in a favor owed me by François de Dordogne to see what can be done.”

Flèche scratched his head of dark curls as if puzzled.

“If the name is familiar,” put in M’sieur Bequel, “’tis the scoundrel who was to marry the capitaine’s daughter, Claire, but was discovered to be a sodomite wanting to disguise his forbidden life with a respectable marriage.”

Dawning recognition appeared in Flèche’s eyes. “Ah, oui, I do remember him. He still lives after that?”

“Fortuitously, I allowed him his life,” said Zoé’s uncle, his dark eyes flashing with remembered anger. “As it happens, he now works for the Committee of Public Safety. Send him a message to call upon me immediately.”

The butler bowed. “Consider it done, Capitaine.”

Gaspar arrived a few minutes later to warm greetings from the men with whom he had once served on la Reine Noire. Zoé had not met him but was soon introduced.

M’sieur Bequel patted the former ship’s carpenter on the back. “Ye appear prosperous even in this time of revolution, old friend.”

“Well,” said Gaspar, his face brown from his time in the sun, “for some years, my work involved cabinets for the aristocracy and desks for the lawyers, a lucrative business. Now, of course, I make carts to transport the revolution’s victims to the guillotines and coffins for those who can afford them. A sad business but one has to feed one’s family. I now have five children.”

“You are blessed with a full quiver,” said Zoé’s uncle, “but the tales of your family will have to wait. We come on a matter of great urgency. Let us move to my study.”

Her uncle greeted visitors in the salon, but it was in his study the real business took place, be it privateering or plotting revenge. The shutters in the book-lined room were open to allow light to fall on his large desk where he unrolled a map of Paris.

Pointing to the ancient palace on the Seine River, he asked Gaspar, “What do you know of the dungeons of the Conciergerie?”

“Nothing good, Capitaine. There are many prisons in Paris, all overcrowded thanks to Robespierre and his friends, but that one is the worst. To be transferred there means a prisoner will soon meet the tribunal and then the guillotine, sometimes in the same day.”

“I meant,” said her uncle, “what can you tell me of its rooms and corridors, its procedures. We have a prisoner to rescue, my brother-in-law to be exact.”

Gaspar’s eyes grew wide. “Sacrebleu!” Gulping down a swig of his coffee, he said, “I have delivered benches and a few beds to the Conciergerie. I can tell you what I know.” All eyes focused on Gaspar as he continued. “There is a principal jailor who sits by the entrance to the immense room above the dungeons. He determines what visitors will be allowed inside. It depends, of course, upon his mood, the assignats offered him and,” with a glance directed at Zoé, “whether the visitor be man or woman.”

“And the cells?” asked her uncle. “Are they kept locked?”