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One
Paris, The Reign ofTerror
The king was dead. The queen was dead. The country was at war and thousands faced starvation as winter approached, promising to be just as harsh and unforgiving as in years past. Tumbrels stacked with corpses fouled the streets, the bodies polluting the Seine when they were dumped unceremoniously into its waters. The cemeteries were filled to bursting. Death and the stench of death was a pall over the city of Paris. And this man—this so-calledpatriot—thought to lecture her on the theater’s choice of play.
Alexandra Martin—Alex to her friends and lovers—tapped her foot impatiently. Her foot was hidden by her skirts. Her face was not, and that she schooled into an expression of rapt attention.
“Voltaire’sIrèneandThe Marriage of Figaro,” the patriot droned. “Those are the only acceptable plays to be performed in the Republic.”
The patriot’s name was Citoyen Chevalier—Tristan Chevalier—and Alex knew where he lived, what he ate for breakfast, whom he slept with, and where he’d received the scar on his jaw. He had been a printer before he’d joined the revolution. His father had been one of the delegates sent to the National Assembly, and the son had stayed in Paris and run the family business. His parents and his sister were dead now. His brother fought with the army on the front, and Tristan Chevalier no longer printed inflammatory pamphlets andlibelles. Now he worked for Robespierre, doing the bloodthirsty leader’s dirty work.
Today that included warning the actors and owners of the People’s Theater, where Alex had been part of the company for the past eight years, that the doors to the theater would be closed and the actors imprisoned if they did not abandon their current offering—Julius Caesar.
“Shakespeare’s plays,” Chevalier said, reading from a small notebook with a worn blue leather cover, “most especially the histories, such asJulius Caesar,are not permitted.”
“Why not?” one of the actors asked.
Chevalier raised eyes the color of café au lait. He looked at each of the actors in turn, trying to discern who had spoken. His eyes rested on Alex only briefly. It had been a man’s voice, so she did not interest him. Nevertheless, in that brief instant, she felt her neck grow warm and the heat rise to her face.
“Because,” Chevalier answered, “Robespierre has deemed it so.”
And Robespierre had probably read Shakespeare and realized that a play about a tyrant might provoke unwanted comparisons in the citizens who viewed it. Much better to keep the public’s enmity focused on theancien régime,now being systematically eradicated on the guillotine’s scaffold each day.
“I am happy to answer any further questions,” Chevalier said, closing his notebook and securing it in his waistcoat, “at the Salle des Machines.”
And from thence the offending actor could easily be sent to the Conciergerie to await trial—or what passed for a trial in this city forsaken by justice.
When no one else spoke, Chevalier turned neatly on the heel of his polished boots and started for the steps. The actors had been called together on the stage of the theater, as it was the only location in the building large enough to fit all of them, and now he walked off the stage and into the rows of seats. The theater was dark, the stage lit only by a scattering of candles and lamps, and his dark blue coat—much in the style of that worn by the National Guard—quickly blended in with the darkness.
She couldn’t let him go. In a sense, she’d orchestrated his presence here. She was the one who’d suggested the theater performJulius Caesarand then coaxed and cajoled Deville until he had persuaded the other theater managers. She’d known the play would not be permitted and Tristan Chevalier would be sent to shut it down. Bringing Robespierre’s lapdog here seemed the easiest and least suspicious way to carry out her mission. She’d been ordered to make contact with Chevalier by none other than the Scarlet Pimpernel. The Scarlet Pimpernel—the British hero who had saved so many from the guillotine and who many still argued was only a fiction.
As part of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Alex knew he was no fiction.
Alex went after Chevalier, lifting the hem of her tunic so she would not trip over it. She had been dressing for a rehearsal of the play when Chevalier had arrived and demanded their presence on the stage. Alex might have wished she wore something other than the white tunic with the gaudy gold piping and the black wig of tight curls encircled by a gold band, but she rather thought the flimsy white material might attract Chevalier’s attention.
“Citoyen!” she called, running lightly on her sandaled feet. Even in the semi-darkness, she saw his back stiffen. Then he paused and turned sharply to watch her approach.
