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The next morning she arrived at the theater early, only to discover that in light of the cancellation ofJulius Caesar,her presence was not required. The managers were discussing which of the plays approved by the Committee of Public Safety they might present instead, which really meant those plays that hadn’t already been performed all over the city a hundred times.
“I have no great love for Shakespeare, but I do have a fondness for bread.” Élodie, one of the other actresses in the company, followed Alex back into the street. “They may debate the play for days and in the meantime, we starve.”
It was true. If the actors were not performing, the theater was not taking in money, and no one was paid. With winter coming, everyone was keenly aware of the shortage of flour for bread and wood for fires.
“Deville and the others will figure out something,” Alex said, trying to sound reassuring, though she had no great expectations and not a little guilt at her role in the current crisis. The theater had been floundering for some time now, and if it wasn’t for the financial support of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Alex herself would be hungry.
“That is easy for you to say.” Élodie sniffed. “You have a man to look after you. I have only creditors, and if I cannot pay them with coin, they demand payment through other means.” She plucked at her wilted tricolor cockade, the symbol of the patriots. “I thought this revolution would help the poor. Instead, I find it has impoverished me!”
“Shh!” Alex grabbed Élodie’s arm and dragged her aside. “You take your life in your hands to criticize the government so openly.”
“So then I should wither away quietly and without protest?” Élodie put a hand to her forehead.
Alex suppressed a smile at the other actress’s dramatics. “Will you go to the festival today?”
“What are we celebrating? The beet root or is it the cricket?”
It might have been either of those. The republican government had created its own calendar and religion. Instead of honoring saints on each day, plants, animals, and minerals were honored. Today was a festival that made no sense to anyone but those who had organized it.
“There will be food and drink. Come for that alone.”
“I will go if you go,” Élodie said, twining her arm with Alex’s. “Walk with me?”
Alex had not meant to attach herself to Élodie for the walk to the festival, but she would not resist such a pairing. The more she was seen in the company of those who had nothing to hide, the better. “Yes. I will come to your house at two.”
“Do not be silly! Your house is on the way. I will fetch you.” And with a quick kiss on both her cheeks, Élodie was gone. Alex watched her go, dreading the hours before her, hours she would spend making herself into a woman Tristan Chevalier could not resist.
***
TRISTAN STOOD BESIDERobespierre, watching the parade of children wearing feathers and gobbling and clucking like turkeys. The procession might have been intended to honor the majestic bird, but Tristan was having a difficult time keeping a straight face. Citoyen Orme, another of Robespierre’s secretaries, leaned over. “Perhaps we should have held a festival in honor of celery. That might be less amusing.”
Tristan coughed to hide his laugh, but Robespierre turned to cast him a warning look anyway. Tristan schooled his features, and Robespierre turned back to the parade. The revolutionary leader was dressed, as always, impeccably. His wig had been carefully powdered and his green spectacles perched on his nose. His silk coat and matching waistcoat fit him like a second skin and made quite a contrast among the threadbare clothing of the provincials, patched and faded hemp or wool.
When the procession had ended, Robespierre stepped forward to give his speech. Tristan had heard it before, as Robespierre had practiced it most of the night. Even if he hadn’t heard it, he could have summed it up. Robespierre would wax poetic on the ideals of the new republic and the evils of theancien régime. He would quote Rousseau and speak for too long, making the people shuffle with impatience as hunger tightened their bellies.
Instead of listening now, Tristan allowed his gaze to sweep over the crowds. Several hundred had come to partake in the festivities. The drizzle and chill had probably kept many indoors. Just as many, desperate and close to starving, had come for the food and drink. Now they listened with undisguised eagerness as Robespierre spoke, for after the speeches came the feast.
Tristan directed his gaze back to Robespierre, but as he did so, a flash of scarlet caught his gaze. He returned his gaze to the crowd, focusing on the group to the left of the dais. There stood a woman in a bright scarlet cloak, the voluminous hood like a frame around her lovely face.
He realized with a start that he knew her. The English actress. Her pale and lovely face was just visible inside the warmth of the hood. At her side stood one of the other actresses from the People’s Theater. That woman’s gaze was riveted on Robespierre, but Citoyenne Martin watched him. Tristan inclined his head slightly, then turned his attention to Robespierre. The statesman was halfway through his speech, the portion where he waxed eloquently on the greatness of the new republic.
Scanning the crowds, Tristan could not see that any of the poor lived any better than they had before. For perhaps the thousandth time, he asked himself if the country hadn’t simply traded one tyrant for another.
He glanced at the side of the dais again and was disappointed when he could not find the scarlet cloak. Had she already departed? Her friend still stood, listening to Robespierre’s speech and cheering at the appropriate moments. Where had Citoyenne Martin gone?
More importantly, why did he care?
He did not care, he told himself a quarter hour later as he descended the dais in Robespierre’s wake. The republican leaders were not expected to fight over the free food in the streets. Instead, they were directed to an old building, its once white stone gray from age and dirt. Inside, tables had been laid with food. The display was not lavish, but it was more than the crowds outside would receive.
Tristan took a glass and filled it with wine, unable to eat after thinking of the cold and hungry children in their turkey feathers. When he turned back to the room, the actress stood before him.
“Citoyenne Martin.” He all but choked on his wine as the sip he’d taken caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected her to be here and looked about to see if anyone else found her presence here unusual.
“Citoyen Chevalier.” She smiled and pushed the hood of her cape off her head. Beneath it her cropped golden hair appeared tousled as though she had just climbed out of bed. She had a small face with a pointed chin and nose, and her fine features accented her green eyes, making them look wide and beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty shade of pink that looked too natural to be rouge.
She offered a gloved hand, and he took it without thinking.
“You are just the man I had hoped to see.” She gave him a graceful curtsy.
