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“Oh, none of us are young anymore, citoyen. I think all of Paris has grown up these past few years.”
He watched her face as she spoke, but he detected no acrimony or bitterness. He wished he could ask her, outright, if she was a supporter of the revolution—for that was surely what they spoke of. No one admitted to opposing the revolution any more, but Tristan sensed she would tell him the truth.
And he sensed he would not like that truth, would not like her if she stopped smiling at him and spoke plainly.
“In any case,” she continued, “my parents were part of a traveling troupe in England. I was tired of that life and wanted to be more settled.”
“And yet you have moved lodgings several times in the past few months.”
If she was surprised at his knowledge of something rather personal, she did not show it. She smiled. “I’m afraid I am still looking for the perfect spot.”
And now Tristan recalled something else about her. After their brief discussion the day before, he had been interested enough to ask about her from one of the myriad of informers ever-present at the Salle des Machines. “You have a lover as well, a British gentleman with whom you reside.”
“My, but you are well-informed.” She opened a fan and fluttered it in front of her face, though it was still cold in the room. “I might wonder at you knowing so much about me, citoyen.”
“I make it my business to know about everyone and everything in Paris.”
“Lord Hastings is a friend,” she said, moving the fan lazily.
“You live with him, citoyenne. I think he is more than a friend.” How he wished the informer had been incorrect on that point, but she did not bother to deny it. Tristan felt disappointment drop over him like a heavy mantle. And then he was annoyed with himself because he should not have wanted the woman to begin with. She was a foreigner, most likely had royalist sympathies, and she was an actress, a profession known for loose women.
“He might have been more than a friend at one time, but no longer. In these...troubled times, I felt unsafe living alone. And so Lord Hastings was gracious enough to stay with me. So, you see, we do live together, but we no longer sleep together.”
The conversation was wholly improper, but Tristan could not seem to steer it elsewhere. “And whom do you sleep with now, citoyenne?”
She lifted her empty wineglass. He could not even recall her sipping from it.
She leaned close to him, pressing her small, firm breasts against his arm. “If you want my secrets, Citoyen Chevalier, you will have to indulge in a drink with me.”
Tristan glanced around at the other members of the Convention and their secretaries. Most had a glass of wine in hand. This was a celebration, and even Robespierre would not see two glasses of wine as an indulgence.
“Very well.” He started away, but she pulled him back.
“You fetched the last glass. Allow me to serve you this time.”
It was somewhat unorthodox, but Tristan was given no opportunity to argue. With a wink, she glided across the room to where the wine and a server stood. He watched as the man handed her a glass and refilled hers. Then he turned as he felt someone approach.
“Citoyen.”
Tristan gave a short bow. “Citoyen Robespierre. Your speech following the procession was well received.”
Robespierre nodded. “Thank you. I thought so as well.”
He was a small man, only a little over five feet, and extremely short-sighted. Tristan was used to his habit of squinting in order to see more clearly.
“I had thought the crowds would be larger.” Robespierre frowned.
“It is a cold day, citoyen,” Tristan said. And while he suspected the weather had kept some people away, a dislike for Robespierre and his policies was the more likely culprit.
“That is a poor excuse.” Robespierre surveyed the room. “Tyranny is hiding around every corner, and it will use any and all means to gain a foothold in our newborn country.”
“Yes, citoyen.”
“Oh, dear.” A musical voice rang out behind him. Tristan knew without looking it was Alexandra Martin. “Have I interrupted something important?”
Tristan gestured to the actress. “Citoyenne Martin, this is Citoyen Robespierre.”
She dropped into a deep curtsy, easily balancing a wineglass in each hand. “It is an honor, citoyen. I apologize for interrupting.”
