Paul regained his composure as the carriage approached Chateau Debussy. He leaned forward and dabbed the tears away from Anne's face, and she from his.
At the large outer gate house the carriage slowed. Claudine was at the window, clad in widow's black. Her eyebrows lifted as she recognized them. The colonel waved a greeting, then turned to Anne. “I've told Madame Soucie we'd be coming,” he whispered. “Seems she's passed the word on to Claudine. They've grown closer since Krishna's death.”
Instead of waving them through, Claudine beckoned. With a look of surprise, Saint-Martin ordered the coachman to drive behind the gate house. Claudine came out to meet them, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her voice sounded a plea. “If it's convenient, Colonel, I'd like to speak with you. And with you, Mademoiselle Cartier.”
Saint-Martin and Anne exchanged puzzled glances, nodded to one another and then to Claudine. Michou signed she'd be comfortable in the carriage. As they followed the woman into the gate house, Paul whispered to Anne, “She had little to say when I interrogated her.”
They were led upstairs to a reception room, tastefully furnished with worn but well-kept rugs and drapes, several upholstered chairs, and a highly polished mahogany table. Framed embroidered pastoral scenes hung on the walls. A pair of vases of fresh-cut yellow freesia stood on the mantelpiece, a mark of Madame Soucie's kindness.
“May I serve you something?” Claudine asked. “Wine? Tea?”
Paul glanced at Anne. “Tea would be fine,” she replied, then added her regret at the misfortunes of the family.
Claudine acknowledged with a thin smile. “I pined for years, not knowing what happened to Nalini. My work kept me going. When I buried her remains, I felt released. As for Krishna, I am numb.” With a soft sigh, she called a servant girl, said a few words, and waved her off.
Anne searched the woman for signs of grief. Her dark brown eyes had lost lustre. Her shoulders slumped a little. Otherwise she was still the same alert, competent person who had prepared Anne for the Amateurs' reception a few weeks earlier.
“Since my husband's death, I've thought over what I needed to tell both of you. I'm happy you came by today.” She sat erect, her hands folded in her lap. “My husband was weak but not a bad man. Unfortunately, he worked for Comte Debussy too long. Took on some of that man's evil ways. Though Krishna was unfaithfulâeveryone now knows about the pretty widow on Rue Saint-MarcâI still felt obliged to protect him and our home. Now that he's dead, I can speak more freely.”
She paused as the servant came with tea and sweet biscuits, then left, closing the door behind her. With evident pleasure Claudine poured from a fine East Indian porcelain pot. She began describing Krishna's gradual, hidden aversion to the comte, his growing resentment at his own common status, especially since he came into contact with Monsieur Robert LeCourt and joined his Masonic lodge. “I knew trouble was on the way.”
Anne leaned forward, voicing a recent suspicion. “Had Krishna known LeCourt before?”
“Yes, briefly, in India,” she replied. “He was thirteen at the time. He told me about it in an unguarded moment, shortly after LeCourt arrived in Paris. Swore me to secrecy. Comte Debussy never found out.” She explained that LeCourt was originally Julien Robert, a young military engineer in Debussy's army when it captured Chanavas Khan's fortress. Familiar with the building, Robert sneaked down to the treasure room, broke into it, and took the jewels. Debussy, guided by Krishna, then just a serving boy in the khan's household, reached the room as Robert was about to leave. When he wouldn't give up the jewels, Debussy shot him and ordered Krishna to make sure he was dead.
But Krishna was afraid to get blood on his hands. Since Robert didn't move, Krishna said he was dead. In the confusion following the battle, Robert escaped, leaving the body of a dead guard in his place. Debussy never learned the truth. Robert changed his name to LeCourt and went on to prosper in the service of native princes and the Dutch East India Company. Arriving in Paris three years ago, he met Krishna, discovered he resented his master, and promised him a well-paid post in his household in Holland.
Claudine sighed. “Krishna never told me
what
he'd have to do for LeCourt!”
“We know now,” remarked Saint-Martin. “LeCourt persuaded him to sedate the comte with laudanum and isolate the treasury for the thieves.”
Anne reached over and laid a hand on Claudine's. “Your husband was an unfortunate victim of LeCourt's obsession.”
She pressed Anne's hand. “Thank you for understanding.”
***
Pressigny's apartment was empty. After the police had exhausted their interest in it, Madame Soucie had laid sheets over the tables and chairs and packed away the debris of a careless young man's life.
Michou looked about, hands on her hips. “Now I'll find the Neptune bowl,” she signed. Her eyes closed for a few moments, as if seeking where a man like Pressigny would hide it. Then, erect, alert, she wandered through room after room, occasionally inspecting plaster copies of ancient works of art covered by dusting-sheets.
Her companions trailing behind her, she entered the sitting room and on to the balcony where Anne had stood with Pressigny. After taking the view over the valley, Michou returned to the room, glancing to the left and to the right at two large urns on low pedestals, each holding a tall ornamental fig tree. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-passage, beckoned frantically, and pointed to a design on the left urn.
“There's Neptune about to cast his trident at a dolphin,” exclaimed Saint-Martin, drawing his fingers over crude figures lightly etched into the terra cotta.
“Our bowl's inside!” cried Anne, embracing Michou. “She recognized the motif and knew Pressigny would mimic his cache.”
When they had removed the tree, they discovered he had cleverly concealed the bowl beneath a false bottom. Inspection of the other urn revealed a similar hiding place with a small collection of precious stones.
Holding the Neptune bowl for the women to admire, Saint-Martin smiled broadly. “Michou, not Mauvert, has earned the finder's fee.” He handed the bowl to Anne and bowed to Michou. “Well done!”
She accepted the compliment with aplomb, then signed to Anne, “I feel blessed.”
***
An early evening golden light slanted into the coach as it returned to Paris. Anne sat next to Michou. The newly found jasper bowl and the gems, securely packed in a plain wooden box, rested on the floor between them. Paul sat opposite the women, his eyes alert, surveying the countryside. He had kept Michou's discovery a secret at Chateau Debussy, hoping to bring the treasure safely to the nearest highway patrol post in Villejuif. A brace of loaded pistols lay in holsters by his side. One of Soucie's largest and most trusted grooms sat with a short-barrelled musket next to the coachman.
The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves, the jingle-jangle of bells and harness, lulled Anne into musing about the visit with Claudine and about Krishna's death. She looked up at Paul. “LeCourt must have been crazed. He intended to kill off all his accomplices. But why Antoine?”
Paul picked up the thread. “LeCourt believed Pressigny's murderous quarrel with Laplante threatened to undermine the scheme to regain the jewels.” The colonel's voice broke slightly. “Antoine Dubois was a convenient scapegoat.”
At that point, Michou, who had appeared to be sleeping, rubbed her eyes and signaled her wish to share in the conversation. Anne gave her the gist of it and turned to speak to Paul. Michou tapped her on the shoulder and signed, suddenly, without warning, “Whatever has happened to Debussy's stepdaughter? Suspected in the theft of the jewels, I understand. Are the police still looking for her?” She glanced at the colonel for an answer.
Anne sucked in a breath, then translated Michou's signs.
“One of Mauvert's agents sighted her yesterday, leaving the Camp of the Tatars,” Paul replied. “Gave chase, but lost her in the crowd. She hasn't been seen since.”
Good God! Anne thought. That was too close. What if the agent had seen Claire leaving the puppet theater! Anne averted her eyes, fearing they would betray her alarm.
“Her friend, René Cavour, is Piedmontese,” Paul added. “If they were quick and clever about it, they could reach Italy in a few weeks. The troopers have been alerted, but they have other work to do. The stolen items are recovered; the murderer, Noir, identified. Why bother with two penniless fugitives?”
Anne instinctively shuddered, but her reaction passed unnoticed. The coachman had yelled out, they were approaching the town of Villejuif on a hill just ahead. Leaning out the window, Saint-Martin shouted a command. They came to a halt at a building flying the flag of the Royal Highway Patrol.
“Would you mind waiting?” asked Paul, turning to Anne. “I need a guard to ride with us through Paris. This may take awhile.”
“I'll visit the town,” Anne replied. “It's a beautiful day.” She invited Michou, who shook her head and retrieved her sketch pad. At the entrance to the post, Saint-Martin ordered the trooper on duty to watch the coach.
Anne was still within easy shouting distance of the trooper when a cart pulled by a donkey caught her attention. It was coming toward her at a slow pace. An elderly man held the reins; an old bent woman sat beside him.
Anne recognized Claire de Pressigny. She wore the same disguise as the last time they'd met. Their eyes linked instantly. Claire's body stiffened and tremors of fear worked the corners of her mouth. Inaudibly she pleaded for mercy, her eyes shifting from Anne to the trooper and back to Anne. Although hardly three seconds had passed, Anne grew anxious, fear clutching at her stomach. Would the trooper become suspicious? She gave Claire a nervous smile, then turned away, and didn't look again as the little cart passed her. She held her breath, expecting the trooper to challenge the fugitives. But all she heard was the fading clip-clop of the donkey.
A few minutes later she looked back, eyes scanning the highway to Italy. She let out a sigh of relief. The cart and its two passengers crept slowly southward. Soon they disappeared in the hazy distance. She uttered a soundless
adieu
.
Departure: August 1786
Anne glanced about the table at familiar faces in the candles' soft golden light. The glittering centerpiece, a delicate silver miniature fruit-bearing shrub, cast dancing shadows on the linen table cloth. Waiters had served a course of sautéed veal, thinly sliced in a rich madeira sauce and garnished with fresh vegetables. Unfortunately, she could not finish it. A touch of sadness had taken the edge off her appetite. She would soon leave this place.
Ignoring convention, Paul had invited Anne, Michou, and Georges, together with Comtesse Marie, for supper at the provost's residence on Rue Saint-Honoré. They were celebrating Anne's birthday, the 19th of August, and her visit that morning to the royal court at Versailles. Though held without fanfare in a modest antechamber, the visit was not secret. The court was buzzing about it.
Paul and Comtesse Marie had presented her to King Louis XVI, a corpulent and rather shy man, but kindly in his manner. With Baron Breteuil at his side, the king had praised Anne's courage and thanked her for recovering the Chanavas jewels. She had stepped forward and placed the burnished box in his hands.
“Please open it,” he had said, laying it on a nearby table. Gingerly, she lifted the lid and displayed the jewelry, piece by piece. The king's eyes widened in a long, silent stare. Finally, in a hushed voice, he remarked to Baron Breteuil, “I've never seen the like of it.” Then, turning to the courtiers assembled in the room, he added with emphasis, “I believe Mademoiselle Cartier deserves a suitable reward.” He took a small, green velvet box from the baron's hand and presented it to Anne.
“May I open it?”
“Please do. I hope you like it.”
In the box was a bright cabochon emerald of an extraordinarily pellucid shade of green, set in finely worked gold and hanging on a golden chain. “The work of a French master jeweller,” the king had said, then added, “I would have liked to give you a piece of the Chanavas jewelry, but it is best to keep the set intact.” Baron Breteuil had leaned forward and laid a heavy velvet purse in her hand. On opening it later, she had discovered a hundred
louis d'or
worth over two thousand English shillings, a small fortune.
The arm of a waiter reaching for her plate jarred Anne out of her reminiscence. Aware that Comtesse Marie was looking her way, Anne fondled the king's emerald hanging from her neck. The two women exchanged smiles.
The comtesse leaned toward Anne. “You and I know each other well enough now to drop titles as your mother and I did years ago. Privately, of course. For I sense that both of us would rather avoid the estrangement and discord that come with openly challenging social conventions. I wish you would call me Marie and allow me to call you Anne. You have so much of your mother's spirit, I feel I've known you as a grown woman for much more than these recent months. I've spoken about this with Paul before supper. He encouraged me.”
Anne was touched and pleased and readily agreed. It would take some time to feel comfortable with the new relationship. Marie was her superior, not only in social rank but also in age, judgment, and attainment. To be her friend, Anne realized, was a challenge but one well worth embracing. She also felt she had something to offer Marie: new expectations from life. Marie had perhaps retired too early from society when she still had talents to exercise for herself and others. She could be encouraged to do even more for the deafâand with them: learn their sign language for a start.
There was hope. Anne observed the comtesse gazing at Michou, who sat erect, alert, benevolently surveying her companions at the table. Her soft yellow silk dress accented the green of her eyes. It was new. She had apparently dipped into the finder's fee for the jasper bowl. Her auburn hair was washed, brushed, and expertly dressed, her pale complexion tinted with discreet touches of rouge. A pleased expression graced Marie's face. Her maids had aided Michou's transformation.
During interludes in the meal, the comtesse made gracious overtures to Michou, who sat silently opposite, a sketch pad by her plate.
“A budding artist,” Marie said to Anne, and handed Michou a miniature portrait of herself. Michou glanced repeatedly at the painting and at the woman, and then signed an earnest message that Marie failed to grasp.
Anne explained, “She'd like to paint as well as you.”
The comtesse smiled to Michou for the compliment, adding to Anne in a low, respectful voice, “Tell her that a friend of mine painted it.”
With the cheese and fruit course, the conversation turned to the recent dramatic events leading up to the arrest of Monsieur LeCourt. Georges held forth on the financier's futile attempts thus far to escape justice. Meanwhile, ignoring her food, Michou hunched over her sketch pad.
“She's been drawing me,” whispered Marie to Anne, when Michou finally laid down her pencil. “Would she mind if I looked at what she's done?”
Michou seemed to anticipate her request. Smiling hesitantly, she tore off the top sheet, initialed it, and handed it across the table.
The comtesse exclaimed, “It's extraordinary!” and held up the sketch for Anne to see. Michou had captured the woman's face in a characteristic moment, mouth slightly open, attentive to the conversation.
Michou stared at the comtesse for a minute or two, so intently that Anne began to feel uncomfortable. But Marie calmly accepted her interest and in turn appeared to study Michou. Finally, glancing at the comtesse, Michou signed to Anne, “May I work with her friend the painter?”
Her throat tightening with concern, Anne passed on the request. The comtesse's otherwise animated face turned remarkably still, her gaze fixed on the little woman. Anne held her breath, hoping for Michou, fearing the pain of rejection. A prominent painter could rightly balk at taking on an apprentice like Michou, talented but deaf.
At last Marie smiled and said she would speak to him. She was certain he would agree. Michou signed thank you, her face radiant. Anne uttered a sigh of relief. Marie would undoubtedly pay the artist handsomely.
While Michou and the comtesse arranged a later meeting, Anne turned to Georges across the table. Withdrawn into heavy silence, he was looking at her wistfully. A few days earlier, she had told him and Paul that she would soon return to England. Georges now met her eye, and they raised their glasses together. Anne sensed they had become true comrades. She would miss his droll humor.
He beckoned a waiter to fill his glass. “What will you do in England? Reckon with Jack Roach?” He leaned toward her, unsmiling. “He owes you.”
“Indeed he does!” she replied gravely. “My solicitor, Barn-staple, is looking after that account.” She paused, glancing into her glass. “I'll spend a month with my grandparents and visit the Braidwood School.” She felt a rush of pleasure, momentarily recalling her relatives and friends. “Then I'll come back to Paris and learn more from Abbé de l'Ãpée. Perhaps someday I'll start a school of my own.”
Clearly relieved to hear she would return, Georges asked if she thought she could improve on what the abbé was doing.
“I'd introduce more art and theater into educating deaf children.” She made a self-effacing gesture. “Though I'm not an expert, it seems to me his instruction neglects the student's imagination.”
“Let me know when you've returned to Paris,” said Georges. “Just in case you run into trouble. I could be of some use to you.” He raised his glass again in a jaunty salute.
***
Wearing her travelling clothes, Anne surveyed her apartment. All was in order as when she had arrived, three months earlier. She sent a grateful thought to Comtesse Marie.
A maid came to the open door. “Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin is waiting in the parlor, Mademoiselle.”
Anne picked up her handbag and followed the maid downstairs.
Paul bowed as she entered, and they gazed at one another silently for a moment. “Are you anxious?” he asked. “It will take you a week to reach London.”
“I'm as ready as one can be.” She patted her bag. “Travel documents, a letter of credit, money. And, thanks to you, at least the French highways are safe.”
“One of the few things the English envy us for.” He laughed. “Tell me about your travelling companions.”
“A respectable English couple and their deaf daughter returning to London. Abbé de l'Ãpée introduced me when they were visiting his institute. Fortunately, we could arrange to travel in the same coach.”
Paul seemed relieved. “When shall I see you again?”
“Soon,” she replied, fighting back a frisson of anxiety. “In a month, after I visit my grandparents and Mr. Braidwood.”
“Please give them my best wishes.” He hesitated. “Then it's time we go.”
“Not yet.” From her bag she pulled out the key he had given her to the rear garden entrance. “I won't be needing this anymore.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, but quickly disappeared. He bowed gallantly and took the key.
She touched his arm. “But I don't want to be locked out of your life, so I'm giving you this likeness.” She handed him a small box.
He opened it to a miniature portrait of her wearing the Chanavas tiara. He held it to the light. “Lovely! Michou painted it.” Chuckling softly, he took a small box from his pocket and gave it to her. It opened to a similar portrait of himself. “I told Michou recently I wished I had something special for you. That same day she brought this painting to meâshe had done it while living at my residence.”
Anne studied the portrait, her throat choked with feeling. Michou had caught the kindness and nobility of the man. But it was only a likeness, not the presence that she felt so strongly now. And a likeness evoking memories that would inevitably fade.
She glanced up at his face. His eyes moistened. The faint sound of voices drifted from distant parts of the house. They were alone. She reached out a hand. He drew her close to him. They kissed for a long moment, then she stepped slowly back. “Now we must go.”
At Porte Saint-Denis, they met the coach to Calais. Oblivious to the London passengers who had already boarded, they locked eyes in a tender, wordless exchange. The postilion shifted impatiently in his saddle. The horses pawed and snorted. Finally, at a call from the coachman, Anne smiled nervously over her shoulder, blew a kiss to Paul. Gathering her skirt, she climbed into the coach. As it drove out, she waved to him. He waved back until the road took a turn and they were parted.