Richard met his gaze without faltering. “I am here to see Madame de Launay,” he replied, also in French.
“On what business?” the other militiaman demanded. Richard found the man's officious self-importance obnoxious.
Above, on the second floor of the building, he caught a glimpse of a curtain being drawn back and a form appearing briefly at a mullioned window. It was a shadow, gone in an instant.
“I am here on a personal matter, monsieur,” he replied, forcing himself to sound respectful. “I am an American. I travel frequently to Paris on business. I made Madame de Launay's acquaintance some years ago
when I was here with Captain John Paul Jones and Dr. Benjamin Franklin during the war with England. I am staying as an official guest of the American consul and I have papers with me to prove it. Captain Jones told me where I might find Madame de Launay, and I have come to pay my respects.”
Richard gambled that the calm of his voice, reinforced by the names of Jones, Franklin, and Jefferson, would have the desired effect. He did not want to invoke, yet, the name of General Lafayette. That was a card he might have to play later. “I can assure you, citizens,” he said in brasher tones when the two militiamen stood their ground, “that you have nothing to fear from me unless you insist on detaining me further. Now, if you will please excuse me.”
As Richard stepped forward, the two Frenchmen grudgingly stepped aside.
“As you wish, monsieur,” the taller one allowed, but with a warning: “You have one hour. One hour only. We will be waiting here to make certain you do not overstay your welcome. If you do not leave by then, there will be consequences for you and for Madame.” It was as if he were granting Richard leave to visit a condemned man in a prison rather than a marchioness living in one of the more stylish residences of Paris. The other guard added with a sneer, “An hour should give you plenty of time to pay your respects, eh, monsieur? In more ways than one? Before
die Fräulein
returns?” He poked his companion in the ribs, and the two started laughing.
“
Merci, monsieur,
” Richard spat out. Hot fury welled up within him. His right hand coiled into a fist, and he had to summon all of his willpower not to swing it against the militiaman's jaw. He used it instead to knock on the door.
His bile yielded to more tender emotions when, a moment later, the door opened, he was whisked inside, the door was bolted behind him, and Anne-Marie was in his arms. Her embrace was not that of a lover but of a woman greeting her savior, one who had risked all to honor what the two of them had once meant to each other.
“Richard,
mon plus cher,
” she wept. “I knew you would come. I
knew
it.” She clutched him tighter, her body trembling with sobs.
“How could I not?” Richard whispered, feeling the emotion as much as she. Nevertheless, he gripped her by the shoulders and urged her gently away from him, on the pretext of wanting to look at her
but in truth because the feel of her lithe body pressed against his had unsettled him.
As if in tacit understanding, she took one step backward. He put a handkerchief in her hand, and as she wiped her eyes and straightened herself he gazed upon a woman who had lost little of her allure over the years. Her hair remained thick and long, and it curled down to frame a face that even at the age of twenty-nine could still fetch an amorous glance from any man of normal persuasions, notwithstanding the marks of fear and worry etched on her brow and at the corners of her eyes. She wore an ankle-length dress of eggshell blue, finely embroidered in white at the wrists and neck, and a white shawl of light cotton across her shoulders, both garments attractively accentuating the ebony gloss of her hair and the sky blue of her eyes. Composed now, she stood before him both as the dignified aristocrat she was and as the beautiful young woman who, years ago, had so eagerly initiated him into the blissful rites of manhood.
“You look well, Richard,” she said with feeling. “You've changed hardly at all.”
“And you, Anne-Marie. You're as lovely as the first day we met. And as gracious,” he added with a smile.
She gave him a weak smile in return. “You must forgive me,” she said. She dabbed a final time at her eyes with the kerchief and handed it back to Richard. “I am not in the habit of erupting in such fashion. I know perfectly well what came over me, but that is no excuse.”
“Apologies are not necessary, Anne-Marie. Not between us.” Then, somewhat lamely, “I'm sorry about what happened to your husband.”
She acknowledged that with a brief nod. “He did his duty,” she said, four words that Richard suspected encapsulated quite well her husband's adult life.
“You have children, Captain Jones tells me.”
Her countenance brightened considerably. “Yes, Richard, I do. Come, I shall introduce them to you.” She walked the few steps to the foot of a grand stairway and called upstairs, clapping her hands. “
Adélaide! Françoise! Venez en bas, s'il vous plaît!
”
There was a patter of feet followed by a moment of silence before two little girls dressed similarly in purple damask dresses and black slippers descended the stairs, one behind the other, in a decorous manner that no doubt had required many lessons. When they reached the
bottom, they stood side by side and swept him graceful curtseys, their heads demurely bowed.
“
Bonjour, monsieur,
” they said together. “You were welcome to her house,” added the older one, whom Richard guessed was close in age to Will, in English.
Anne-Marie smiled at her daughter's word usage. “We're working on Adélaide's English,” she said.
Richard smiled at the pretty young girl who, like her sister, was blessed with her mother's physical attributes, in miniature. Adélaide de Launay was a pleasing image of what Anne-Marie must have looked like at that age. In reply, he extended his left leg and bowed in courtly fashion, his right hand over his heart.
“
Bonjour, mes enfants. Cela me fait plaisir de faire votre connaissance.
” He straightened and pointed to himself
. “J'ai une fille aussi. Elle s'appelle Diana et elle est très belle, comme vous. Et j'ai deux fils: Will et Jamie.
”
Françoise giggled, and her older sister shot her a searing look of disapproval. The giggling ceased abruptly.
“That will be all, children, thank you,” their mother said in French.
They bobbed another curtsey before marching back upstairs to what Adélaide had announced was a game of skittles. When they heard a distant door close shut, Richard said: “They're lovely, Anne-Marie. They would make any parent proud.”
“Yes, Richard, they would.” She led him away from the stairway toward the parlor. Once they were inside, she closed the twin doors. “I am very proud of them, which is why I am so fearful for them. Children like Adélaide and Françoise are no longer admired in Paris. Their breeding is slandered and denounced as something shameful and wicked. Because of that, I won't let them out of my sight. I fear what might happen if I did.”
“Surely the revolutionaries wouldn't harm children?”
Anne-Marie faced him. “Not today, perhaps, but tomorrow, yes. The worst is still to come. We have seen nothing yet. These so-called revolutionaries mean to destroy everyone and everything of noble heritage. A child's innocence means nothing. Age and gender mean nothing. If you are of noble blood, you are guilty as charged and condemned to prison or death. It is only a matter of time before the slaughter begins. My husband warned me of this, and he was right. It is why so many nobles have left France.”
“Why haven't
you
left?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “If you had known my husband, Richard, you would not ask such a question. He was twenty years my senior and very stubborn. I cannot imagine him running from anything, least of all his birthright. And of course I could not leave France without him.”
“But now . . . now you are free to go. You have nothing to hold you here.”
“Ah, but I do. I have my two children to hold me here. And I have Gertrud. How could I possibly slip past the guards outside with the three of them in tow? And where would I go?”
“To America, with me,” Richard said.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Richard, you cannot be serious!”
“I have never been more serious, Anne-Marie. My schooner is anchored in Lorient. There's plenty of room on board. You and Gertrud and your daughters can have my cabin. It's hardly the accommodations you're used to, but I promise you there will be no militiamen lurking outside your door.”
She shook her head. “Richard, that is impossible. It is simply not possible! My dear love, for years I have prayed that I would see you again. Today, God has answered my prayers.
You
have answered them. It means everything to me that you wanted to come here. But I cannot ask you to put your family's welfare at risk for the sake of mine. That is too much to ask of anyone.”
“I don't recall you asking.” Richard glanced around the parlor, with its rich tapestries and elegantly appointed furniture. “Is there a way out of this building other than by the front door?”
“Richard . . .”
He clutched her shoulders, stared deep into her eyes. “Answer me, Anne-Marie. For the sake of your daughters, answer me.”
Her lower lip quivered. She shook her head. “No. Not from this one. Even the servants' entrance is guarded. But from the building next to us, yes. It has a back door.”
“Who lives there?”
“No one does, now. The owner has left. Some say he is in prison.”
“Can you get over to it? And inside? Through a window, perhaps?”
She considered that. “I think so. There is a small iron crosswalk that connects the rooftops. I don't know why it was put there. Bernard-René imagined that young lovers once used it to sneak across to each other. That, I believe, was the most romantic thing he ever said to me.”
“Then you
can
get into that building.”
“I can find a way, yes.”
“Can you leave by the back door? Without being seen?”
“Yes, I believe we can. They will not be guarding an empty house. The back door leads into a cul-de-sac. It's very dirty in there, full of refuse and rats and . . . Richard, what are you thinking?”
Richard grimaced. A plan of sorts had formed in his mind. He had no way of knowing how realistic it was or whether it had a hair of a chance of succeeding, but he had no choice: he had to trust his instincts. He glanced down at his waistcoat watch: 3:18. He must leave at once and never return to the rue Saint-Antoine. His coming here a second time might arouse suspicion.
“Anne-Marie, do you remember the night we walked together down by the quays near the Ãle Saint-Louis?”
She smiled. “How could I forget that night?”
“Be there tomorrow night at 11:00. Dress your daughters in plain clothes. You and Gertrud do the same. Don't carry much with you. And plan a circuitous route. Do not go directly there from here. Above all, do everything you can to make sure you are not followed. Do you understand?”
“Richard, I told you, you must notâ”
He again gripped her shoulders, harder this time. “Do you
understand
, Anne-Marie?”
She nodded. Tears trickled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She brought her hand to the side of his face and caressed him, her touch as soft and gentle as a peacock's feather.
“Richard . . . my dear . . . We will meet tomorrow at the quays at 11:00 . . . What then?”
“Let me worry about that. Just be there, Anne-Marie.”
Fourteen
Paris and Lorient, France, July 1789
T
HE TWO MILITIAMEN WERE waiting for him when Richard emerged from the de Launay residence. They had been joined by three others, and the group talked quietly among themselves as Richard walked by, satchel in hand, his gaze set rigidly ahead. One of them offered a remark to the others that triggered a spark of laughter, but it was a cruel laugh, void of any humor. Richard could feel their hostility toward him as he made his way up the rue Saint-Antoine.
His objective was the quays at the base of the rue Saint-Paul, in an area along the Right Bank known locally as the port des Célestins. It was a ten- or fifteen-minute walk, had he gone there directly. He decided instead to take his own advice and follow a more circuitous route, starting out along the rue de Fourcy before circling back down the rue de Figuier, across the rue Saint-Paul, and on another hundred feet or so until he came upon a cozy, two-story café bustling with customers. The loud and boisterous chatter one would expect to find in such a place filled the air, and waiters wove around crowded tables, balancing trays overhead on one hand. Slipping inside, Richard felt immediate relief, and not just from the summer heat. This high-ceilinged, pleasantly cool establishment was one of the few places he had been in Paris that appeared halfway normal.
Finding no place to sit, he ordered a lemon water from a waiter, then sidestepped through clusters of customers to a mullioned window
where he could observe passers-by on the street. He froze when he spotted someone he thought he recognized. He could not be certain; the man wore his tricorne hat low on his forehead, and the barrel of the musket that hung off his left shoulder partially obstructed Richard's view. But he looked, in profile, very much like the tall, lanky militiaman who had first challenged him outside Anne-Marie's residence. And he appeared to be searching for someone. When he paused in front of the coffeehouse to peer through a window, Richard stepped back into the crowd and waited. If the man came in, and if he turned out to be the militiaman from the rue Saint-Antoine, Richard decided to walk straight up to him and demand in a loud voice to know why he was being followed. Such an unexpected and bold approach in a public place, he had learned over the years, tended to fluster an adversary, and perhaps, in doing so, expose a weakness. But the man walked on.