Surrender to a Stranger (33 page)

He approached the palace slowly, from the side, using the cover of the trees and statuary in the gardens to shelter him from view. Although he was fairly certain that the guards at the front entrance had passed out by now, he decided he would use a servants’ entrance. One of the back doors was sure to be unlocked, and the fewer guards he encountered, sleeping or not, so much the better. When he got to the building he crept along the side until he came to the back. He found a door and paused to listen for a moment before trying it. Locked. He moved along to the next door. It was also locked. Undaunted, he moved along quickly, trying doors until finally there was one that groaned slightly before giving way. He opened it slowly, every sense alert, his ears straining to hear something, his eyes searching through the faint light of the room before him. He took in the sight of two bodies collapsed where they sat at a large oak table, and a third body comfortably stretched out on the kitchen floor. Slowly he expelled the breath he had been holding. It had worked. The guards and prison staff had drunk the wine he had given to them, which was heavily laced with laudanum. Depending on how much they had imbibed, they would sleep at least until the next morning, and possibly longer. Since all the prisoners except for François-Louis had also been given drugged wine, the Luxembourg would be a virtual tomb hours after he and the Marquis de Biret were gone.

He swiftly made his way through the kitchen and into the hallway. A sleeping guard sat on the floor propped against the wall with his head lolling to one side, snoring loudly. Armand stepped around him and continued toward the stairs. A few candles in sconces on the wall had not quite burned out, so he had some light to guide him. When he reached the second level, he found another guard stretched out on the floor and sleeping soundly. Armand walked softly past him and made his way to the end of the hall, where he began opening doors and looking inside.

The first three rooms he looked in each had about ten women sleeping in them, huddled on narrow trestle beds and covered with thin blankets. They were, he realized, but a few of the thousands of women lying in Paris prisons tonight, most of them falsely accused or denounced on the basis of a statement, letter, or association that someone had decided was antirevolutionary and therefore sufficient cause for arrest and execution. Separated from their husbands, lovers, parents, and children, these women undoubtedly had to fight each day just to keep their spirits up, to accept their situation and face their fate with the calm and grace that was expected of them. As Armand looked in on their sleeping forms he was overcome with a familiar rage that tore into his soul. The ladies who slept so peacefully before him had been raised to marry and bear children, to entertain and embroider and be charming and look beautiful. They had not been raised to change the world, or question their station, or fight a revolution. Yet here they were, labeled dangerous criminals and enemies of the Republic, and doomed to pay the price of their previously noble status with their blood. He wanted to save them all, to rouse them from their drug-induced sleep and march them out of this prison and away from this country that had taken its newfound idealism to such vicious and murderous extremes. Over the past year he had saved literally dozens of men and women from the cruel slice of the guillotine. Yet none of those successes could begin to make up for the three important lives he had lost, or for the thousands of others he could not save. And he knew he could not save all the prisoners at the Luxembourg. He was here only to save one. For Jacqueline. Reminding himself of his purpose, he closed the door on the sleeping women and went on to the next room.

Silently he pushed the door open and saw that the ten beds in this room held men. Moving through the darkness with the silent grace of a cat, he went to each of the beds to determine by the pale glow from the candles in the hallway if one of these men was François-Louis. It was not an easy task. Some of the men slept with their faces half-buried beneath the covers, and he found he had to either wait for them to move or try to pull the covers back slightly to see if he had found the right man. After inspecting the faces of four men and deciding that they were not François-Louis, he moved on to the next bed.

“Who might you be looking for, Citizen?” called a casual whisper from across the room.

Armand spun around to see one of the prisoners sitting up in his bed, watching Armand intently. Without responding, he moved closer toward him, quickly trying to determine if this was the Marquis de Biret. Although it was too dark to see his eye color, his features were identical to those he had seen earlier that day. Except for one thing.

He was almost entirely bald.

Armand knew the pleasure he felt as he took in that fact was petty and unworthy, but he allowed himself to indulge in it anyway. No wonder Jacqueline’s betrothed always wore a wig. He would probably even wear it to bed if he could. He wondered if François-Louis took it off when he bedded his women, or if he kept it on and simply took the chance that it might fall off at an inopportune moment. If it did fall off, he imagined his women must have been understandably shocked and disappointed. Unbelievably, these were the thoughts that were going through his head as he stared at the man he was risking his life to save.

François-Louis stared back at him curiously. “You’re not one of the regular guards—who are you?”

Armand ignored his question and tossed the bag of clothes he was carrying onto the bed. “Put those on,” he ordered brusquely. “We’re leaving.”

François-Louis’s pale eyes grew wide as understanding began to dawn on him. “My God,” he breathed in apparent disbelief, “you’re the Black Prince.”

“I am afraid not,” replied Armand impatiently. “But I will have to do. Get dressed.”

“Did Jacqueline send you?” demanded François-Louis as he hastily threw back the covers and began to put on the guard’s uniform Armand had provided. “Are you the same man who helped her escape?”

Armand did not like all these questions, especially when they had not even left the prison yet. “Monsieur le Marquis, save your questions for another time. Hurry up.”

“Of course,” stammered François-Louis as he fumbled with the buttons on his jacket. He bent down to reach under his bed and pulled out his wig.

“No wig,” stated Armand flatly. “It is too fine a piece. Besides, the description they send out of you when they realize you are gone will undoubtedly include your wig.”

“But I must have my wig,” protested François-Louis indignantly. “I shall not leave without it.”

It was ridiculous to argue over such a thing at this moment, Armand realized, and so he relented. “Very well. Put it in the bag and let’s go.”

He led François-Louis out of the room and down the dimly lit hallway, moving quickly but silently. François-Louis froze when he saw the sleeping guard on the floor.

“It is all right,” Armand assured him. “He is dead to the world. Just move quietly around him.”

Armand skirted around the body and François-Louis followed, staring at the guard as he did so. “What is the matter with him?” he whispered curiously.

“Perhaps he drank too much,” replied Armand with a shrug as he began to descend the stairs.

They moved along the main level of the palace, carefully avoiding the unconscious bodies of two more guards. Armand headed toward the kitchen, thinking to leave by the same door he had come in. “There are identification papers in your jacket,” he told François-Louis as they hurried along. “If we are stopped on the street, you are Citizen Claude Roucher. You are from Reims, and you have only been a member of the National Guard for two months. I am Citizen Michel Belanger. We have been out drinking at a friend’s. I will do the talking, but if by chance you do have to say something, for God’s sake keep it short and simple. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied François-Louis. “I understand.”

Armand led him through the kitchen to the back, making sure to point out the body of the man on the floor. The men seated around the table were snoring deeply and had not moved.
I must remember this trick with the wine,
Armand thought to himself with satisfaction.
It has worked exceptionally well.
He squeezed down on the latch of the door and swung it open, letting in a blast of cold air as he stepped out into the night with François-Louis following behind him.

“Well, well,” mocked a low, satisfied voice from the icy shadows. “What do we have here?”

Armand paused for a second, his adrenaline racing through his blood, his hand firmly clamped on the handle of his pistol. He could not see the man who had discovered them clearly, and until he could determine if they were being detained by a guard from the prison or simply a curious passerby, he would not shoot. Besides, it was always preferable to talk one’s way out of a situation like this. Adopting a tone of impatient authority, he stared into the shadows and snapped, “Who goes there? Come out at once!”

“Very good,” murmured the voice sarcastically. “Were I just some poor, ignorant lout from the streets, I might actually believe you were a guard. Unfortunately for you, however, I am not that stupid.” As the voice spoke a dozen armed guards suddenly appeared from behind trees, statues, and doorways. They formed a circle around Armand and François-Louis, making escape utterly impossible. Armand scanned their faces and recognized among them the guards from the front door with whom he had bargained earlier that day.

A trap. The whole thing had been a trap, and he had walked into it like a blind, bungling fool. He cursed himself for his stupidity.

The man from the shadows stepped forward and entered the circle of guards. His dark features were illuminated by the pale wash of moonlight, and he glared at Armand with a hatred and malevolence that sliced through the air between them.

Armand clenched his jaw and stared back with an expression of complete and total indifference, giving absolutely no indication that he recognized him. But all he could think of was Jacqueline, and how if he were simply to raise his gun and shoot, her need for vengeance would be assuaged, and she could get on with the rest of her life. For the man who had laid the trap he had so stupidly walked into was none other than Nicolas Bourdon.

“A pleasure to finally see you again,” remarked Nicolas bitterly, his narrow gaze focused on Armand.

Armand looked at him blankly. He was not sure how much Nicolas actually knew and how much he merely suspected. The less he told him, the better. He raised his eyebrows in confusion and said politely, “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Citizen. Have we met before?”

Nicolas did not respond, but signaled to one of the guards to step forward and disarm him. Realizing he could not fight all of them, Armand calmly handed the guard his gun, and did not protest as the guard searched him and found the other gun in the back of his waistband, and the knife hidden in his boot.

Once he was weaponless, Nicolas stepped forward and smiled. Then he drove his fist straight into Armand’s jaw, causing his head to snap back with dizzying force. Armand shook his head to clear it and gently moved his jaw to see if it was broken. It was not. Pleased with that discovery, he looked at Nicolas and smiled back. “Have I done something to upset you, Citizen?” he asked pleasantly.

Nicolas scowled and moved away from him, obviously irritated by Armand’s calm reaction. He went over to François-Louis. “What did you find out?” he demanded sharply. “Is she here? Did she send him?”

“He would not say,” replied François-Louis. “Although I cannot imagine who else would have sent him. He denies he is the Black Prince, but even if he is not, he is still a worthy catch, don’t you think?” There was an edge to his voice, as if it was imperative Nicolas agree with him.

Nicolas turned and studied Armand a moment, evidently weighing a decision. After a moment he turned back to François-Louis. “Did he give you false identification papers?”

“Yes,” replied François-Louis. He hastily fumbled in his jacket to produce them.

Nicolas scowled as he looked them over. “These are excellent counterfeits,” he remarked irritably. He handed them back to him. “Very well then, Citizen Roucher. You are free to go. I do not anticipate you will have any trouble getting out of Paris. The rest is up to you.”

Relief flooded François-Louis’s features as he shoved the papers back into his jacket. He looked at Armand. “I am sorry,” he apologized. “You must understand, I really had no choice. You see, they told me that your capture, or Jacqueline’s capture, was my only hope of getting out of here alive. I simply did what I had to do.”

So that was it, thought Armand. Nicolas had used François-Louis to trick Jacqueline into returning, but failing that, he would make do with getting the man who had helped her escape. And François-Louis, ever the spineless, self-preservationist that Jacqueline had unwittingly described him to be, had gone along with it. Contempt for the man he had risked his life to save flooded through him. “Not very noble of you, was it, Monsieur le Marquis?” he observed with disgust.

François-Louis returned his glare calmly. “These are difficult times,” he declared with a shrug. “If one wishes to survive them, one must be prepared to do what is necessary.”

“Thank you for the advice,” drawled Armand. “I shall bear it in mind.”

“Get going,” ordered Nicolas sharply to François-Louis, “before I have reason to reconsider our agreement.”

The Marquis de Biret needed no further encouragement. He immediately turned and hurriedly moved down the path that led away from the Luxembourg.

“And as for you, my friend,” continued Nicolas, “we shall see how much you have to tell us about your most interesting habit of rescuing dangerous enemies of the Republic. No doubt there are many fascinating escapades you would like to share with me before your execution.”

“Actually this was my first time,” said Armand innocently.

Nicolas looked unconvinced. “Really? Then perhaps we will have to find a nice dark cell for you to rot in until your memory returns.”

“As you wish.” Armand shrugged. “I believe the Luxembourg has a vacancy.”