Surrender to a Stranger (41 page)

Jacqueline hesitated. It was possible this boy could help her find Justin’s address, but she was not certain it was wise to let anyone know her destination. On the other hand, she had absolutely no idea where she was, or how she would find Justin’s house on her own. It was also growing dark, and she could not spend the night on the street. Every hour that passed was another hour in which Armand’s life was in danger. She had to get to Justin as quickly as possible so they could develop a plan to rescue him.

“I am trying to find my aunt’s home, which is on the rue de Vent. Do you know where that is?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course—it is back that way, about a half hour’s walk.”

“Do you think you could tell me how to find it?”

“I’ll take you,” he announced. He turned and began to walk in the direction from which she had just come.

Again Jacqueline hesitated. “I don’t really need you to take me,” she protested, reluctant to have anyone know where she was going. “If you could just explain to me how I can get there—”

“You will never find it on your own, Citizeness,” he informed her flatly. “Besides, you might need me in case you have any more trouble.” He continued walking.

Jacqueline did not want to point out that the reason she had trouble in the first place was because he had come crashing into her. She stood for a moment, debating whether or not to follow him.

He stopped and turned to look at her. “Are you coming?” he demanded impatiently.

She realized it would be foolish not to accept his offer. “Yes,” she replied. She snatched up her bag and began to hurry after him.

“Where are you from?” asked Philippe as they trudged along through the snowy streets.

“From Blois,” lied Jacqueline. “My husband died recently and I am going to live with my aunt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What of your parents?” she asked. “How did they die?”

“My mother died in prison last year,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Never knew my father. As far as I’m concerned, he is dead.”

“Have you no other family?” demanded Jacqueline. It was upsetting to think he was all alone.

“No.”

“But where do you live?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Wherever,” he replied, as if the subject was not one of great concern to him. “After my mother was arrested, I lived in the room we rented for a while, waiting to see if she would come back. Then the lady that owns the place tells me she’s got to throw me out, because I’m not paying my rent. She says I can sleep in her kitchen, though, and get food, too, if I bring in some money, or stuff that’s worth money. So I start stealing, and give whatever I get to her. It worked out all right for a while. But then she took up with this mean bastard, who moved in and started ordering me around, like I was his bloody slave. He drank and liked to use his fists on me, and when I told the lady about it she said he was just trying to be like a father. Well, the hell with that, I said, I don’t need to pay to sleep on the floor and have someone smack me around. So I left, and I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“But how do you survive?” asked Jacqueline incredulously. “Where do you sleep?”

“Anywhere.” He shrugged. “’Course, it’s easier when the weather is warm. Churches used to be good, until they started closing them down these past few months. I know a couple of café owners who don’t mind letting me use their floor after they close, if I help them clean up. And there are a few ladies I do errands for who will let me stay the night if they aren’t busy.”

Jacqueline gasped. “Do you mean prostitutes?”

He gave her an amused look. “No, Citizeness, I mean nuns.” He laughed, a knowing, brazen laugh that told her he was worldly beyond his years.

“Exactly how old are you, anyway?” demanded Jacqueline suspiciously.

“Thirteen,” he informed her. “Fourteen this summer.”

He was small for his age, she realized, undoubtedly because of insufficient food and poor living conditions.

“Well,” she huffed, only partly mollified by the fact that he was not quite as young as she had originally believed, “thirteen is rather young to be spending the night with a prostitute.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “At least it’s warm.”

She had nothing to say in reply to that.

They trudged along in silence for a while. Darkness was spreading steely-gray shadows across the snow-covered city, turning the narrow streets into dark, forbidding tunnels, and Jacqueline realized that without Philippe’s help she never would have been able to find Justin’s house. No one seemed to take any note of them as they walked by, even though she supposed they must have made quite a pair, her in her black mourning costume and him in his ragged beggar’s clothes, his face swollen and bruised. But Philippe moved with confidence and purpose, as if he owned the streets he walked on, and Jacqueline drew comfort from his easy manner. It was obvious to anyone that he was totally familiar with his surroundings and knew exactly where he was going. It was an attitude Jacqueline would have to learn to feign if she wanted to move about Paris without attracting attention.

“This is it,” he said finally as they turned down a narrow street.

Jacqueline gazed at the row of crumbling houses stretched out before her, trying to decide if anything looked familiar. She thought back to the day Armand had brought her here, after having rescued her from that terrifying mob. She had ridden in front of him on his horse. He had ordered her not to speak, and so they had come here in icy silence, with Jacqueline mentally rehearsing all the things she was going to say to him once they were alone. Slowly she began to walk down the street, trying to recall that day, trying to remember how far along the street they had traveled before Armand turned their horse down a lane that led to a coach house.

“Didn’t your aunt tell you the number of her house?” asked Philippe quizzically.

“She did,” stammered Jacqueline, “but I lost the paper it was written on.” She continued to walk along, staring at the buildings.

“Why not just knock on one of the neighbors’ doors and ask which house is hers?” he suggested.

“No,” blurted out Jacqueline. To do so would be to draw attention to Justin and herself, and that might arouse suspicion.

“Why not?” demanded Philippe. He looked at her as if he thought she was acting strangely.

“It is late,” explained Jacqueline, “and I have no wish to disturb anyone. I am sure I can find it on my own.” She continued to study the houses.

“Citizeness Duport—”

“I think this is it!” exclaimed Jacqueline, standing in front of a house that looked familiar. “In fact I am certain of it.” She turned to him. “Thank you, Philippe, for your assistance in bringing me here. If you will allow me to pay you something for your trouble—”

“Do you think I could come inside and get warm?” he asked.

Jacqueline hesitated. It seemed cruel to send him off into the night, cold and hungry, after he had gone so much out of his way to bring her here. But she did not want to involve him with counterrevolutionary activities, or place Justin in any danger by bringing an outsider to his home. She bit her lip. “I am really sorry, Philippe, but I do not think—”

“I’m not leaving until I am sure this is the place and you are safe,” he stated emphatically. “A cup of something hot to drink wouldn’t hurt either,” he muttered irritably under his breath. He began to march up to the front door.

“Wait!” cried Jacqueline, hurrying up behind him.

He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her defiantly.

Jacqueline sighed. “Very well,” she conceded. She lifted her hand and rapped on the door, three rapid knocks followed by two long ones, the same code Armand had used when they were here before.

After a moment the door swung open. Justin stood before her, holding a candle and looking at them warily.

“Citizen Justin, perhaps you will remember me,” began Jacqueline as she pulled the veil of her hat off her face so he could see her better.

His expression was blank. “Have we met before, Citizeness?”

Jacqueline stared at him in confusion. “Yes,” she stammered, wondering why he did not immediately recognize her. And then it suddenly occurred to her that she had been disguised as a boy when she arrived, and as a pregnant farmer’s wife with dark hair and yellow teeth when she left. “I stayed here one day a few months ago,” she hastily explained, “and when I left I was pregnant and married to a—”

“Cousin Delphine!” he cried out suddenly as he stepped forward and wrapped his free arm around her. “And little Cousin Henri,” he added, smiling down at Philippe. “Come in, come in, you must be exhausted after your long journey,” he pronounced as he ushered them through the entrance and closed the door.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Philippe as he stared at Justin and frowned.

“Did Armand send you?” demanded Justin urgently, his pretense at being Jacqueline’s cousin dropped now that he was certain no one could see them.

“Not exactly…” replied Jacqueline, “but I am here because of Armand—”

Justin turned his attention to Philippe. “Who is the boy?”

“He is a friend—”

“I am Philippe Mercier. Who are you and where is Pauline’s aunt?” demanded Philippe.

“What?” asked Justin, confused.

“Justin, if I might have a word with you,
alone—”
said Jacqueline, giving a meaningful look toward Philippe.

Justin looked at Philippe and smiled. “You must be hungry, my friend. Let us go into the kitchen and find you something to eat.”

Philippe needed no further invitation. Justin began to walk down the hall toward the kitchen and Philippe immediately turned and followed him.

A lamp was burning in the small sitting room off the hall, and Jacqueline went in there to wait for Justin. After a few minutes he returned, frowning.

“His face is badly battered. It will have to be cleaned soon.” He sat down in a chair opposite Jacqueline. “How can I help you, Citizeness?”

Jacqueline took a deep breath. “Armand has been arrested.”

His expression grew taut. “So the rumors are true after all,” he said quietly.

She looked at him in confusion. “What rumors?”

“All of Paris is celebrating that the Black Prince has finally been caught,” he explained. “They say he was trapped in a clever plan laid for him by an Inspector Bourdon, who works for the Committee of Public Safety.”

Jacqueline felt the blood drain from her face. “A trap?” she repeated in disbelief.

Justin nodded. “Apparently a man was caught trying to assist the Marquis de Biret in his escape from the Luxembourg prison. Somehow this Inspector Bourdon knew about the escape attempt and managed to thwart it, capturing the Black Prince in the process.”

“But the marquis escaped,” protested Jacqueline.

Justin shook his head. “According to the official reports, the marquis was shot and killed as he tried to get away.”

“But that is not true,” protested Jacqueline as she tried to sort out what Justin was telling her. “He escaped and made it to England.”

Justin frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because I have seen him there.” She looked at him miserably. “The marquis was my betrothed. I am the one who asked Armand to rescue him. I guess the Committee of Public Safety does not want to admit that they let a prisoner escape.”

Justin pondered this for a moment. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “At any rate, when I heard these rumors I was naturally concerned that they might have captured Armand. I had not heard he was in France, but he only informs those who will be directly involved with his plans. So I made some discreet enquiries. The man imprisoned in La Force says he is Citizen Michel Belanger, a deserter from the National Guard. This was on the papers he carried, but evidently they were forged. He insists he was acting alone. Of course they could execute him just for trying to help the marquis escape, but he is being held until his real identity can be determined. No doubt the committee feels there are others who could be arrested if they can get him to confess.”

“Armand will never confess,” said Jacqueline with certainty. “He would never endanger the lives of his contacts.”

“That is true,” agreed Justin. “Just as none of us would ever endanger him.”

But I did, thought Jacqueline miserably. I knew it was dangerous for him to try to save François-Louis, but I asked him to go anyway. A suffocating wave of guilt assaulted her.

Justin rose from his chair. “Now that you have confirmed this man is Armand, we must develop a plan, and get someone to go in there and get him out,” he announced.

“I will go,” stated Jacqueline.

He stopped and looked at her in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You know nothing of these matters. You will simply endanger Armand and probably get yourself killed in the process.”

His rejection of her offer did not faze her in the least. “I know about the inside of a prison,” she pointed out calmly. “After all, I have spent a considerable amount of time in them, as both a visitor
and
an inmate.”

“Forgive me, Citizeness, familiarity with prisons is useful, but it is not enough,” argued Justin. “We need someone who is not afraid, who can maintain his composure whatever happens, and who is enough of an actor to fool everyone he comes in contact with.”

“I can do all that,” Jacqueline assured him.

He looked at her skeptically.

“Do not forget, I have been with Armand on one of his escape missions, from start to finish,” she pointed out. “I have seen him at work. I have watched him react to the unexpected. I have studied his disguises, his accents, his mannerisms—”

“Could you kill someone if you had to?” he demanded curtly.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

He considered this for a moment. It was obvious he was not convinced.

“If you don’t use me, who else will you get?” demanded Jacqueline. “The men from Armand’s ship are currently sailing along the coast of France. It is impossible to get a message to them. His contacts in Paris are established here, and might be recognized, regardless of how effective their disguises are. If one of them is caught, their loss will be a serious blow to the counterrevolutionary network. But I am not known here, and if I am caught, your organization will not suffer.”