Time for Eternity (38 page)

“Where is he?” she shouted, shaking his shoulders.

Don’t be stupid. Let him answer.

“The devil?” he choked. “They executed him this morning.”

Twenty-Two

Nausea threatened to overwhelm Françoise.

You couldn’t have stopped it.

Françoise pushed herself up. She couldn’t give in to Frankie now. “You’re still here. That means he’s still alive. It’s not too late.”

She picked up her skirts to run.

She wasn’t alone. Prisoners streamed out the gates of the Conciergerie into the Quai de l’Horloge, past the great clock tower and over the Pont Neuf. Escaped prisoners and a few blue-coated soldiers were joined by the hoi polloi racing onto the bridge to see what was happening. Confusion reigned. Some escapees commandeered boats tied to the quays and were setting off downriver. Fights had broken out, it seemed indiscriminately.

Françoise pushed her way single-mindedly toward the Quai des Tuileries, past the grand palace without a king. This was the shortest way to the Place de Revolution. If she were going to find Henri alive, it would be along this route. It seemed the entire city had gone mad in the early morning light. It was only that which gave Françoise hope.

The sunlight will burn him.
Françoise could feel Frankie shudder.

She swallowed her own fear and shoved her way through the gathering crowds.

The mob didn’t seem to care who was fighting whom, or for what purpose. Whatever they thought was happening, it looked like an excuse for looting. She saw people running hugging whole hams or baskets of fruit to their chests like babies. This was the result when all society began to collapse and people were desperate.

A group of mounted soldiers pushed their horses into the crowd gathered at the garden in front of the palace. She hoped they wouldn’t restore order too soon.

A familiar face under a red queue of hair jogged past her, going in the opposite direction. “Jean,” she shouted. Could it be? He turned. It was Jean.

“Mademoiselle Suchet,” he cried, breaking into a run. “Are you well?”

“I thought you left the city.” She wanted to hug him.

He shook his head. “I stayed with my brothers hoping the search would die down.”

How many siblings does this guy have?

“They’re taking Henri to the guillotine.”

His expression grew grim. He pulled her around and began marching her away. “I saw him in the tumbrel.”

Françoise felt the blood drain from her face. “Did they execute him?”

“Not yet. But when they do it will be a mercy. You can’t save him.”

She pulled out of his grasp. “Listen to what I tell you,” she hissed at him. “You will go to Madame Vercheroux. You will beg, borrow, or steal her carriage, and you will bring it to … to … the churchyard at St. Sulpice. Do you understand?” St. Sulpice was abandoned since the churches had been nationalized.

He looked dumbfounded.

“Do you understand?” she shouted as people streamed around them.

He nodded, shaken.

“Then go.” She pushed him in the direction of the Faubourg and began to run.

The Place de Revolution opened up in front of her. People streamed across it. A crowd was bunched around the raised platform with the huge contraption in the northeast corner of the park near the Jardin des Tuileries. The giant frame stuck into the morning air. The blade was up, ready to descend, its gleaming edge a threat. Françoise could feel Frankie ’s revulsion. That was her Companion shuddering at the threat of the death it tried to avert at all costs. An executioner and several soldiers surveyed the crowds pouring into the square with puzzled expressions. Françoise only glanced at the platform; for there, plunging and snorting in fear, was a horse harnessed to a cart. A tumbrel.

Françoise was already running. There was no driver. A man was trying to steady the horse with a hand on its harness, but he didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. It was … it was Robespierre. He must be there to personally see that Henri was executed. His revolting mistress must be here somewhere. Françoise looked around. The bitch herself was over near the guillotine.

The crowd of gawkers began to disperse to join in the free-for-all. Françoise couldn’t see anything in the back of the cart. No, wait. There was a post just behind the driver’s seat and … and something was chained to it.

Don’t think about it.

Françoise and Frankie knew what they would do. Robespierre be damned.

Françoise hurried up to the cart. She didn’t look in the back, but climbed up into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. The little lawyer was still trying to prevent the horse from bolting and taking Madame Guillotine’s prey out of striking range.

“I don’t know how to drive a cart,” she muttered as she struggled with the reins.

I do.

“Stand away,” she ordered Robespierre. “I’ve got him.”

But he looked up and saw who it was. “You can’t save him.” He wrenched the horse’s bridle down and to the right. The horse squealed, but all four feet were on the ground.

“You there,” Robespierre yelled. “Help me get this tumbrel to the guillotine.”

Two other men diverted from their course and started for the cart.

It’s now or never, girlfriend.

“The horse will bolt.”

So what?

She shook the reins over the horse’s back. “Yahhh,” she yelled. The horse neighed in fright and pulled the harness from Robespierre’s hands as he jerked away. Robespierre lost his footing and fell under the plunging hooves as the horse took off at a gallop. The cartwheels bumped over an inert object. The cart careened away. Françoise’s heart leaped into her mouth.

Fast is fine. People will get out of our way. Just gather up the reins a bit.

The crowds did move too. The horse steadied as it felt someone in control. She headed back to the Pont Neuf. It was the closest bridge. The cart clattered across the nine stone arches, past the fighting crowds around the Conciergerie, and headed up into the winding streets on the Left Bank as fast as they could go.

The tumbrel clattered behind the horse’s pounding hooves. St. Germain-des-Prés was closer than St. Sulpice, but it had a prison attached to the abbey, and that meant soldiers. She hauled the horse to the right. In the distance she saw the mismatched towers of St. Sulpice. She turned into the churchyard and pulled around to the porch doors. Only when she had climbed down did she allow herself to look in the back of the tumbrel.

It was worse than she imagined. Henri was naked, his flesh swollen and suppurating. He was bloodied from dozens of sword wounds. But the fact that he bled meant he lived. His wrists were locked to the post by heavy manacles. He seemed insensible.

That was just as well.

Don’t you dare start crying, Françoise. Just get him out of the sun.

Françoise turned to the church. The altar cloth. She could cover him.

No time. Just open the doors and drive the cart inside.

A horse and cart inside a church? Sacrilege? She didn’t need Frankie to chastise her for even asking the question. She pulled on the great, carved doors, hoping they hadn’t been locked. But they were open as they had always been. She propped them wide with two stones. Then she dragged on the harness and the horse, tired now from his exertions, walked calmly inside.

The nave was cool even in July. The perfect hiding place. “Mother Mary and Jesus, forgive me if this is a sin,” she murmured, crossing herself as she knelt. Even from the far end of the long nave she could see there was no altar cloth, no golden candlesticks, no chalices. The church had been stripped. But the light from the stained -glass windows still painted the dim interior with vibrant color. The church was still alive. And so was Henri. She whirled to the doors and kicked the stones away. They swung shut. The horse stamped, the sound ringing down the nave.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock?” she asked Frankie.

Why would a vampire need to know how to pick locks?

“Then how are we going to get Henri out of those shackles?”

How tough can locks be in 1794?

Françoise unpinned the military medal-looking brooch from her bodice. The pin was about two inches across. She climbed up into the wagon and knelt beside Henri.

Don’t think about him. He’ll live. Once the drug passes, he can heal this. He can.

Françoise swallowed. She pulled her eyes away from Henri’s ruined face and tried to focus on the lock. The dim light was good for Henri, but not ideal for picking locks.

You’re supposed to just feel it.

“Right. When I have no idea what I’m doing,” Françoise grumbled. At least the horse had calmed. He stood quietly, sides heaving. She poked around in the keyhole for what seemed like forever.

Lift. You’re supposed to lift with it. I saw it in
The Pink Panther.

The Pink Panther
was a movie, and Françoise knew what those were. Shocking. She hadn’t really had time to be shocked by Frankie and what Frankie’s world was like. She’d make time for that later. “You are always full of such good advice.”

I’m more experienced than you.

“An experience you are trying to get rid of, I might note.”

The mechanism clicked. Françoise opened it gently and laid Henri’s arm at his side.

Not bad for a novice.

“Be quiet.” She poked her pin inside the second shackle.

Once the locks were open, she tore up her underskirts to make bandages for his wounds and tied them up the best she could.

Then she sat down to wait. It seemed hours until she heard a carriage outside.

She hurried to the doors and cracked them open. “In here,” she called. “What took you so long?” Jean jumped down. Madame Vercheroux opened the door and stepped into the churchyard.

“Is he alive?” she asked anxiously.

“Madame, what are you doing here?”

“I find that Paris has become intolerable. I believe I am emigrating.” She raised her beautiful brows. “You are going to Le Havre,
n’est-cepas?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but returned to her question. “Is he alive?”

“Yes. But he is not a pretty sight.”

“Poor Henri.” She pushed past Françoise, her satin skirts rustling. They heard the gasp.

Françoise looked back at Jean. “Help me get him into the carriage.”

“Should we wait for night?”

“Croûte knows what the sun does to him. She’ll expect us to wait. We must move now.”

Madame Vercheroux came back out onto the porch of the church. Her face was white. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

“Even if he lives … the scars … and he was so beautiful.”

Françoise cleared her throat. She couldn’t tell Madame that he wouldn’t scar. “We will need money to get to Le Havre, not only for the journey, but there may be bribes … Henri can’t help us …”

Madame Vercheroux waved a hand dismissively. “I never travel with less than five thousand francs. I brought some clothes for you and for Henri as well as mine.” She gestured to the trunks strapped to the carriage.

“You’ve been to the house?”

“Of course not. The place has been ransacked. Everything stolen or destroyed.” She shook her head, sighing. “But what I have should fit him well enough, and I contrived for you.”

Madame Vercheroux had another lover, even though she still loved Henri.

Figures.
Frankie sounded disgusted.

Françoise took a breath. “Jean, take the horse and cart out where someone can find them. They will not lack an owner long.”

In moments they were away. The crowd outside the carriage shouted and jostled against it. It was only a matter of time until they grabbed the doors, pulled them out, and tore them apart. Henri lay on the floor at their feet covered with a traveling rug. Madame Vercheroux and Françoise had spread their skirts out wide to conceal him. Françoise peeked through the drawn blinds, feeling helpless. Jean was apparently trying to make his way toward the main road to Versailles. That was good. They were tracing the river on the Rue de Grenelle, through the mansions of the Faubourg St. Germain. The crowds must be looting the luxurious houses, empty or not. She leaned out. Jean struggled with the horses as people pushed and shoved around them.

“Into a side street,” she shouted.

“I’m trying, mademoiselle,” he yelled back.

“Beasts!” a woman shrieked over the roar of the crowd. Ahead, the mob surged up the steps of a particularly beautiful house from the last century and through the doors of carved wood. The sound of breaking glass was echoed again and again as paving stones found windows. A woman on the stairs looked on, her hands to her face in horror. “Traitors!”

It was Madame Croûte.

Croûte lived in the Faubourg? That was the refuge of the last remnants of the aristocracy. And the crowd knew it. The roar of outrage from the ragged men and women in their ill-fitted clothes made of coarse cloth and red revolutionary caps felt like the growl of an animal.

A heavy rococo cabinet sailed out of an upstairs window and the crowd scurried to avoid its impact. Madame Croûte shrieked in protest, but fear bloomed in her face. Now she faced the rage of the mob instead of directed it. As the crowd surged around her and into the house, Jean urged the horse forward. People converged on the house from all directions with angry shouts. The first blow to Madame Croûte was landed by a brawny man with sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Fragments of the crowd’s protests wove themselves into a litany of betrayal, their rage focused on the woman who only seemed to share their ideals.

Françoise sat back as the carriage pulled away, unable to watch a crowd turn into a killing beast for a second time, even if she had no sympathy for its victim.

Françoise sat with Henri’s head in her lap in the rocking carriage. Across from her, Madame Vercheroux dozed. The blinds were pulled against the late afternoon sun. It had taken hours to get out of the city. They stopped, in spite of Françoise’s protests, for a dinner at an inn, losing nearly two hours as Madame refreshed herself.