The man was staring at Enid all the while. At last he turned to the actor and grunted, “Let me see the documents.”
Kemble produced them and passed them over. The Frenchman scanned them in a way that caused Enid to wonder whether he could read. He studied them a second time, flipping over the sheets with his dirty fingers. She thought he might be merely putting on a show. If he suspected who she was, he could easily take her and Kemble into custody, proper papers or not.
The self-dubbed captain of police scowled at the documents and returned them to Kemble. “Are you her father?”
“That is correct,” the actor replied with dignity. “I am accompanying her to Paris, where we plan to seek out an English girl, a friend of my daughter’s, who has been caught up in the revolution.”
“We can do without any English,” the man said harshly. “You’re welcome to take one of them back. But you’ll have a hard time getting transportation to Paris. The only stage has left. There will be none for several days.”
“Is there an inn where we might wait?” Enid asked.
“Two or three,” the officer told her, “but none of them’s the sort a lady like you would look for.”
“I can manage,” she said firmly.
“Are we free to go ashore?” Kemble inquired politely.
The captain of police gave Enid another close appraisal. He turned to Kemble and nodded. “You can leave the ship. But remember, France is under martial law. We want no tricks here, no trying to help the nobility.”
“We are interested only in finding my friend and taking her back home,” Enid said. “There will be no trouble proving she is English.”
The rough-looking man was unimpressed. “As I said, you won’t like the inns here.”
“Is there any alternative?” Kemble asked. “Could we find a private conveyance to take us to Paris? We had hoped one might be here to meet us.”
“None has arrived.” The captain of police then leaned close to Kemble and murmured, “For a suitable sum, I could arrange for a carriage to be at your disposal. But it requires an inconvenience on your part.”
Kemble promptly read the man’s message. He produced a small pouch from beneath his cloak and took out a five-pound note. “Would that pay you for your trouble?” he asked.
The face of the police officer brightened, and he snatched the money from Kemble’s hand and stuffed it into his pocket. “No trouble, Monsieur Henson. The carriage will be waiting for you and your daughter whenever you go ashore. The driver will ask only a modest fee.”
“We still have some slight packing to do, which will take us a half hour or so to complete.”
“When you are ready, my men will carry your luggage from the ship to the carriage,” the captain of police promised. Then he moved on to question Edward Burley.
Enid and Kemble made their way below to their cabins. The actor followed her into hers and asked, “What do you think?”
“I was terrified that he recognized me,” Enid said. “He is the image of one of the men who was with Esmond in London.”
Kemble frowned. “It could be the same man, I suppose. Esmond might have recruited him here before crossing the Channel.”
“But if he is the same man, he couldn’t have been completely sure about me. There is quite a change in my appearance, and he wouldn’t have known my name anyway.”
“True,” Kemble agreed. “And it is unlikely he would have offered us transportation if he guessed you were a Royalist sympathizer.”
“He took your bribe readily enough, but he still might be baiting a trap for us.”
“You mean we might step into the carriage and find ourselves being driven straight to a dungeon in the Bastille?”
“Such things are happening all the time, aren’t they?”
Kemble rubbed his chin as he considered this. “Why didn’t the carriage Sir Harry promised us arrive? The driver was to be our contact here.”
“That does leave us at sixes and sevens,” she mused.
“Something may have happened to him. The vehicle could have broken down. It is at least a two-day trip to Paris, perhaps more if the roads aren’t in good condition.”
“What shall we do?”
“We can’t remain on board ship.”
“So we’d best take that man’s offer of the carriage.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to risk it,” Kemble concluded. “If our contact arrives later, he’ll hear that we’ve moved on and follow us.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“We shall have to try to locate Father Braun on our own. There must be somebody in Paris who knows of him.”
“It would seem we are having problems before we even begin,” she sighed. “I wonder if Sir Harry is to be trusted.”
Kemble gave her a grim look. “I would say we’ll know soon enough. I’ll go and finish my packing now.”
When they were both packed and ready to disembark, the captain of police kept his word and had his men transfer them from the ship to the waiting carriage. Enid could scarcely believe her eyes. If the captain of police was a rogue, the driver of the coach seemed a veritable ogre. He walked with a loping gait, as if he had a hip out of joint, his eyes were shifty and mocking, and he was as dirty and shabby as his conveyance. He shouted instructions for the loading of the luggage, then smiled through his scraggly black beard and bowed deeply, removing the red cloth cap that had been perched precariously atop his matted black hair.
“Pierre Giraud, at your service, dear people. I shall transport you to Paris so delightfully, you’ll not even know the roads are in fiendish shape.” He grinned as he finished speaking, revealing yellowed, widely spaced teeth.
“Has no other carriage appeared on the docks?” Kemble asked, holding back from entering this one and looking around.
“As you can see, good sir, there are naught but country bumpkins and their carts to pick up cargo. You are lucky people that the captain found me for you!”
Enid turned to Kemble. “We have to make a decision. What now?”
The actor let out a deep sigh. “I suppose we must place ourselves in his hands, dirty and rough as they are!”
She allowed the shifty-eyed driver to help her into the coach. As her skirt lifted, displaying her well-shaped ankle and calf, the man giggled in a most ungentlemanly fashion.
Kemble followed her inside and slumped heavily beside her. In a low voice he said, “If things look grim, remember we are doing this for our sovereign!”
“Who is going mad,” she whispered. “And Sir Harry himself likely isn’t too far removed from madness!”
The vehicle started forward with a jolt and rumbled over the planks of the docks and onto the rocky road. The coach seemed to have little or no springs. Enid and Kemble tried not to sway against each other as the driver wildly urged the horses on. She finally agreed to Kemble’s putting his arm around her, so that they jounced about in unison rather than one making a target for the other.
Soon they left all signs of the town behind them and entered the open countryside. The road became no better, but the driver slowed the vehicle from time to time, which made the ride somewhat easier.
“Do you think we shall survive two days of this?” Enid asked.
“I’m sore already,” Kemble groaned. “And we’ve only gone a short way!”
“The driver is clearly a lunatic and probably a rogue as well!”
“Judging from his friend the captain of police, and from his appearance and behavior, I’d say he is also one of the revolutionists!”
Enid braced herself against a bad jolt, then said, “So we may still end up in a prison somewhere.”
“We’re in the lap of the gods,” Kemble observed philosophically.
“A rougher lap I’ve never known!” she gasped, holding on to him as the carriage dipped and lurched this way and that.
The torture went on for several hours, until they arrived in the courtyard of a small country inn. When the driver opened the door for them to step down, their way was blocked by a huge gray goose that let out a loud cry and jumped in beside them.
The unkempt Giraud threw back his head and guffawed with laughter. “I declare, ‘tis an aristocrat wanting to be delivered to the guillotine!” He reached in and grabbed the agitated goose by the neck. “Come on, my little aristocrat!” Then he dragged out the squawking bird and tossed it to the ground.
Kemble alighted and then helped Enid from the carriage. “Where are we?” he asked the driver.
“Many miles from Calais, of course. You have noticed I made excellent time!”
“We are nearly shaken to bits,” Enid snapped.
His bearded face showed amusement. “It is the road, my good madam! The new government has not yet had time to repair the roads, and the nobles only worried about their own estate roads when they were in power.”
“We do not need political lectures,” Kemble told him curtly. “Why are we stopping here?”
“To have food and drink, why else? When we have refreshed ourselves, I shall drive you to another carefully chosen place to stay the night.”
Kemble eyed the rundown inn with disgust. “Is this the best you can do?”
“A plain place, but excellent victuals, monsieur,” Giraud said. “The owner is a cousin of the captain of police, whom you met on the ship in Calais.”
“And are you any relation, too?” Enid asked him.
“I am his full brother,” the driver replied proudly. “Why else would he have selected me for your excellencies?”
“I can’t imagine,” Kemble said bluntly. “Let us have some food and carry on.”
They were given a chance to freshen up in two private attic chambers, and then they descended to the dark dining room. Giraud was already there, digging his teeth into a chunky meat bone. He gave them a grin of welcome as they entered.
“The customer pays for the driver,” he said. “It is the law. But I’m only gnawing at this ancient soup bone. It has a good deal of meat still on it, and the landlord offers it as his cheapest fare. You have made no mistake in hiring me!” He resumed crunching on the bone like a hungry dog.
The landlord was an old man whose wife closely resembled him. They came bowing in to Enid and Kemble, uttering flowery phrases about the great honor it was to serve them.
Kemble and Enid seated themselves at the other plank table. The actor told her, “You are more proficient in the language than I, so order what you think best.”
After she had managed to interrupt the elderly couple in their paeans of praise, she learned that they could provide a hearty vegetable soup and some roast duckling. She ordered both.
Giraud stood up, wiped his greasy mouth with his hand, and smiled at them in a malevolent fashion. “I go now to tend to the horses. I’m also a kind man with animals.” He chuckled slyly and limped out.
Kemble had never felt less in control of a situation. “What kind of picaroon have we given ourselves over to?” he asked in despair.
“It is Sir Harry whom I would like to have here at this moment,” Enid said bitterly. “Where is the fine carriage and special agent he promised?”
“He is probably feasting on fine roast beef in Whitehall, while we take what is offered in this dreary place!” the actor fumed.
“Courage, John. We shall soon reach Paris and be free of this scrounger.”
“I wonder.”
The landlord approached unsteadily with two bowls of hot soup, and Enid cried, “The soup smells excellent! Who knows? This modest inn may be famed for its menu!”
Kemble bridled at this. “I, my dear Enid, am a regular patron of Simpson’s on the Strand—and therefore I know good food!”
But when they had finished the repast and washed it down with large glasses of red wine, he was forced to admit the food had been excellent. They paid the old couple, who scraped and bowed and were still crying out their pleasure at having served them when the carriage jolted ahead once more.
After a half hour Kemble concluded, “There mustn’t be a proper road in all of France, or else this devil is purposely selecting the worst ones!”
This ride was a repetition of the dreadful earlier one, though much shorter. Enid was grateful when they once again turned into the entrance of a small inn.
“Too dangerous to drive in darkness, dear friends,” Giraud told them. “This is the Gold Lamb. It will make an agreeable stop for the night, and tomorrow we shall continue to Paris!”
Kemble helped Enid alight, and then he stepped into an enormous puddle that had not yet dried. It meant ruin for his black, silver-buckled shoes. He cursed under his breath and glanced toward the lamplit doorway.
“He calls it the Gold Lamb, and I expect that means we shall be fleeced!”
“Remember, John, it was you who convinced me we should embark on this mission!”
“You should have refused,” he lamented.
After a brief conversation with the proprietor, they were given rooms with comfortable-looking feather beds and blazing hearths.
Kemble shed his cloak and then joined Enid in her room to sit before the fire for a few minutes. Both were weary from the day’s events; the glow of the flames mesmerized them into a companionable silence. Then Enid broke the spell.
“If we do not find Father Braun in Paris, we shall have made this trip in vain,” she remarked. “Perhaps we could at least search for Armand then.”
Kemble frowned. “We have no idea of where he may be held prisoner. Sir Harry wouldn’t tell us. If only we could by some stroke of fortune come upon Gustav!”
“That is most unlikely, since he is among the wanted men operating the underground escape route. He is bound to keep in the shadows.”
“A fine state his Majesty’s secret service must be in, if this is any example,” the actor muttered.
There was a gentle knock on the door. Because it was so unexpected, Enid gave a start and glanced fearfully at Kemble. Looking old and weary in his makeup, he also showed fear. The thought in both their minds was that this very well could be the moment of truth. When she opened the door, it would be to officials who would march them off to prison.
Enid finally found her voice and asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, madam, with some extra logs for the fire,” came the voice of their driver.
“Can’t you leave them out there?”
“No, madam. It would be better if I bring them in.”
Enid gave Kemble a questioning look, and he nodded. She went to open the door, half expecting to see the police, but standing on the threshold was only the ever-present Pierre. He was holding an armload of wood, as he had said.