Page 12 of Souvenir Heart

A young man, a boy really, with strands of greasy brown hair beneath his red cap, entered the room carrying a desk drawer full of papers. He turned it upside down, spilling correspondence, receipts, envelopes and quills across the floor. “We’ve gone through all of these,” he said with disgust. “There’s nothing here but household accounts.”

Marguerite worried at her bottom lip, aware that if she said the wrong thing, guessed incorrectly about why she’d been denounced, she might give these men more reasons to arrest her. And yet, if she remained silent, would they think she was admitting guilt? “There’s nothing there because there’s nothing to find. I’m a loyal supporter of the Republic.”

“Loyal?” A man who’d been flipping through the portfolios of drawings stacked against the wall, wrinkled his bulbous nose and repeated the word in a mocking imitation of her voice.

Her stomach clenched, not just at his sneering contempt, but at the sight of his rough hands, with their dirt-rimmed fingernails, on her work.

“Lying aristo,” said the greasy-haired boy with the now-empty desk drawer. Dropping it atop the pile of scattered papers, he strode over to the vitrine bookshelf and opened it rudely, rattling the glass panes. He began searching the books; pulling them out one by one, shaking them by the spine, then dropping them on the floor when he found nothing between their pages.

“Liar. Aristocrat.” The filthy-fingered canvas-flipper snickered. “Same thing.”

“I would never do anything to harm the Republic.” Marguerite forced her gaze away from the splayed profusion of her beloved books. The battered brown tome with its ridiculous declaration of scorned love lay open beside a table leg.

“As you can see, I paint,” she said, gesturing towards her easels, the paints on the tables, the portfolios stacked against the wall. “I’m preparing for the Louvre Salon in August. I barely leave my home except to buy food and more art supplies.” She glanced over at Victorine, hoping the woman would affirm her statement, but her neighbor remained silent.

Of course Victorine hadn’t spoken up. If she did, they might think she was involved in…whatever this was about. Marguerite was on her own. But then, she had been for months. Marguerite tried again to defend herself. “What could I, a simple woman, have possibly done?”

“Possibly?” The gray-stubbled man laughed. “We have evidence of your crimes in your own hand, citizeness. It will be revealed to the people soon enough.” He turned to his men. “Take her.”

The boy who’d been rifling through her bookcase and the man who’d searched her portfolios stepped forward seizing her wrists.

Victorine, too, stepped forward.

Marguerite’s heart lifted. Then fell. She couldn’t allow Victorine to get into trouble, too. “Victorine, don’t…”

Victorine swept past her, pointing an accusatory finger at the shawl-wrapped bundle on the floor. “She was packing that when I arrived.”

The stubble faced man lifted the bundle, peered inside, and laughed again. “I do hope she’s packed something suitable for a rendezvous with Madame La Guillotine.”

Eight

“Don’t you worry. We’ll convince Dinsmore to let us follow you.” David murmured, as he bent to unfold the Berlin’s stairs.

Marcus stepped down into the hostelry courtyard and surveyed the place: single-story tavern, water pump and troughs and stables. It was late afternoon, and the place was quiet, buzzing horseflies more numerous than customers. A sorrel swished its tail as a man in a rough tunic and breeches led it into the stable’s interior. He eyed the horse’s sturdy chest, legs, and healthy coat: an encouraging sign the place could supply him with a mount he’d need to reach Paris in three days. Dinsmore had continued to argue against his going back for the comte’s daughter throughout their ride, but Marcus had chosen his course and would not be moved.

“At best we won’t be more than a day or two behind,” David continued. “But I’ll need to change the panels on the coach first. In case anyone connects it with what happened back in Rouen.”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the Berlin. Counting the doors, there were three blue and gold painted panels on each side, one panel on the front and one on the back. “You can do that?” he asked softly, “in less than a day? Without repainting them?”

“I do try and plan for fortuities. Keeps the chaos at bay.”

Marcus gave a low whistle. “You never cease to amaze. And not just because you think you can keep chaos at bay…”

David waved a dismissive hand as if his genius for innovation was no more unusual than the ability to tie a cravat, but Marcus glimpsed the curve of a satisfied smile as he turned back to take care of the coach’s team.

After a brief negotiation with the hostler, Marcus selected a sturdy bay mare with a deep chest and strong legs from the stable’s stock. Once the fee had been agreed upon, arrangements had been made for her return, and the horse had been saddled, he led her over to the coach. Glancing up at the luggage strapped to the back of the carriage, he quickly calculated what he’d need. “I’ll take the small portmanteau.”

David, still acting in his role as coachman, untied a cylindrical leather bag and handed it down. “That’s not a lot of clothes.”

“Lucky for him, disheveled and slightly dirty is the fashion in Paris these days,” said Andre, who was leaning against the side of the coach, a flask of wine in one hand. He gestured with it at Marcus. “Shows your affinity for the working class.”

You might add this to your ensemble, as well.” He pulled a red liberty cap from his coat pocket and tossed it to Marcus. Eying Marcus’s severe but elegantly cut brown suit, his sable hair pulled back with a silk ribbon, he said, “Do try and blend in…”

Marcus examined the cap. The brown fingers of a stain stretched along one edge and some of the knitted stitches were sliced through. He tried not to think about where the cap most likely had come from and whether the bodies in the field had been found. Told himself to focus on what lay ahead, because that, unlike the past, could be changed.

Yanking the ribbon from his queue, he pulled the hat over his hair. “My art box and writing desk are inside the coach. I’ll need them.”

Andre swung up the stairs of the Berlin, opened the door, and climbed inside. A moment later, he returned with both.