Page 34 of Souvenir Heart

A drawing of an elderly man dressed in the shabby clothes of a servant, standing with outstretched arms as if pleading with the young couple seated before him. Over his right shoulder, in the distance, was the sea and a tiny ship at anchor, sails furled. Marguerite leaned forward to get a better look at the man’s face. It was gaunt and tired, the hair curling around it wild, but still she recognized him. Her father.

“How?” Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. “Where? Is…he…” She couldn’t bear to ask alive? landing instead on, “Well?”

“He is.” Marcus nodded in the direction of the door, a reminder that it was being guarded by the pipe-smoking guards. “But there’s no time to explain how. We need information…”

“Information?” Her mouth went dry. Was this some sort of trap?

“Information from you to develop a plan of escape,” he said as if reading her mind. “Where are you being held?”

If they were from the Committee for Public Safety, they would already have this information. “They brought me here, to the cells in the Conciergerie three days ago.” She struggled to keep her voice level, even as her brain conjured up the filth, the fetid air, the hysterical miasma of people days or hours from death.

“We need to get inside to get a better idea of the layout of the prison and your cell, the number and schedules of the guards. Possible escape routes,” he said. The intensity in his dark eyes, the cool assurance in his voice calmed her. She took a deep breath.

“Andre will have access to you as your lawyer. Tell the warden and the guards you need more time to consult with him, that you want him to visit you in your cell. And also tell them you’ve arranged to have a miniature painted by Marcus Tisset.”

“Marcus Tisset?” It wasn’t an artist’s name she recognized. “Is that your name?”

“It’s the one you should use. We’ll need as much time as you can get us to map out and identify the prison’s vulnerabilities and get certain items to you.”

“No one’s ever escaped from the Conciergerie…”

He smiled, the curve of his severe lips like a sliver of silver moon piercing the clouds. Like a glimmer of hope. “No one’s ever escaped…yet.”

Twenty-Five

“Time’s up, Citizens.” The door flew open, the heavy iron latch banging against the plaster wall, and the guards stepped inside the room. Marcus had sized them up earlier, first in the courtroom and then as he passed them in the hall: Two guns, one knife, no swords, easily distracted. They hadn’t bothered knocking, not that he’d expected that they would.

He turned to look at Marguerite. The color drained from her face. Her shoulders sagged the way they had when Fouquier-Tinville held up her sketchbook. This time, however, he was close enough to catch her.

He stepped around the table, as if unaware he was blocking the squat guard reaching out to grab Marguerite, and clasped her wrist in both his hands. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

He bent and whispered in her ear, “Have faith.” She stilled, but he could feel the wild beating of her heart beneath the soft skin. He slipped the cylinder of paper and pencil he’d tied with his queue ribbon out from under the cuff of his sleeve and beneath the lace of hers. “We will come for you.”

“Hey!” The guard with the battered nose grabbed his elbow. “What are you doing?” Marcus resisted the urge to throw a punch and flatten it further. “Who are you?”

Releasing Marguerite’s wrist, Marcus turned with an ingratiating smile, reached into his waist pocket, and pulled out a card which he held out with a flourish. “Citizen Tisset. Master painter of fine miniatures and consolation portraits.”

“How did you get in here?” The second guard demanded in a nasal tone that seemed to whistle through his reedy frame.

Ignoring the man’s question, as well as the urge to snap him like a twig, Marcus withdrew several more cards. “I’m newly arrived in town, but I assure you my work is as good as any artist’s in Paris. Country rates for city style! And I offer a special deal to servants of the people; my work is free to patriotic guardsmen such as yourself, if you will but return the favor by spreading the word to potential customers such as the citizeness here and her lawyer.”

The squat guard turned the card in his hands, frowning as thoughtfully as his blockish face would allow.

Marcus fished out several more cards, but this time with a folded assignat tucked between them and handed it over.

The guard slid the cards and the bill into his white uniform waistcoat. “I’ll keep your work in mind, citizen,” he said, patting the soiled edges of his pocket. “But for now, Henri and I,” he cocked his head to indicate the reedy man, “have our own work to do.”

“Citizeness.” He motioned to Marguerite. “Step forward. Hands behind your back.”

He unhooked a length of rope from his belt. Turning her roughly around, the guard began tying the coarse hemp around her wrists, knotting it tightly, so that it pinched her skin.

Marcus saw Marguerite’s fingers clasp the lace edge of the sleeve—the one he’d slipped the sketch paper into. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turned her head; though her posture was straight, the dark eyes that met his were as wild as the pulse he’d felt beating beneath his fingertips.

He wished there was more he could say, more he could do. But for now, he knew, he could only stand by and watch as the guards seized Marguerite de Rouvroy by her arms and dragged her from the room.

Leaving him staring at the bustling hallway and the door they’d left gaping wide behind them.

“What was that?” Andre said, stepping forward and closing the door.