Page 38 of Souvenir Heart

The only hitch had been that, while Marcus was, as David remarked, “a dab hand” at sketching portraits, he was also, as the big man pointed out “complete rubbish” at painting them. Fortunately, Andre knew a local artist, who, for a handsome fee, was turning the sketches into miniatures.

David had taken on the task of ferrying Marcus’s drawings to the painter and of creating tiny frames for them. A row of the pocket-sized works was prominently displayed beside his easel. They, and the cards he’d passed out in the courtroom, had attracted sufficient attention to earn Marcus several appointments for sittings within the prison. He’d memorized the layout from a floor plan they’d obtained through their Paris network. Now he just needed to get inside to survey it firsthand. Setting a pastel down in the grooved tray of his easel frame, Marcus drew his pocket watch out of his red and blue patterned waistcoat.

“It’s five minutes past the last time you checked,” Andre said. Taking advantage of Marcus’s inattention, he wriggled his shoulders and scratched his nose. With a relieved sigh, he added, “I told you I’d let you know when it’s time to go.”

Frowning, Marcus turned back to the sketch, picking up the pastel, and shading in the slight cleft in Andre’s square chin. He rose and stepped back to examine the effect. Not bad, he thought, his mind’s eye flashing back to the stunning portraits and sketches in Marguerite’s apartment, but not in a class with hers. He hated to think of the canvases and portfolios left behind being tossed out like so much rubbish. But at least he’d managed to save the very best. Including that haunting self-portrait.

Damn her eyes, why wouldn’t she send for at least one of them? He glanced up at the prison’s barred windows.

“She’s in a cell with five other women. First floor,” Andre said, following the direction of his gaze.

The same clerk who’d altered her name in the register had included this useful piece of information. After much time and effort, Marcus had secured an appointment to paint a prisoner who shared her cell.

“Eh, Citizen Tisset, you here again?” The question, from a guardsman, drew Marcus’s attention away from the prison’s windows. The guard was one of the many red and blue uniformed soldiers, guarding the Conciergerie’s gates, overseeing the loading and unloading of carts and carriages, or (when they had nothing better to do) amusing themselves by harassing passing citizens. They were a constant presence—as the team well knew from long hours of surveillance. At night, they clustered like hostile well-armed moths beneath the pools of light cast by streetlamps hung from ropes suspended between posts and from the facade of the prison.

“Plying my trade,” Marcus said in response, gesturing with his pastel at his half-finished sketch of Andre.

“Have you finished my portrait yet?” The guard strode over, taking up a place beside Marcus, and eyeing the row of miniatures beside his easel expectantly.

Recognizing the jutting lower jaw that gave the otherwise perfectly pleasant man an expression of perpetual sulkiness, Marcus set down the pastel, flipped open his art box, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cotton wrapped package marked with the initials JLB. “Here you go, Citizen Bault.”

Private Bault took the package, unwrapped it, and studied it with the air of a serious art critic, murmuring “Not bad, not bad at all.” Slipping it inside his white waistcoat, he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you among the prisoners and other guards.”

He made no effort to pay for the work, which Marcus didn’t mind; gratis portraits of the guards had earned him the right to inspect the prison walls, windows, and gates without rousing suspicion for as long as he liked.

It had also given him an idea.

“What do you think of that one?” he asked Andre, cocking his chin in the direction of a boyish-looking soldier who was changing guard positions in front of the building. He fumbled with his rifle as he switched it from one shoulder to the next.

Andre studied the slim figure for several long moments before responding. “I’d have to get closer to be sure, but I think he might just suit.”

“I noticed him earlier and I did a sketch of him. Gave it to David and Suzanne. Suzanne says his name is Allard, and that when he gets off duty, he usually stops for a meal at a place around the corner. The Cock’s Roost. It’s apparently a popular haunt for guardsmen.”

“With plenty of dark alleys nearby, one hopes.”

“Is there a part of Paris that isn’t full of dark alleys? I hear they’ve even got alleys underground...”

“They say hiding out in those tunnels is how Marat got his skin ailment,” Andre said.

They lapsed into silence and Marcus knew they were both thinking of that damned fish-in-the-tub drawing. What had she been thinking? He reminded himself that wondering about what went on in the lady’s head wasn’t his job—saving it was. He reached for his pocket watch.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Andre said.

Marcus shifted his hand away from his pocket, picked up his pastel, and returned his attention to his sketch. As he moved the colored stick from the square of Andre’s chin to the curve of his cheek, his mind reviewed the details of the plan he was formulating. “I’m worried about shoes,” he said lifting his pastel.

“Shoes?” Andre raised an eyebrow.

It only took one missed detail for everything to go sideways.

Andre sighed. “I’ll look for shoes, too. Though how we’ll get them inside... Perhaps David can come up with something.”

“Why hasn’t she asked for us?” Marcus burst out, no longer able to contain the tide of frustration that was steadily rising as each day, each hour, passed. “Doesn’t she understand what’s at stake?”

Andre’s bright blue eyes drifted towards where a group of prisoners, hands tied behind their backs, were being loaded into a cart. A guard wrestled with an elderly woman in a lace cap who’d thrown her arms around the neck of a young man and was refusing to let go. “No, no, no,” she wailed.

No one stepped forward to intervene as the guard wrenched her arms loose from the young man’s neck and threw her to the ground.

“I’ve no doubt she does.”