Page 61 of Souvenir Heart

“But of course, citizen. Who doesn’t recognize France’s most dedicated prosecutor?”

Marcus ignored the sting, the sticky feel of blood trickling through his fingers. Did Fouquier-Tinville recognize her? How could he not?

“Do you know where I live?”

Odd. Why had he asked her that? Blood trickled between his fingers. Did she know?

“Just down the street, isn’t it?”

He forced the button in deeper. Her answer was vague, but not inaccurate.

“Yes.”

Marcus released his grip on the button, as Fouquier-Tinville gave Marguerite the number of an apartment several blocks away on the Quai d’Horloge. “I’m going to be working late,” the prosecutor added, “Run and tell my wife not to hold supper for me.”

“Yes, citizen,” Marguerite replied breathlessly.

“Be quick about it,” Laurent snapped.

Marcus, too, wanted to tell her to run. It was marvelous. Miraculous. Except… His fingers curled around the button. The identity papers for ‘Private Bernard’ were in his pocket.

How could she pass through the wickets that lay between her and freedom without them?

Silence stretched, heavy as dough.

“What’s the problem now, soldier?” Laurent’s voice was a warning.

Marguerite gave another, even more nervous laugh. “I’m embarrassed to say, citizen prosecutor, that I was finishing my final inspection rounds when I heard about the escape rumor. I was in the wardroom, and I ran out so quickly… I didn’t want to fail the good Captain Laurent or let my fellow citizen soldiers down by allowing such a thing to happen…and well… I…I left my identity papers behind...”

“Incompetent sod,” Laurent said with disbelief.

The lady was quick and clever; but would the lie be sufficiently convincing?

“We’ve all been new,” Fouquier-Tinville said soothingly. “I cannot fault your enthusiasm, but I would caution you to be more careful in the future.”

“I will, citizen prosecutor,” she said earnestly. “I swear on my honor, it will never happen again.”

A smile curved Marcus’s lips, as he pried the button from his skin.

“What’s your name, son?”

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t fumble for a name.

“Seurrier.”

He frowned, the name seemed oddly familiar.

“Come with me, Seurrier.”

Marcus waited until the footsteps of Fouquier-Tinville, Laurent, and Marguerite de Rouvroy faded away. He counted to 120 before starting after them, thin blade now between his fingers, the blood from the cut in his palm a sticky ooze.

Nearing the first set of gates, he heard the prosecutor bark, “Attention. This is Private Seurrier. He is carrying special orders from me, Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville. Let him pass!” Heard too, the clatter of a wicket being unlocked, the clang as the door was opened, and the sound of Margurite’s steps as she hurried through.

He followed. Close enough so that each time he presented his papers, he heard the echoed commands “Open for Private Seurrier. Let him through without delay. Special orders from Citizen Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville.”

Marcus shook his head in disbelief as he began to walk ever faster. Marguerite de Rouvroy was about to become the first escapee of the Conciergerie in its history; with the help of the very prosecutor who’d sent her there.

Dropping the button into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief to wrap around his bloody palm, he winced. The woman who’d been so suspicious of his offers of help was slipping through the prison gates. When she got free, would she wait for him?