Page 62 of Souvenir Heart

Thirty-Nine

Marguerite de Rouvroy had dreamt of walking out of the Conciergerie, but never, even in her most feverish ones, had she imagined the name of the man who’d sent her there would, like some magical incantation, make every wicket swing open as she approached.

“Private Seurrier, let him through…”

A guard reached forward, mouth opening to demand her papers.

“Orders from Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville.”

His outstretched arm dropped to his side. His mouth snapped shut.

From the moment Fouquier-Tinville demanded to know what she was doing in the cell, Marguerite expected someone would point out she was a woman. That her uniform was too big. Her shoes were all wrong. That her excuses for being in the cell, not having papers, or a properly working key, were ridiculous?

Was her disguise that good? Or were they all simply too afraid to question the prosecutor’s orders?

It didn’t matter. So long as she kept moving forward.

She stepped through each wicket with a mounting mix of terror, disbelief, and euphoria. Anticipating at any moment a cry of Halt!

But all she heard was, “Open for Private Seurrier, Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville’s orders,” and the welcome rattle and clang of a gates being unlocked. More musical to her ear than Mozart, Haydn, or popping champagne corks.

She fought the urge to burst into hysterical giggles at the sound of that name—Seurrier. When Fouquier-Tinville asked her name, she knew she mustn’t hesitate. Victorine’s surname was the first that leapt to mind.

Ducking her head and stepping over the wicket frame, she marveled that none of her cellmates had recognized her. Several stirred and sat up at the sound of the prosecutor’s voice. Certainly, someone must have realized that no soldiers had entered the cell. And yet, for reasons she could not fathom—confusion, fear, the goodness of their hearts? none had given her away.

Gratitude and guilt nipped at her heels, as she raced towards the next gate. She was being given an opportunity to escape, while they…

She lengthened her stride along the way, so different from the careful gliding steps she’d been taught to make; a lady must never be seen running, never appear forward or obtrusive…or free.

The weight of the embroidered bag swung against her hip. The money Marisol had left as payment for Marcus’s miniature.

Where was the dratted man?

The hallways became wider, better lit as she neared the last gates. Marguerite pulled her bicorne down low.

No way to know. Too risky to look back.

“Private Seurrier, let him pass, orders from Fouquier-Tinville.” Another guard swung open yet another wicket in response to the echoed order.

Even riskier to wait for him. Where should she go when she got out?

Out. If her fichu hadn’t been wrapped so tightly around her breasts, she suspected her rapidly beating heart might have burst through the cage of her ribs.

“Open on orders from Fouquier-Tinville.” As the second to last gate swung open, Marguerite caught sight of the courtyard, the final gates, and beyond them, the Quai d’Horloge through the gaps of the bars.

Her hand drifted to the purse in her pocket. How much was in it? Enough to buy a dress? A petticoat?

She shook her head. Marisol had left that money for Marcus. She wouldn’t touch it.

She’d stay in the uniform. She wouldn’t have Fouquier-Tinville’s name to open doors for her, but who would dare challenge her when she was dressed as a national guardsman? At least, in the dark.

Another echo of the prosecutor’s orders, another wicket clanging open. Marguerite’s knees felt suddenly weak. She tried not to stumble as her feet touched the cobbled courtyard.

Almost there.

The final set of gates swung open and Marguerite found herself standing in the street outside the Conciergerie. The night air, redolent of the Seine, wrapping around her like a dank but welcome blanket.

She remained there for the briefest moment, long enough to look up at the sky. At its shades of deep blue and black, swirling wisps of clouds, and the marvelous glitter of stars. She would have stayed there forever, drinking in the wonder of it, but the guards were watching. And she was supposed to be on an errand for Fouquier-Tinville.