A Condition
Based upon the chapter 'In The Conciergerie' from Eldorado, and inspired by fellow writer Zebulon
"A condition?" Marguerite Blakeney asked, a hand fluttering towards her breast as if expecting a trap to close about her. "What is it?"
Chauvelin saw more than mistrust in those expressive eyes, he saw a childish fear that the desperate prize was about to be withdrawn. Caring naught for the fragile state of this young woman's nerves, he did however wish to placate her until she had seen the prisoner: it was unlikely that Marguerite would ever look upon him as a friend again, but Chauvelin was positive that Blakeney would become a thousand times more obstinate if he thought his wife had been insulted or mistreated at the hands of those who held him captive.
"You must forgive me …" Chauvelin began, dropping his pale, sharp eyes as he explained that she must submit to the test in the small room before she would be allowed to see her husband: diplomacy and patience had never failed the agent yet.
He pushed open the door, stepping neatly to one side to allow her entrance. When he glanced up, he saw that any fear in that perfect countenance had gone, leaving only suspicion borne of hate. She didn't fully understand, because he had been unable to confront her with the stark truth of the situation, but past experiences and an innate wariness had put her immediately on her guard. She didn't trust him, and never would. That was perhaps to be expected, but it stung him all the same – hadn't he kept his word in the past, over St Just? Wasn't he helping her even now? She had no right to see her husband, who was being kept closely guarded in a solitary cell, but a visit had been generously arranged and Chauvelin was even now attempting to soften the blow.
"I will wait for you here," he rushed, speaking close to her ear as she stepped past him into the dimly lit ante-chamber. "And I pray you, if you have aught to complain of, summon me at once."
She would not, of course, fearing the warden more than the guard, but he wanted her to know that this was not his idea, and that his reward was just as conditional as hers.
As she closed the door in his face, Chauvelin heaved a sigh, his own nerves tightly wound, and stepped lightly along the corridor. Leaning on the latch, he opened the door to the next room, as he had done for Marguerite, and whispered into the cold, slimy darkness:
"You have your wish, but be quiet about it. If your voyeurism ruins this for me, I will make sure that it is your body I use to step up to the guillotine!"
Silence met his words, as if to test Chauvelin's decree. There was no doubt that the foul ogre was in there, however, his eye pressed to a small gap between the bricks. Waiting.
"That you should search me!"
Fleshy, liverish lips twisted into a leer at the indignant tone of the pretty aristo. Give her the line about taking off her clothes and searching her thoroughly, Mother Henri, he thought, his body leaden with the desire to see more of the former actress.
Marguerite St Just, as Héron still thought of the statuesque beauty in the dim room before him, was standing frozen beneath the hanging lamp. He could see her bright eyes glittering feverishly, despite the shadow cast upon her brow by the brim of her hat, and noted that her lips were slightly parted as she took quick, shallow breaths. She held herself beautifully erect, defiance writ upon her elegant posture, but all Héron cared about was that she was taller than Mother Henri; the pasty old woman's broad back and square buttocks were obscuring his view of La St Just's fine figure, but he could still see her sculptured features and curls of her reddish-golden hair beneath the ridiculous bonnet.
"I am very sharp at finding out if anyone has papers, or files and ropes concealed in an underpetticoat," Mother Henri was reciting her standard speech, familiar as signposts along a road to Héron, who had instructed the overstuffed ragdoll in her art.
His heart thumping nauseously in his chest, Héron suffered the momentary fear that his guest would simply turn on her heel and demand Chauvelin escort her out of this hell, perhaps sharing an unspoken understanding with her husband – but Henri's next words broke the goddess' haughty stillness:
"The quicker you are about it, the sooner you will be taken to see the prisoner."
Héron released a sigh of relief so strong and loud that he feared the prisoner would hear: Chauvelin, the sly ferret, had been right! There was obviously a bond between this shimmering creature and her impudent husband which far surpassed the usual bonds of a man and wife, and as Héron ignored the draught which was drying his eyeball and the icy coldness of the stone wall against his forehead to watch her disrobe, he thought he could understand the passion. Oh, what wouldn't he do, say or give to be able to enjoy but one hour of the prisoner's former life!
With trembling fingers, the former Marguerite St Just reached to unfasten her kerchief, her eyes never straying from Mother Henri's position by the small table before her. She pulled the soft scarf free, trailing the length of it slowly over the nape of her neck as if to savour the familiar caress, before handing it over. From behind the wall, Héron gulped with a dry throat as he stared wildly at her exposed décolletage, the porcelain-like skin rising and falling with her rapid breathing. Lowering only her eyes, a gesture of submission belied by the rigid line of her shoulders, she focused her attention on the ties of her gown, quickly plucking at the false front until the dark material of her bodice parted to reveal the stark contrast of her stays. Studiously avoiding the other woman's darting eyes, Marguerite slipped her shoulders and arms free and pushed the heavy folds of her gown down over her petticoats. She stepped free and collected the gown, allowing Héron a glimpse of her finely turned ankles as she lifted each leg in turn, before thrusting it in Mother Henri's direction.
Whilst the old woman's surprisingly nimble fingers were covering every inch of the finely tailored clothing, Héron drank in Marguerite's exposed curves: her rounded shoulders above the fallen sleeves of her chemise, the gentle rise of her bosom, the structured waistline and padded hips. But he also noticed, even in the meagre light, that her undergarments were embroidered and of the richest material; the silk of her petticoats glowing like a pearl in the yellow candlelight, stockings holding perfectly to the form of her leg. Small details which bothered Héron, working at the stitching of his cherished fantasy of Marguerite St Just of the Comédie Française: this was not the flower of the rue Richelieu, but Lady Blakeney, wife of one of the richest men in England. He suddenly felt betrayed, disgusted, that he was watching an aristo being stripped of her costly gown, and taking pleasure in it: couldn't he do that at any time?
She stood shivering in the next room, though Héron knew not whether it was from the cold air in the dank cell or as a violent reaction to being insulted and humiliated in such a sordid little pantomime. Her hands, fingers laced together in the folds of her petticoats, were clasped at the end of stretched, tensed arms, as she watched the older woman methodically removing assorted items from the folds of her gown. Héron, his lustful interest waning, noted a small file and what looked like a miniature dagger being placed upon the table beside Mother Henri. This pathetic attempt of La St Just's to aid the prisoner's escape, as the final desperate measure of an aristocrat to bolt from justice, irritated him even more; Héron did not fear that she might succeed, but only despised her methods in trying.
After calmly counting out the contents of actress' purse, Mother Henri turned back to the half-naked woman before her, and Héron became aware once again of the blood coursing through his veins. With practical swiftness, the wardress hooked her fingers along the line of Marguerite's décolletage, pressing down between stays and chemise and then between chemise and flesh. Risking a glance at her face, Héron lifted his stare and saw that the prisoner's lady had closed her eyes to this personal indignity, breathing deeply through her nostrils as she submitted to the search. Next, instead of loosening the restrictive garment as Héron had hoped, Henri merely wrapped her large hands about Marguerite's waist and pressed, shifting her hold until she had covered all sides of the stays – the theory being that anything hidden within would jab into the flesh or the ribs, and show on the visitor's face.
As Mother Henri crouched to frisk the woman's petticoats, Héron's sweeping eye noticed that blotches of red were erupting across Marguerite's upper arms, chest and neck, disfiguring her porcelain complexion; another disappointment. He then had to bite down on the inside of his mouth to keep from growling an oath through the wall: the fat, grey wardress was now running her rough hands up Marguerite's stockings, lifting the layers of petticoats as she moved her hands up to the garters secured above the visitor's knees, but her solid bulk was obscuring the view. A pathetic second glimpse of ankle was all he managed before Henri slowly creaked and groaned to her feet again. If only he could be the one to strip-search, Héron mused; it was his prison, after all, and yet he had to be satisfied with the dubious word of these mechanical warders who might be bribed or sent in as spies to plot against him. He imagined his own trembling fingers easing along the curves within those silk stockings, and had to close his eyes as he thought of what he would find, quite unprotected, close above her garters.
Pressing his groin against the cold stone wall, Héron exhaled a deep, shaking breath: he wanted her still, the practiced ease of her new role suddenly exciting him more than his memory of her as a common actress. He wanted to soil that rich linen with his large, rough hands – tear the lace on her chemise, spread the petals of her underskirts – and remove those delicate stockings with his teeth. She would scream her objections in the most affected English tongue, but he would gag her and make her groan in French. He imagined pressing his lips to her neat, white shoulders, tasting the smoothness there; he would lay a trail with his tongue, and she would not be able to stop him (the fight having gone out of her after living in such a damp, dull climate). And oh! he would not spare her with the lazy, half-trusting methods of Mother Henri – he would strip the traitor of her stays, slicing at the laces with his pocket knife, and expose her like an oyster in its shell; the thought of her flesh, pure and pampered, was almost more than he could keep contained.
"No more of this!" Chauvelin's whisper sliced through the musky air, and Héron, starting at the sound, hit his head against the wall; he did not turn to face the flickering glow from the other man's lantern. "Henri will be done with her soon, whatever she has found, and I want you back in your pit before that door opens."
Héron slid a last, hungry glance between the bricks before he shuffled up to the door. "She is dressing now, anyway," he grumbled. "I have had my fill."
Chauvelin stepped back into the corridor, pressing flat against the outer wall as his depraved associate shambled out of the dank shadows. The agent looked the other way in disgust, relying on his sensitive ears to track the other man's receding footsteps; and when the dull echoes of the corridors were all that he could hear, Chauvelin turned his head to check that the passage was clear.
Héron's base request had disgusted the gentleman revolutionary at first, but the capture of the Pimpernel helped to set Chauvelin in an uncharacteristically obliging mood; Héron was in no position to demand anything in return for assisting in the spy's downfall, not with the fate of the little Capet also at stake, but a glimpse of Marguerite Blakeney in a state of undress was a small concession in the scale of things.
Unaware that he had been holding his breath, Chauvelin released a deep sigh, thankful that Héron's little game had not interfered with his own plans. He leaned back, reaching to close the door before Lady Blakeney was shown back into his charge – and then stopped, glancing into the darkness of the chamber behind him. What had the despicable gatekeeper of the Conciergerie been able to see? What indeed would Chauvelin find, if he were to press his own eye to that same gap between the bricks?
There was no denying, even to a man as outwardly indifferent to the desires of the flesh as Chauvelin, that Sir Percy's lady was possessed of an imposing beauty; she had impressed from the footboards of the National Theatre, and lost none of her attraction as the beloved wife of an English baronet – perhaps her lure had even increased because she was now unobtainable. Chauvelin, of course, knew more than most of the passionate and possessive love between the Blakeneys: it had taken only a glance, a word shared between the two in his presence, but Chauvelin's astute gauge of human behaviour had been quick enough to appreciate the implication. Armed with this knowledge, he had drawn her into his schemes once again.
If I did enter that foul den recently vacated by Héron, Chauvelin reasoned, it would only be as a secret weapon, a powerful and satisfying assault to hold over Blakeney; what a malicious and pleasurable victory, to be able to gloat over witnessing his wife's degradation! The seconds were slipping by; Chauvelin could hear them as the ticking of a clock, pushing him into a decision. His long fingers still curled around the latch, eyes burning as he stared at the dividing wall, the agent briefly fought an internal battle between gallantry and revenge. Héron had said she was dressing, however, and that a good few minutes ago now; he could hear the muffled words of Mother Henri, her nasal tones penetrating the heavy atmosphere in the prison.
Shaking his head roughly, Chauvelin pulled the door closed behind him and stepped forward into the corridor, a mere second before Marguerite was ushered into his presence by Mother Henri. His eyes slid briefly over the unwavering mask of dignity on her pale face, and he was glad that he had not lowered himself to Héron's level.
"This way citizeness!"