Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth scarcely knew what to think or how to feel over the next week. When she wasn't hoping and listening for Darcy's footsteps on the front steps, she was in extremes of anxiety for Charlotte.
How much she would have given to be able to help her friend! Elizabeth knew, of course, that many innocents had lost their lives to the revolution. She was aware that the tides of revolution had swept both men and women, rich and poor, before its awful wave. But to think that Monsieur Corbin, a man she herself had spoken with, who had sat in the same room and breathed the same air she had, could go the way of so many other miserable souls! It was intolerable. She simply could not comprehend it. And for Charlotte it must be immeasurably worse.
After the first shock of the arrest was over, Charlotte seemed to recover somewhat, but she was inconsolable. She seemed resigned to the worst and was only waiting to hear that it had come to pass. She held steadfastly that Monsieur Corbin had no chance of a favorable outcome, now that his aristocratic blood was well known.
"I have made up my mind, Lizzy." Charlotte took advantage of a moment when her mother was caught up in conversation with Jane and Mrs. Gardiner. "After this is done, I do not intend to live in this country any more. It has given me more sorrow than joy, and even if my father chooses to remain, I would prefer to leave all painful memories behind me. I will return to England and try to live on my own there."
Elizabeth was uncertain how to respond. How could Charlotte possibly support herself as a single woman? Ladies of her class who fell on hard times usually became governesses or paid companions, but their lives were unenviable. Surely she was not in earnest. "Are you certain that would be a sensible solution?"
"I am not certain of anything," Charlotte replied morosely, "except to wish that I had never come to France." To this Elizabeth could give no answer.
How she longed for Darcy! She read his note to her so many times that she soon knew it by memory, and yet it brought her little comfort.
When it came to Darcy, her feelings had never been so excited and then so cast down in such quick succession. She could not decide if reading Darcy's note brought her more pleasure or pain. Pleasure, for the sweet feelings it engendered in her, or pain for the anxiety she felt. Yet she kept it with her during the day and on the little table next to her side of the bed at night. It was as though keeping the letter close to her kept the writer close as well.
Darcy's letter and its effect on her was the final confirmation of her feelings for him. More specifically, losing his company just when she had most come to appreciate it made her feelings for him more plain. When had she fallen in love, and how had it happened? Was it when he first took a stand at her side to protect Jules, or later when he rescued both of them from the mob? Maybe it had happened with his unabashed declaration of his devotion to her. Poets, perhaps, could answer the question; she could not. But she knew that her love for him existed and that she would not wish it away, despite the anxiety it brought in her. The sweetness of being chosen and cherished outweighed the trial of separation.
Citizen Ferrand, manning his post at Le Forge prison, eyed the young man who was walking laboriously up to the gatehouse where he maintained his guard. The stranger was a handsome blond man, a laborer by his looks, with perspiration slicking his hair down and an oversized burlap bag slung across his shoulders. It was mid morning in January but still warm in the direct sun. Ferrand could feel it even in the little room where he sat, with one window looking out on the gate and all who came before it. Ferrand challenged the stranger when he drew near. "Halt and state your business!"
"I've a delivery," the man responded, glancing up at the grey stone walls of the prison before him as he shifted the heavy weight on his shoulders. "You'll be wantin' my papers, I suppose."
"Put them here." Ferrand extended his hand.
With a grunt the delivery man let the bag fall to the ground. He patted various parts of his vest and pants before finally discovering the necessary pages in his breast pocket. Then he extracted two crumpled pages but lost hold of them as he tried to hand them over. When he picked them up he did his best to unfold them and smooth out their wrinkles but mostly succeeded in smudging them with dirt.
Ferrand, impatient, finally snatched them away. "Who ordered uniforms?" he asked, straining to read through the wrinkles and soil.
"Don't know, citizen. Can't read. My master told me to bring you this, so here I am." The blond man shuffled his feet uncomfortably..
From somewhere inside the prison, rising above the normal sounds of city life all around, came a long, low keening sound, a wail of heartbreak and despair, followed by sobbing and weeping. The blonde man's eyes widened. "What was that?"
"Prisoners being called to the tumbrels," Ferrand replied shortly, not looking up. "There's thirty scheduled for execution today."
"Mon dieu! Rather shoddy job you have here, citizen. None too pleasant, eh?"
"I do my duty for France," Ferrand replied mechanically. The fate of the prisoners on the way to their doom did not greatly concern him, even though they would soon pass through this very gate. He scowled as he finally made out name on the page in front of him. "Sergeant Binot! I might have known. He never follows procedure. All deliveries are to be scheduled ahead of time and notification given to the gate, proper like!"
"What should I do? Should I take them back?" the blond man grunted.
"No, Binot's an important man, and he'll make my life a misery if I don't do as he wants. Do you know where to take them?"
"Don't know. Never been here before."
"After you go in the gate turn to the right and head to the storehouse straight ahead of you, on the other side of the courtyard. Step sharp, look lively, and no talking to the prisoners! By now they're saying their prayers. Hmph! They might as well wait an hour or so. Then they can talk to the Almighty directly!" He gave a short, harsh laugh.
"As you say, citizen." The blond man hoisted his burden to his shoulder again while Ferrand stepped out of the gatehouse and opened the gate. He passed inside and the gate swung ceremoniously shut again.
Ferrand resumed his vigilant watch, suspiciously eyeing anyone within a dozen yards of his post. There was no telling where trouble might start. The Fleur de Lys had been quiet of late but there were rabble rousers everywhere, and the pace of executions had stepped up. Binot wanted the prisoners to be transferred quickly and efficiently, with a minimum of disturbance to anyone nearby. The better Ferrand carried out his orders the better his chances of being promoted away from this irksome duty.
The minutes ticked by tediously. Ferrand glanced up at the sun, trying to guess at the time. The delivery man should have been back by now. What could be taking him so long? If he didn't come back soon Ferrand would have to investigate. Perhaps he shouldn't wait. Perhaps he should call someone right now to- but his attention was caught by the sound of an approaching cart, driven by a grizzled man with deep age lines creasing his face. The cart groaned under its burden and no wonder; the bed of the cart was filled with bulging burlap bags. Ferrand frowned and barked his usual command: "Halt and state your business!"
"I've a delivery for Citizen Binot."
"Show me your papers!"
"Aye, citizen." The grey bearded man jumped down off the cart with surprising ease for someone of his years. He passed his paperwork through the little window and Ferrand examined the pages carefully.
"What is the meaning of this? There's been some mistake." Ferrand frowned. "We just had someone else go inside with this same delivery."
The greybeard squinted at him. "What's that you're sayin'? Someone with the same order?"
"Some young man just delivered the exact order as this, not ten minutes ago. The same number of pants and shirts, and from the same tailor." He thrust the papers back towards the greybeard, but the man would not accept them. He puffed up indignantly, thrusting his chest out.
"A mistake, citizen? If anyone's made a mistake, it's you! Citizen Binot ordered these uniforms from me, and it's me who should have delivered them!"
"That's not my concern."
The old man was understandably upset. "But if I don't make this delivery, I don't get paid, see?"
"Be gone with you. I'm not interested in settling a dispute between merchants."
"I'm not leaving without gettin' my money!"
"Then take it up with the man who came before you. Here he is now," Ferrand added, noticing that the prison gate was opening at last.
The young blond man emerged without the heavy bag slung over his shoulder, whistling a jaunty tune. He was so close that he nearly tripped over the older man. "Beggin' your pardon, monsieur." He took in the greybeard's scowl and the cart with its contents partially blocking the gate. "What's all this?"
Ferrand seized his chance. "This man says he has the order of uniforms citizen Binot asked for, the same order you just dropped off."
"That can't be. You saw my papers for yourself."
"THIEF!" the graybeard roared, so loudly that the others took an involuntary step back. He pointed at the younger man dramatically. "Tryin' to steal my business! Copying my order from citizen Binot and taking money right out of me own pocket!"
Ferrand was astonished. He had not expected such a strong reaction from the old man. The graybeard advanced threateningly toward the blond man, who looked alarmed and sputtered, "I didn't do nothin!"
"Then what do you mean by bringing that order of uniforms for Citizen Binot?"
"I'm doing as I was told!" The blond man had backed up as far as he could go and was now standing with his back to the prison wall.
"A likely story! You got wind of my order somehow and decided to make some money for yourself!"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was told to make my delivery, and that's what I did!"
"Let's see your papers!" the greybeard demanded. "I'll wager ten sous they're a forgery!"
"Never so!" the blond man protested. "I'm an honest man, I am!"
The blond man was both younger and taller than the man who was now advancing towards him, but that did not stop the greybeard. Without warning he leaped forward and seized the younger man by the back of his neck. For a moment it looked as though he would box his ears. "For a sous I'd turn you over my knee and teach you some proper respect!"
The younger man's eyes blazed as he struggled in his grip. "For half a sous, I'd like to see you try it!"
"Insolent brat! You'll see what happens when I take you to Binot and tell him what you've done!"
"You'll do no such thing!" Ferrand fairly bellowed. "I will go to citizen Binot with this, not you."
Neither man paid him the slightest attention. The gate to the prison was still open. From inside it there came a sound of shouts, a cracking of whips, and the noise of wheels on cobblestones. The tumbrels were starting to move, but the two opponents were oblivious. "Make way! Make way!" Ferrand commanded.
The two men ignored him. The younger man jerked his head back, breaking the other man's grip. The older man raised his fists, ready to land the first blow, but the other man raised his fists as well. They circled each other warily. Both of them were still in front of the gate, and the old man's cart still partially blocked the way.
Ferrand swore mightily. The situation was absurd! Two men getting into fisticuffs practically in Le Forge's doorway, and one of them twice the other's age! With an exclamation he stepped between them. "If you want to fight, go do it somewhere else, or by God I'll load you up in the tumbrels as well!" he threatened. "You, old man, take your cart and move it out of the way smart like! And you-" he glared at the blond man, "let me see those papers again! There's something funny going on here and Binot won't thank me if I don't get to the bottom of it!"
"Hmph!" The old man glared and continued circling. At Ferrand's impatient gesture he moved backwards, keeping his eyes on the younger man. Finally he turned away just as the first tumbrel went past, and Ferrand saw him climb up onto the seat of the cart.
He turned back to the younger man but that gentleman had retreated to the other side of the gate. Ferrand frowned, waiting while the tumbrels labored slowly past, each filled with a mixture of pitiful men and women on their final journey. It was impossible to keep his eye on the blond hair as each tumbrel went by.
When Ferrand glanced back at the cart with the old man he saw that the space they had occupied was now empty. There was no sign of the greybeard, and no sign of the cart. They must have pulled out and gone around the corner, Ferrand decided. The old man would undoubtedly be back any second, ready to take up his dispute once more.
Ferrand looked back at the blond man standing directly across from him, but realized that the younger gentleman, too, had disappeared.
Comprehension did not dawn immediately. Ferrand was still in front of the gate, scratching his head, when three soldiers on horseback emerged. They rode up to Ferrand quickly.
"You, citizen Ferrand!" The leader of the trio spoke Ferrand's name authoritatively, though Ferrand did not recognize him. "Binot sent us to you. Have you seen that young man? The one with the delivery of uniforms?"
"Aye, citizen!" Ferrand answered respectfully. He didn't know the newcomer but he did recognize the officer insignia on his lapel.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He was standing right over there a minute ago!"
"Which way did he go?" Ferrand could only shake his head, at a loss for words.
"He took you for a fool!" The officer announced, his voice full of scorn. "That man tried to rescue prisoners from the guillotine! If we do not catch him, his escape will be on your head!" Ferrand shrank back in dismay. With a flick of his arm the officer motioned the other soldiers forward. All three put the spurs to their horses, and they disappeared down the street in a hail of pebbles and dust. In moments it was as though none of the three had ever existed.
Ferrand could only gape after them, his mind whirling with questions. Who was the blond man? Who was the grey beard? Were they working together, or had one deceived the other? Most importantly, what would happen to him, Ferrand, if the blond man got away? Was he the Fleur de Lys? He was still staring after the three officers and trying to make sense of it all when Citizen Binot approached on horseback. Binot was as angry as Ferrand had ever seen him.
"Citizen Ferrand! I'm told three men dressed as soldiers just came this way!"
"Why yes, citizen. They went after the young man with the uniforms." He waved his arm vaguely.
"Did you recognize any of them?"
"No, citizen."
"Then why did you let them pass?" he demanded.
"Because I-" A feeling of dread swept over Ferrand. "I thought- They- they spoke with authority, citizen. They used your name! They said you sent them."
"You idiot! Anyone could use my name!"
"But they were officers! They were dressed in officer's clothing. They wore the uniforms of the-" Even as Ferrand spoke the words, a flash of comprehension came over him. His suspicion received awful confirmation a moment later.
"That man brought uniforms into the prison under your very nose! He brought them in to give to the prisoners!"
"But how did he know the prisoners would be in the courtyard?"
"He must have had inside information." Binot glared at Ferrand ominously.
Ferrand gasped. "It wasn't me. I swear it!"
"Then they staged a disturbance at the gate to give the prisoners time to make the switch!"
"I tried to stop them fighting, citizen! I tried to break them up!"
"But when three prisoners dressed up as soldiers came through the gate, you let them go by!"
Ferrand's stomach dropped sickeningly. He fell to his knees as two soldiers approached him, one on each side, their faces grim. Binot made the dread pronouncement.
"Citizen Ferrand, you are hereby under arrest. You will be taken inside LeForge and held until your trial, for you have aided and abetted in the disappearance of the Count of Aubrac and two of his closest associates!"
I hope you liked this chapter! The drama is ramping up and will continue to increase! Thank you for all your feedback up until this point. I can't wait to read more of your thoughts! Have a terrific holiday weekend. -Elaine