Before leaving, Remy pulled Armand aside. "Now, Girard, you be careful. Whatever it is you're up to must be dangerous."
Taken completely off guard, Armand gaped, then he shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, Remy."
"Now don't you play games with me. Any fool would know you're no provincial. You're from Paris!" His words were sharp, but the old farmer didn't raise his voice. He glanced around once more to be sure they weren't being overheard before going on. "So I said to myself, what can a Paris boy get from pretending to be a yokel? I didn't have an answer until I thought that maybe that boy was wanted in Paris. By the Tribunal maybe?"
"How dare you!" Armand growled, terrified but not daring to drop his pretense.
"Oh don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. You helped me." With a toothy chuckle, Remy patted Armand on the back. The younger man barely restrained his urge to flinch. "I doubt you're an aristo. An aristo'd be sneaking out of Paris, not into it. But mind yourself, Girard or whatever your real name is. Your hands are too soft, your vowels too Parisian and... whatever you did to your feet is going to keep you from running anytime soon. Keep your head down."
Before Armand could confirm or deny or offer a protest, Remy turned away, climbed into his wagon and drove back toward the city gate. He'd make good progress tonight. The weather had finally cleared, and it was likely the old farmer could drive into the night now that his wagon was unburdened and heading home.
After Remy was gone, Armand composed himself and thanked the merchant with a promise to let the man know where he lodged as soon as he found rooms in Paris. It was a promise he didn't mean to keep, but that was a problem for the next day. First he had to find those rooms. As he walked deeper into the city of his birth, he kept his ears open but his heart closed. Save for his beloved, he'd find no friends here, old or new, and dared not even hope for some.
Despite the warming spring weather, Armand noticed the mood in Paris was more somber than it had been in January. His loneliness and bitter fear for Jeanne filled Armand's mind so that he had to remind himself several times that he couldn't afford to go to the theatre to see her or risk being seen near her house this early in his trip. He'd have to wait until he had established himself a bit better and acquired what he needed for one of the other two identities Percy had helped him prepare. One was a shop clerk who could likely afford good clothes and the occasional theatre ticket. The other, strictly for emergencies, was almost a twin for Armand himself. Same general background with no uncomfortable political odor. Percy had meant for that in case Armand found himself in any kind of pinch and perhaps wasn't likely to watch himself as carefully.
All the identities, including Girard, had passports and papers good as recently as last week. So long as nothing big changed in the procedures, they should see him out of Paris safely. For Jeanne, he had three sets of matching papers. Two as his sister, one as his wife. Armand knew he had to be quick, discreet and cautious for both their sakes.
As he passed along the crowded streets, he heard a crier reading the headlines from some of the popular papers. He didn't think it wise to let anyone know he could read, so he inserted himself in the crowd nearby and waited for the headlines to be read, and then a few paragraphs or summaries from the most important articles. He was surprised there wasn't a recent edition of Le Vieux Cordelier, but he knew better than to ask. His best defense at indiscretion at the moment was to remain taciturn. He thought that would work well enough until he got his bearings.
As the sun set, he went to a coffee house to have supper and try to hear the news that didn't make it into the papers, especially things that were so commonplace they were no longer news to the beleaguered Parisians. That was where he heard that Danton and Desmoulins and the rest of the leading Montagnards were on trial for their lives. With his soup congealing on the plate before him, he forced himself to remain sitting for another quarter of an hour before rising, paying his bill, and exiting. On the street, he walked aimlessly in the light drizzle, avoiding a chill by not standing still, while he considered the grave news. He wasn't in more danger in particular because of this, but he ached to know the fate of these great men, some of whom had been among the dazzling lights who'd graced his sister's salons when the St. Justs were both happy and confident in their shared flat on the Rue de Richelieu. What did it mean for France and her people? The twilight and the rain hid his quiet tears. Freedom would not pass from France unmourned.
Still he did not mind his feet as well as he should and when he looked up to see where he was he discovered he was near the old house where he'd roomed in January. The room had many bad memories, but the portress had been fond of him. The old church, St. Pierre de Montmartre loomed near the summit of the hill, overshadowed by the experimental semaphore tower. Armand turned deliberately away from the familiar door and went to find a room closer to the theatre district where Jeanne Lange worked. His blisters hadn't completely healed on the ride into the city so Armand's feet hurt, and his weariness as he settled down for an early night was not feigned. He didn't like the portress at this new house, but he didn't have time to seek another and didn't have Percy's luck in judging safe places. An Englishman lavishing money around to find a secure resting place wasn't the same as a slight Frenchman trying the same, so he settled for surliness because the location was good. He slept dreamlessly though lightly.
He dutifully reported to the merchant the next day, conveniently forgetting his exact address. Pleading a pulled muscle in his back, Armand slipped away at noon and went back to his rooms for an hour or two, where he wrote a note to Jeanne. He told her she'd be able to meet him at a supper club he knew of near her house. He paid a small girl to deliver the note to the theatre and went shopping for some new clothes.
The second-hand clothes dealer was happy to help Armand find an old suit of good dark cloth and appropriate linen. She didn't ask a single awkward question, just took the money he offered. Armand went back to his rooms, ostentatiously crowing about his new outfit, as he knew a man who hadn't seen much coin in his life or clothes not made by his female relatives might do.
"What's that, citizen?" the portress asked. "You get rich all of a sudden?"
"I worked," Armand retorted. "I thought it'd be nice to have something of quality to wear when I wasn't working. I might even go to the theatre! Imagine that." He wagged his finger at her.
"Just be sure you pay up for your rooms in advance."
"Well, I paid you through the end of the decade, Mere Adeline. You shall have to content yourself until then."
The old woman snorted as Armand tripped up the stairs, doing his best to present a picture of lighthearted joy at a new suit of clothes.
Alone in his room, he hurriedly scrubbed himself clean with the water from his basin. He found he missed the ever-ready hot water he was able to get at Blakeney Manor. Yet even cold water is clean, so presently Armand felt less grimy and more refreshed. He changed into the new suit, which wasn't a perfect fit but good enough. The jacket was tight, the waistcoat--from another suit entirely√a bit tight. He dampened and caught his hair back with a black ribbon after teasing out most of the tangles. He chose a few coins out of the fat purse Percy had sent with him, which made him nervous because it was so out of character for any of his personas. Then he hid the purse under his mattress and went out to see a play, sadly not Jeanne's, so he suffered through an interminable three hours waiting until he could go engage a table at the supper club where he was to meet Jeanne.
He left the theatre early so he could get there ahead of the crowds. The proprietor of the supper club demanded a reservation but when Armand explained that his companion was to be Citizeness Jeanne Lange, the ingenue of the Theatre National and slipped him a large tip, the man seated Armand.
He would not keep quiet though as he set the silver and crockery on the table.
"How do you know Citizeness Lange?"
Armand decided that as close to the truth as he could safely get was his best bet. "We met before at the theatre. It's been some months." He fussed with the cuffs of his new coat, tugging them to hide the slightly shabby shirt beneath.
"So you've seen her perform?"
"Not for some time. I invited her to supper so we could catch up on our news. I've been out of town on business."
Eventually, the other patrons got the man's attention, and Armand was able to wait alone. He watched the door, twisting his napkin into a tail.
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1. a decade is the Republican 10-day week.
2. I wanted to write more, but the next scene with Jeanne seems like it will be long, so I decided to go ahead and post this.
3. Don't forget to feed the writer!