Yann read it carefully. “What do you think Maître Tardieu is so desperate to tell us?”
“I don’t know. I’ll arrange for us to see him tomorrow.”
Outside there was the sound of a pot breaking on the ground. Red geraniums lay scattered; the cat had vanished.
If only, thought Yann, I could do the same for Sido.
chapter twenty-four
It was a stiflingly hot morning when Yann left the lodgings he had taken in the Marais to go and meet Têtu. He was now dressed in the French mode, wearing a long sky-blue coat with the revolutionary cockade pinned to the lapel, over a red-striped calico waistcoat, under which he wore a shirt of fine cotton, his cravat tied high around his neck. To finish his dashing outfit he wore breeches and riding boots, so that no one seeing him would think him any different from any other fashionable young man of this city, filled no doubt with the same fashionable revolutionary zeal as all other patriotic young men of his time.
Têtu was seated in his usual place at the Café Godet, a corner table facing the street, from which he had a perfect view of all the comings and goings.
“Good!” he said, seeing Yann. “Maître Tardieu will see us at three o’clock this afternoon.”
He turned and tried to catch the waiter’s eye. The man steadfastly ignored him.
"Never can get served here,” said Têtu tetchily. "Listen, I sent Didier out to do some snooping for us yesterday, instead of sitting cooped up in the theater. He’s perfect for the task. No one will think he’s up to anything, other than occupying vacant space.”
“I thought he only worked for Monsieur Aulard.”
Têtu huffed and raised his hands. “His talents are wasted there. Didier’s no fool. He might well possess the face of a mooncalf but, as I’ve told him, in times like these his looks could be his fortune; for this is soon to be a city of idiots, where clever men will need to hold tight to their heads if they wish to keep them.”
Yann looked around the café. It was as busy as it had always been. At the next table, an argument broke out as to what should be done with the royal family.
“Kill them! They’re traitors, the lot of them,” said a burly man with a red face. “That’s what I’d do with them. Know what he said the day we dethroned him, when he was taken through the Tuileries Gardens to the National Assembly? He said, ‘There are a great many leaves: They fall early this year.’ ”
His companions burst out laughing.
“Good Frenchmen being slaughtered, and all the idiot can talk about is leaves!” said the burly man. “Would you credit it?”
Didier pushed his way into the café. He was still wearing the tiny red liberty cap, which looked ridiculous on his huge head, and sweat was pouring down his face. He pulled out a chair next to Têtu. "It’s too hot, too hot by half, and it ain’t even midday.”
Têtu stretched up and pulled the cap from his head. “Take care, my friend. With a cap that ill-fitting, you might be seen to be mocking the cause.”
“It’s the biggest I could find,” said Didier, offended.
Yann laughed. “Better get someone at the theater to make you one that fits, in that case.”
"Have you any news?” asked Têtu.
Didier turned around and looked longingly at the counter, where waiters were busy pouring wine into pitchers.
“At least let me have a drink, will you? It’s thirsty work finding out what people are doing in this weather, I can tell you.”
"Garçon,
a jug of coffee and some bread,” shouted Têtu.
“I’ve only got one pair of hands,” the man snapped.
“Anyone would think he was doing us a favor, instead of serving up stale bread and watered-down coffee,” said Têtu.
Yann got up and elbowed his way through to the counter, where the proprietor’s wife sat knitting and keeping a beady eye on the customers. She looked up from her stitches, about to say, “Wait your turn like everyone else,” but seeing Yann said instead, “What can I do for you, my lovely?”
“How do you do it?” asked Didier as the woman brought over their order, smiling at Yann.
“By being a proper gentleman, with manners,” said the woman with emphasis. “They’re rare in this dog kennel of a city, I can tell you.” She ruffled Yann’s hair and walked away, swinging her hips.
Têtu stared at him through narrowed eyes.
Yann laughed.
Didier didn’t wait to be asked. He went straight for the bread and then started to speak with his mouth full, spitting out food in the process. He wiped his mouth on his cap.
“I’ve been making inquiries about the marquis.”
“Yes, and what have you discovered?”
“His château was torched three days ago. There’s nothing left of the place.”
"Was anyone hurt?” asked Yann quickly.
“No. From what I gather, all the servants had already scarpered, except two, who helped get the marquis and his daughter out. They’re now staying near you in the Duchesse de Lamantes’s old residence in the Place Royale. She’s left for Jersey.”
"What about the marquis and his daughter?” asked Yann.
“Give us a chance,” said Didier, mopping his face. “You’re getting me all flustered. Where was I? Oh yes, I’ve seen a girl with a limp. The servants—a chef and a coachman—don’t get out much because the master can’t be left alone, so the girl goes to the market, that’s what I was told. I followed her down the rue des Francs-Bourgeois. She don’t spend much.”
“Was anyone else watching the place?” asked Têtu. “Any of Kalliovski’s men?”
“Not that I could see,” said Didier. He was about to cram another huge mouthful of bread into his mouth when Yann snatched it away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” growled Didier.
“Finish your story and I’ll buy you a jug of wine,” said Yann.
“Oh, so that’s it. You want to know about the young lady, what she looks like. I got your ticket. Well, she’s pretty. Looks like a ripe cherry waiting to be plucked from the tree, if you get my meaning.”
"We do, and most of your crumbs too,” said Têtu sharply.
“I’m impressed that you managed to find out so much,” said Yann.
“I have my sources,” said Didier.
"Which house is it?” demanded Yann. He got up. "I’ll go and see if I can talk to her.”
“Good,” said Têtu. “Try and get her to agree to leave her father.”
Yann went up to the counter and ordered wine and more bread for Didier.
“I’ll see you at the theater,” he said over the heads of the customers, and slipped out of the door and down the Boulevard du Temple.
It did not take him long to walk to the Place Royale. Its arcade gave welcome shelter from the blistering sun. On the corner was a café, and along the inner wall stalls had been set up by women selling an odd variety of wares. Yann took his time to work out the best place to stand so that he had a clear view of the main door to the duchess’s residence.
He waited, leaning against the cool stone.
From his vantage point at the corner of the square he was able to observe Sido before she saw him. Her mass of dark hair was tied up with a crimson ribbon, her face porcelain pale. She was dressed in a white muslin gown and carrying a basket, limping slightly as she walked toward him. Only when he said her name did she stop.
“Mademoiselle Sido. Do you remember me?”
She looked at him, her head to one side, wondering for a moment if hunger had made her hallucinate or whether it was just an incredible longing to see him again that had conjured up this apparition that stood before her.
"Yann Margoza,” she said softly, as if the words were stepping-stones across an unknown river. She wanted to touch him, just to reassure herself that he was made of flesh and blood rather than dreams and desires.
“Yes.”
Her face lit up.
Oh, yes, thought Yann, I always knew you were going to be lovely.
“What are you doing in Paris?” she asked.
“What is anyone doing in Paris? Trying to survive,” he answered. “Would you like to eat?”
“I have to go and get food for my father.”
“We can do that later. Why don’t we eat first? I would like to talk to you.”
They walked together to the Café des Bains Chinois on the rue des Rosiers. Yann asked for a table at the back, where he hoped they would not be observed.
The smell of food was like an intoxicating perfume that made Sido feel faint.
Can this be happening? she thought. “He looks even more handsome than I ever dreamed he would.”
Yann turned to look at her, startled. What an unguarded thing to say, he thought.
“I am very flattered that you—” He stopped abruptly, realizing with a shock that Sido was not talking, yet he could hear what she was thinking. Had his gift come back? Could he once more read people’s minds? He turned to look at the other customers in the café, wondering if he could hear what they where thinking as well. Nothing. Not a word, only the chitter-chatter of voices, the clinking of glasses, the clicking of cutlery. Only Sido’s thoughts rushed in upon him.
“You look well,” she managed to say. “When I last saw you . . .” Here she stopped herself, suddenly aware of his dark eyes on her. It was as if he had walked inside her head and could see for himself just how much and how often she had thought of him since they last met.
The meal arrived. Yann was glad of the interruption. It gave him time to try to think straight, as Sido’s thoughts flooded his mind.
"Eat it slowly,” said Yann kindly. "If you eat too fast you’ll be sick. Take some bread first.”
“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”
“Because I do.”
She was quiet, savoring the food in her mouth as if she were eating life itself. She remembered how she had felt when she had first seen him three years ago at her father’s château. The sense of being in church, that her soul was visible, that there was nowhere to hide from him.
"I’ve been staying with some people called Laxton,” said Yann, pleased to be talking aloud.
Sido stopped eating and looked up at him, shocked. “Did you say Laxton?”
“Yes,” he said, studying her. She had sapphire-blue eyes, and a long elegant neck down which an endearing curl of dark hair had fallen.
Lovely
was the wrong word to describe her.
Lovely
didn’t do her justice. No, Sido was beautiful.
"You know my aunt? Can this be true? Tell me...” Once again she checked herself. She felt her emotions were about to spill over, like water in a glass. She feared she would say too much. Best to keep these thoughts to herself, so she asked, “But how?”
"Têtu. Do you remember the dwarf?” And he told her as much of the story as he dared, leaving out the bullet.
“They want you to come to London. That’s why I’m here.”
“I must be dreaming,” said Sido. “You have come back to take me to London?” The idea seemed, in this terrifying city, nothing more than a chariot of clouds.
She was quiet for a moment. “I fear it’s too late,” she said at last. “I can’t leave. Earlier this year I was formally betrothed to Count Kalliovski. He came down from Paris with my father’s lawyer, Maître Tardieu, and papers were signed.”
What she didn’t say, and what Yann could hear loud and clear, was that she had felt like a piece of unwanted furniture, to be sold for the right price.
"How is the marquis’s health?” asked Yann.
“He’s not well. He burned his hand badly in the fire.” She paused. “It’s not just that. It is in his mind that he is most disturbed. My father has become obsessed with Count Kalliovski, convinced that he ordered the burning of the château. He believes him to be the devil, come to tempt virtuous men to tread the path to hell.”
“And this is the man you are betrothed to?” Yann exclaimed, almost shaking with rage.
"I am uncertain now. My father has written to Maître Tardieu instructing him to inform Count Kalliovski that the marriage is off.”
“When did he do that?”
“He wrote the letter the day after the fire. There are fleeting moments when his mind becomes clear.”
“Do you have anyone to help you?”
“Jean Rollet, my father’s chef, has stayed with us; Bernard the coachman too, but he has family in the city. His wife is worried that he will be sent to prison if he is seen to be still working for an aristocrat.” She stopped talking and bit her lip, trying her best not to cry.
It was what she was not saying, more than what she said, that struck Yann powerfully: The marquis was haunted by visions of his dead wife, who stood before him; the present was only a fleeting stranger, the past took up most of his quarrelsome days.
Sido didn’t want to cry, but still she could not prevent tears welling up in her eyes as she said quietly, “Such is the state of my father’s mind that I can now hardly be in the same room with him before he takes to shouting and demanding of invisible footmen that I be removed. In truth, he frightens me.”
Yann then reached out and touched her hand. Her skin was rose-petal soft.
Sido wiped her eyes. “What will people think of us?” “That we are lovers having a quarrel.”
Sido’s face turned deep crimson.
“Leave your father, let me get you out. I can do it, I have the papers and the money,” said Yann. “There is a new life waiting for you in London.”
For all his passionate words he could hear her thoughts and could see all the knots, the longing to be loved by a father who would never love her. He said in desperation, “He has never cared for you. What do you owe him?”
Sido looked bewildered. Had she said these things out loud?
"Come away with me today,” begged Yann.
“I cannot. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”
He sighed, and pushed back his chair. “I knew you would say that. Is your father willing to go to England?”
“Yes. The Duchesse de Lamantes, who took us in, has recommended a man who will help us escape, once my father is well enough to travel.”