“I shouldn’t be surprised to see her style altered in the near future,” Mérigot replied, with a bantering smile at Sally’s hat. They were both surprised to see it altered so very soon, that same morning in fact. Not half an hour later the duchess passed them on the far side of the street, wearing a
chapeau bras
adorned with buff and blue ribbons, Fox’s colors. She waved at them gaily, pointing to her new headgear and laughing.
“She means to give you credit for the style,” Mérigot explained. “That assures you a position in the first rank of fashion, Minou.”
“Kind of you to say so,
ch
é
ri,
but you know me well enough, I think, to be sure I would end up there, with or without the duchess’ help.”
To ensure being suitably outfitted for this lofty position, Minou purchased a large quantity of items. What a thrill it was to again be shopping for fashions. Her months in the asylum were all made up for in a morning. Ribbons, lace, buttons, silk stockings, patent slippers with silver buckles, scarves and shawls were snatched up, always with a thought to the gowns already selected, and with a thrifty French eye to price as well.
The larger parcels were put into Mérigot’s parked carriage, but the escort was pressed into being a footman for the several smaller packages. When Degan, traveling along the opposite side of the street, saw them, even the lady had her arms full.
He saw as well that she was outfitted in a manner that caused her to stand out sharply from the crowd. That she looked quite simply ravishing was not sufficient to forgive her appearing in public in an ensemble that more closely resembled a peasant girl’s than a lady’s. Her hair was still in that atrocious mass of Titian curls; her gown was too simple and clung too closely to her body; her hat was recognized as a gentleman’s; and she was laden down with boxes and bags like a pack mule.
Perhaps it was the gallant, smiling escort that annoyed Degan most of all. He darted across the street, narrowly missing collision with a carriage, and not quite missing the shower of dust thrown up in the wheels’ wake. When he approached them in an angry mood, he looked as odd as the lady for the layer of dust that decorated him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
“I would say you have been caught in a very bad dust storm, Citoyen Degan,” she replied brightly, with a merry glance at his predicament.
Batting at his coat and trousers, he said, “I do not refer to my condition, but your own, Lady Céleste.”
“You are indeed selfless to have a care for me, when you present such a discreditable appearance yourself. For that I shall stifle all my desire to pretend I don’t know you. You will bear with me, Henri. Perhaps we may pass Degan off as your solicitor. Do you like my new
chapeau, citoyen?
I call it the English liberty cap.”
“No, I do not care for it. You will make yourself the laughingstock of London if you wear such contraptions in public.”
“I am indebted to you for your sartorial advice,” she replied with a scathing eye at his jacket, which, while it was well tailored, made no claim to high fashion, even without dust. “As the duchess of Devonshire has been kind enough to compliment me with the sincerest form of flattery—imitation—I cannot feel my
chapeau
will be the butt of criticism.”
“Don’t imagine the duchess will make herself ridiculous by following your example.”
“She does not make herself ridiculous in the least. She looked quite well in her copy of my
chapeau,
but of course she must lower her pompadour to achieve the proper result. She will learn quickly, that one.”
“Does your father know you’re out walking the street in that outfit?” Degan demanded.
“I trust he does, as he gave me a great deal of money, and could not expect me to spend it while sitting home.”
“You ought to have brought a footman with you. A lady does not tote her own parcels,” he said, finding himself out-talked at every turn, and disliking to say outright the father was unwise.
“Truth to tell, my arms ache,” she answered agreeably, then promptly dumped all her load into his arms. “Our carriage is just there, at the corner. Would you be kind enough to put them in it for me? You might as well take Henri’s too. We were about to go to a coffee shop for some refreshment.”
Mérigot hesitated to follow her example. Degan was glaring at him with such ill humor that he suggested they all go along to the carriage and unburden themselves. “If you are hungry, why do you not go home to eat?” Degan asked, disliking very much to think where this Frenchman would take Sally for refreshment.
“We have an arrangement to meet some friends of Henri’s at La Forge. It is a little place run by some French émigré; it is where all the French crowd hang out,” she told him, voicing exactly what he dreaded to hear.
“Your father would not approve,” Degan said repressively, wanting very much to forbid it, but coming to realize this would not serve his purpose with the headstrong creature. Nor was he in any position to forbid anything either.
“My father is not so
pompeux
as you fear. The place is unexceptionable, or Henri would not have suggested it.”
They placed their parcels in safekeeping with the lackey waiting at the carriage, and Sally turned to Mérigot. “Which way is it?” she asked, carefully excluding Degan.
“It’s this way,” Degan told her, taking her elbow in his hand, thus showing clearly he considered himself one of the party. If old John had turned fool, it was incumbent on him to protect the girl from making a scandal of herself.
She was deeply chagrined to have to include him. She frowned her displeasure to Mérigot, who hunched his shoulders in a silent Gallic acceptance of fate and took her other arm.
The place was as unpleasant to Degan as it was delightful to Sally. She felt very much at home with the atmosphere echoing French accents, an odor of garlic hanging on the air, an easy camaraderie never found in a polite English coffee room. This was the regular meeting place of those Frenchmen fortunate enough to have escaped the Terror. Here they met to lament the past, arrange the present and dream of the future. The clientele was composed almost entirely of gentlemen, every one of whom seemed to be on terms with Mérigot, and eager to be on terms with Lady Céleste. There were laughing jokes about the casual use of the title “Lady.”
“Call me Citoyenne Sally,” she suggested readily.
“You are in England now, mam’selle,” one spoke up. “Miss Sally would be better.”
“But I am half French, monsieur.
Disons
Mademoiselle Sally,” she countered, and within minutes the name had firmly attached itself to her. Degan sat itching to take her by the arm and drag her forcibly away from this rabble, which he considered rabble in spite of the introduction of several comtes, vicomtes and even a duc. They all appropriated a title the minute they set foot on English soil.
With only one Englishman in the crowd, the talk was in French, and he had to use every bit of attention to make the least sense of it. He understood the name Belhomme easily enough, thought they were talking about plans to storm it, to spirit the Harlocks from the country. Sally, with absolutely
no
discretion, was soon entertaining them, a roomful of
strangers,
with tales of her adventures.
He glowered at her, glanced at his watch, suggested at two-minute intervals that they leave, but she sat on, enjoying herself immensely, and suggesting as often as he mentioned going that he need not feel compelled to stay. Still, he felt it was only his own presence that kept back her stories of dancing with the gypsies and sleeping in hayricks, and he sat it out to the end, hating every minute.
She drew out the
carte civile
of Agnès Maillard and gave it to one of the men, the plan being that he would see about getting duplicates made up in various names by a friend of his who had turned forger. Another knew a French woman who would knit up the long red
toques.
Sally pointed out to them that all this was
en dernier ressort.
First Lord Harlock would attempt diplomatic channels. But with France and England at war it was well to have an alternative plan.
Sally listened closely to their advice. Her father, she knew, wished to help, but with the best will in the world, he had not the grasp of the situation that her own countrymen who had been there had. For a full hour Degan made up a quiet part of the crowd, then he overrode all objections and insisted that Lady Céleste must go home. He escorted her to Mérigot’s carriage, which was so full of parcels that it made a good excuse to take her home in his own. His real aim was to conceal her appearance in the closed vehicle. As Henri must go along to the house with her parcels and she knew she would see him then, she accepted this arrangement.
“It was unwise of you to talk so freely in front of those Frenchmen,” he told her as soon as they were alone.
“Henri knows them all. They are friends. Their being French does not disturb me.
Au contraire.
They would not be here if they were
sans-culottes.
You heard how eager they are to help me. Do you think it true Papa will have no luck going through diplomatic channels?”
“He thinks he will succeed. Fox is a powerful man. He may have some connections that can be of help,”
“Still, I am glad duVal makes up the
cartes civiles
and madame the
bonnets rouges.
It is well to be prepared,
n’est-ce pas?”
“It can do no harm. Time is limited, and if Fox does nothing then we must make other plans.”
“We?” she asked.
“I am your cousin, mademoiselle.”
“Your outing with
les
français
has smartened you already. You have learned the mode of address I prefer.”
“It seems I must also learn the language you prefer. I missed a part of the discussion. What was the little dark fellow with the gold tooth saying about getting into the asylum?”
“The comte de Rasselin said he had a mad cousin, and would happily act the part of a moonling to gain entrance.”
“Not a bad idea. But don’t the patients come from the Conciergerie? Belhomme no longer takes regular patients, does he?”
“Occasionally, to keep up the illusion he runs an ordinary establishment. If the price is right, he would take a cow or a pig. In any case some hint could be dropped that the person in question was in danger from the Tribunal. It would make an excuse to get in the door. It is a good idea.”
Degan then went on to straighten out a few other points he had missed, and by the time they were home, he was beginning to think the Frenchmen were on the right track.
A direct trip to the asylum was the likeliest way to gain a hasty rescue.
Mérigot had reached Berkeley Square before them, and was just piling the shopping into the arms of a footman when Degan’s carriage drew up. With an unhappy glance at him, Degan lifted his hat and said he would do himself the honor of calling on mademoiselle very soon. She hoped it would not be too soon. Henri, she noticed, was displeased with the Englishman’s attentions.
Chapter Six
Lord Harlock was as malleable as putty in his daughter’s hands. He refused to find anything amiss in any of her whims. Her cropped, unpowdered hair, her English liberty bonnet, her unusual gowns—all were fine with him, being so reminiscent of the girl’s mother, who also delighted in setting a new mode.
With the daughter, it was pure pleasure. Of Marie he had to be jealous, but if Sally had a bunch of beaux trailing at her heels, it did him credit. Even the hated Mérigot he accepted with equanimity, feeling that a little friendship with the fellow now would stand him in good stead with Marie, after his having neglected the chap for full ten years.
When Sally told him Mérigot was taking her to a masquerade party at the racy Pantheon, he offered no demur, but only a caution that she must not leave Mérigot, for it was a rackety crew who hung out there.
“I am used to the rackety crews, me,” she told him. “I learned a few tricks to defend myself en route from Paris to London. Do not fear, Papa. I will not be caught.”
With a waggish shake of his head, Harlock bade them good evening, and took out a map of Paris to locate exactly the Maison Belhomme, for passing along to Fox, who had told him there was a perfectly legal ship going to France, to deliver stoves, which peaceful commodity was allowed entry, even in times of war. He didn’t know the exact date of departure, but mentioned it was to be very soon.
While Harlock pored over the map, Lord Degan was announced. “Ah, John, I am happy to see you have got a map of Paris. I trust this means you are going to bypass the government and send men after your wife and son yourself?”
“No. Fox wants me to show him the exact location of the asylum. He is seeing to it.”
“It is not a good idea to make official inquiries. It will only draw attention to your family.”
“Exactly what Fox said. He is down as a nail, Fox. The lads will slip over in a merchant vessel, and go without making any inquiries at all, to free Marie and Edward.”
“Good. Some friends of Mérigot’s can arrange
cartes civiles
and those
bonnets rouges.
You’ll want to contact some of them to make up the party.”
“Fox is looking after it. He is handling all the details.”
“Mérigot can give you names. He is acquainted with all the émigrés. Might as well make use of him.”
“He’ll want to go himself if I approach him. I would prefer to keep Mérigot out of it.”
“Don’t you trust him? I thought he was a relative of Marie’s.”
“He is, and that is exactly why I do not wish to place him in jeopardy. She’d never forgive me if anything happened to him. He is a nobleman—too dangerous.”
“They’re all noblemen, or claiming to be. I expect she puts her own and her son’s safety first.”
Harlock shook the question away with a frown, stating again that Fox was handling the whole. He would foot the bills, of course, but Charles Fox was in charge of the operation.
Charles Fox was known to be one of the wiliest men in the country, and Degan, with no real authority in the matter, was forced to accept this. He looked around the room, asking, “Is Lady Céleste not in this evening?” For some reason, he felt foolish calling her Mademoiselle Sally in front of the father.