The Black Hawk

Seven

JUSTINE DID NOT GO TO THE FRONT DOOR OF THE brothel. She walked around to the back entrance, to the kitchen.

Men come to a brothel for the women, but they stay for the food. Babette, who ran the kitchen with a spoon of iron, was worth several times her weight in whores. Senior members of the Police Secrète schemed to lure Babette to their kitchen.

The grooms who kept the horses and swept the yard—Joseph, Jean le Gros, Petitjean, and Hugo—were sprawled at the big table by the kitchen window. René, who was an agent, very clever though he was young, was at the end of the table beside his cousin Yves, another agent, newly come from the country.

They called to her as she walked by.

“Justine. Ça va, petite?”

“What’s the news, girl?”

“Over here, love. I’ve kept a warm spot on the bench for you.”

Their clogs scuffed the floor as they bunched together to make room for her. The plate of cheese was pushed forward enticingly. The bread indicated. Jean le Gros patted the space beside him and grinned. He was a man of many words and few teeth.

She had topped up her basket with news sheets. One must look very innocent when carrying a gun. She tugged a Journal de Paris loose and tossed it in René’s lap as she passed by, to read aloud for everyone. The grooms loved to hear about the men who came to this house. Nowhere in Paris were politics more hotly and intelligently debated than in Babette’s kitchen.

Many times Jean le Gros and the others passed to Babette interesting words one fine visitor had said to another in the stable yard when there was no one to hear but the horses and a stupid old groom. Political revolutionaries spoke a great deal of the equality of man, while continuing to act as if servants had no ears.

It was hot in here, with the coals of the hearth raked to orange under the copper pots and chickens simmering down to stock. Babette stood at the long board, up to her elbows in flour, dough plump and obedient under her hands. Séverine was beside her, standing on a chair, wrapped in an apron many times too big for her, her front and her arms powdered with the flour, a very small round of dough before her, somewhat lumpy.

It was good to be home. She would enjoy a day of the mundane and familiar before she must embark upon her dangerous enterprise. One does not take the small joys of life for granted when they may not be granted tomorrow.

Séverine glowed. Too wise to bounce about on a kitchen chair, she contained all that joy inside herself, spilling it out in words. “Justine. Justine. I made rolls and we ate them for breakfast. Madame had a roll and Babette and Belle-Marie and I had a roll. Four rolls.” She held up a white hand, showing five fingers, then pointed to the shelf with the salt box and the smaller mortars. “I saved one for you.”

She had indeed. Oddly lopsided, it sat on a little blue-patterned plate. It was impossible to guess what path her sister’s life would follow, but Séverine would not become a cook.

“That was a lovely thought and it is a beautiful roll. I shall take it upstairs with me.” With any luck, she would feed it to the sparrows who inhabited the roof outside her bedroom window. If Séverine came with her, she’d eat and praise every rock-hard bite. The others, including the doll, Belle-Marie, had done so.

“Babette is letting me make tarte aux pommes with her. See. Next, we peel apples. I can almost peel an apple. Will you be here for dinner, Justine? They will eat vol-au-vent of chicken upstairs, and we are having oxtail stew in the kitchen, even though it is very hot today. Madame said that everyone will need sustaining food in times of momenterous changes. Babette let me chop carrots. And we bought parsley and I helped wash it.”

For three days . . . four days, maybe longer, she had spent no time with Séverine. The overthrow of Robespierre, in which she had played a small part, seemed a poor excuse for neglecting her sister. Now there were Cachés to rescue. She would be busy all night.

There was always more to do. Spying would eat you alive if you let it.

She leaned across the kneading board to kiss Séverine on her forehead, keeping her basket stretched to the side so it would not get floury. It is hard to clean flour out of guns. “That is a very pretty ribbon.” Séverine had red ribbon tied in a loose bow around her braid, the long ends trailing. “Did Babette give it to you?”

“It was the man on the stairs who wanted to take me for a walk with him. He knew you. He said he hoped I would grow up to be as pretty as you are.” She lowered her voice. Séverine had already learned that some words must be kept quiet. “I did not like him, but Babette said it would be polite to wear the ribbon until the man leaves the house.”

Babette said, “Leblanc,” and then, quickly, “I was there at once.” It was spoken softly so the men at the table would not overhear. “He had some business to conduct and wanted to take a woman and the little one with him as disguise. I did not allow it.”

Leblanc dared to approach Séverine. Rage was cold as ice, empty as night. She had never understood why people spoke of the heat of anger. “Thank you,” to Babette, who would know the complexity and depth of her thanks.

She set her basket on the floor and went to Séverine. She picked at the knot in the ribbon with her fingernails, keeping the cold deep inside, so Séverine would not sense it. “I will put this away, safe.” I will give it to the old woman who sweeps the street.

If Leblanc had laid a finger upon Séverine, she would shoot him. “He was with her only a moment?”

“Less than that.” Babette cut the ball of pastry with a knife.

“I brought her away and kept her by my side. I pay no attention to the orders of that canaille. Then Madame returned sooner than he expected, and his plans came to nothing. He is with Madame now.”

Maybe she would shoot Leblanc anyway. He was an annoyance to Madame. It was a good time to dispose of enemies, this, when there was much disturbance in the city.

Séverine had acquired a smear of flour upon her cheek. Justine brushed that away with the tail of her apron and took the moment to hold her sister and kiss her face and become very floury herself in the process. They both admired the small, nubbly roll that was for her and she tucked it carefully into the pocket of her apron.

“I will eat it tonight with my dinner, before I go out.” She sent a glance to Babette, saying she would be gone late into the night. Babette nodded. Séverine would be cared for, protected by that great bulwark of peasant strength.

Tomorrow, she would spend the whole day with her sister. Perhaps they would go to the Tuileries Gardens, if there were no riots, and Séverine could chase the pigeons.

MADAME’S sitting room was on the second floor. The halls were quiet. The women of the house were napping in their rooms or chatting in the salon. A few would be out, even in this heat, strolling the parks to loll prettily on a bench in the shade and smile at gentlemen.

Justine had changed from her housemaid clothes to a pretty dress in the new soft style, the waist high, the bodice crossed with a drape of fabric. It made her look older than she was and it was immensely fashionable.

She scratched upon Madame’s door and entered, her footsteps making no sound on the deep pile of the rug. Madame, who was aware of everything that happened around her, glanced up and smiled. Leblanc pretended he did not notice her.

He had taken Madame’s most spacious chair and sat with his boots up and splayed crudely on the embroidered footstool. His clothes were expensive but vulgar. He was of a family of provincial pig farmers. He carried about with him a hint of the sweet stench of pigs and, in his eyes, something of their bustling intelligence and arrogant self-interest.

Leblanc was one of the new men of the Revolution, violent and shrewd. He had risen quickly in the Secret Police. He was a powerful man. Even Madame was cautious around him.

“Madame.” She curtsied deeply. These days it was a political statement to curtsy. It aligned one with the Girondists and the moderates, against the Jacobin fanatics of Robespierre. This was a comfortable political place to be when Robespierre’s blood was scarcely dry upon the guillotine.

She held her chin high and made the dip of the knee that was exactly appropriate to greet a jumped-up pig farmer. Leblanc was a Jacobin. It would do no harm to remind him of the current weakness of his position.

If Leblanc were compounded of farmyard dirt and rancor, Madame was spun of steel. She wore a pale lavender dress, cut so low across the bodice that her breasts were clearly visible. Her dignity was such that it did not seem indecent. It was as if she came from a pagan time when the human form was sacred and nudity was without shame. Her hair, black and smooth as ebony, was swept up with silver combs and allowed to fall free in the back. She wore no jewelry whatsoever. Not the least ring or trinket.

Madame stood at the rosewood secretaire holding a letter. She noted every nuance of both curtsies and, in the deeps of her eyes, approved. “My dear. Your work went well?”

“Oh, yes. All is prepared.”

“Good. We will discuss that in a moment, when Jacques has left.” Thus she set Leblanc in his place. “He brings a letter I have been awaiting. You will read it in a moment.”

“Is that necessary?” Leblanc frowned.

“It is always interesting to hear your opinions on the management of agents, Jacques.” Madame folded the letter. “I will think about this before I reply. I must consult Soulier.” She dropped it to the blotter on the writing desk.

Leblanc followed her gesture with cold eyes. “Tonight, then.”

“Not tonight. You need not concern yourself with this. If you wish, you may return to the amusements of the parlor. My women will see to you.”

“I am not amusing myself.” He stood up, brushing his sleeves, as if to dislodge the contempt Madame’s glance had left there. “I do not play with whores when the Republic is in turmoil. I am gauging the temper of the city. Important men come to your salon.”

“To play with my whores. Sordid, is it not? One trembles for the future of rational government. For Justine, I will repeat what I said before. No one in my household is available to you for your work. Not the scrub maid. Not the cat in the stables. No one.”

“You make a great fuss over a trifling matter.” Leblanc shrugged. “I would have returned the infant in an hour or two. Now I must detach experienced agents from other work to accomplish my business. You inconvenience everyone with your insistence on—”

“Do not approach members of my household, Jacques. If you sneak behind my back in my own house, you will find the door closed to you.”

“A thousand apologies,” he spread his hands theatrically and inclined his head, not hiding the smirk of triumph, “if I have trespassed.” All the time he peered beneath his lids at Madame, avid for some response. But he had not scratched the surface of Madame’s great composure.

“You disrupt my house with your intrigues. I will not have my people upset.” She spoke as one does to a tradesman who has made a delivery of inferior goods.

“I live to please you, Lucille.” He was not as skilled in sarcasm as he believed.

“Let us hope you continue to do so.”

This was how mortal enemies spoke to one another in the Secret Police. Threat and counter-threat. She watched Madame and hoped she would be half as subtle, someday.

Leblanc made a great business of taking his leave. He bent over Madame’s hand, then he took hers, giving himself the excuse to touch her. “My compliments to your small sister. She is delightful.”

There could be no reply to that.

She stood at the door of the parlor after he left to make certain he went down the stairs and did not loiter. Then she left the door open. A closed door invites eavesdroppers.

Madame had taken up a magnifying glass to examine the seal of the letter. “You have allowed him to discompose you.”

“He makes my skin crawl. I do not want him near Séverine.”

“It will not happen again. Babette was there in moments.” She set the magnifying glass aside. “For all his many faults, he does not molest children. His preference is for girls just come to womanhood. Like you.”

“I know. He would smirch her a little, because he cannot have me. In revenge.”

Memory struck like a spear. For an instant she felt men rutting on her body. Felt them smother her in their smell, poke their slimy tongues into her mouth. She was so sick with hate she could not breathe.

Madame stood and shook out her skirts, drawing the eye, breaking the hold of the past, bringing her back to the present, to the sunlight, to the pleasant parlor. To safety. “He will borrow a beggar child for his scheme and use one of the whores of the Palais Royale. It is what he intended from the first. He only sought out Séverine to torment you.”

“And to challenge you. I am surprised he dares. Many people have disappeared in the last few days.”

“To the general rejoicing of all. But you will not assist him to disappear, petite.”

With Robespierre dead, a great power struggle was under way for the control of the Police Secrète. For three nights Madame had gone into the streets alone and returned to the house late, in quiet triumph. Once, covered with blood. Several of the men who had vanished were Madame’s great enemies.

“I would be thoroughly careful, disposing of him, Madame. I will not be busy tomorrow, and I am very good with my gun.”

“You are admirably skilled, but I will not indulge you in that way.” It was gently said, but firmly. “Now, look here.” She took the letter from the desk and studied it a moment. “See how this has been opened? There is the smallest sign of misplacement in the resealing. Leblanc is purposefully insolent. I assume he has found a new patron.”

“Why should I not eliminate him for you? I have watched events long enough. I am ready to work.”

“Then understand the work I need you to do. My child, you are clever. You see the mind and heart of others. That is a weapon beyond compare. Leave poison and the knife to amateurs.” Startlingly, Madame chuckled. A warm, earthy sound. “You will find that making fools of men and plucking forth their secrets is more gratifying than killing them. One cannot, alas, rid the world of all of its Leblancs.”

“I would like to try. He looks at me and licks his lips. It makes me sick.”

“It gives him great satisfaction to know that.”

No one was more wise than Madame. “You are telling me to dissemble more skillfully.”

“You let him decide what you will feel. You delight him by showing your anger. Is that what you wish?”

“No.” How often had Madame told her to deal dispassionately with men?

“Leblanc is an open enemy. But he is vain, greedy, and predictable. As things stand, there will be one of the Jacobin party in that position. He is less dangerous than whoever might replace him.”

“I hate him.”

Madame went to look out the window, down into the courtyard. “If you allow it, hate will eat you hollow. It is not good to be hollow. Ah. He leaves. Come. Observe him as the bug he is.”

The front courtyard of the Pomme d’Or was bounded from the street by a high wall of square, biscuit-colored stone. The cobble was gray, crossed with lines of mud from coach wheels. A dozen orange trees in huge white planters stood at intervals against the wall, their green, shiny leaves glinting of silver where the afternoon sun hit. Leblanc strode away, stuffing his fingers into his gloves as he walked. It was a pleasure to see him this way, small and retreating.

“He develops a bald spot. How amusing.” Madame let the curtain fall back. “Let us speculate, you and I. What is Leblanc’s purpose in coming here to play annoying little games with my people? It was not to deliver that letter.”

This is what she teaches me. To be dispassionate. To consider this man as a problem of logic. “He tests you. He wants to know if I can be used to hurt you. He came for Séverine . . .” She thought of Leblanc near Séverine, and she could not be detached and calculating. Quite simply, she wanted to kill him. “He sought her out to see if she could be used to control you. Or me.”

“Now he knows.”

It was a hard lesson Madame set her. She swallowed. “I have allowed him to see that I am vulnerable. Because of that, I have put Séverine at risk.”

“I believe you have,” Madame said gravely. She understood. She kept her own daughter well hidden in the countryside, where she could not be used as blackmail or threat. “She would be safer out of Paris, where Leblanc and others like him cannot reach her. You know my friends who keep the school in Dresden would welcome you both. You would be with young girls your own age.”

The porter closed the gate behind Leblanc. What could one say? Only the truth. Madame would send her to play the innocent in some respectable school in Dresden. To live among giggling schoolgirls. To pretend to be heedless and wholesome. “I have not been a young girl for a long time.”

“Child . . .”

“There are roles even I cannot play.”

Perhaps Madame sighed. “We will speak of this again. Are you ready for tonight?”

It was a relief to turn to practical matters. “All is arranged. Every detail.” Her gun was cleaned and loaded and her clothing set out, upstairs. She had tied together the last strings of her plan this afternoon. “I will free the children. La Flèche has promised to take them onward. We will use the freight barge at the Jardin des Plantes and slide downriver at dawn. The Cachés will be to the coast within a week.”

“That is well done.”

“It will be the last great operation of La Flèche, I think, now that Marguerite will depart from France tomorrow. She was not only their mastermind. She was their heart. I do not think they will carry on without her.”

La Flèche was the best of the several secret rescue organizations—clever, well organized and reliable. Hundreds of miserable souls, fleeing the guillotine, owed their lives to La Flèche. She knew them well, having spied upon them and reported all their stratagems to Madame. The Police Secrète found many uses for an organization that smuggled men into England. “I will miss spying on them. Marguerite de Fleurignac throws herself away on the Englishman Doyle. This business of falling in love is a great stupidity.”

“And yet, I believe she will be a happy woman in England, with her large English spy. And still useful to France. She will doubtless give refuge to the Cachés you free, once they are across the Channel.”

“Nothing is more certain. She would care for every child in the world if she could reach her arms around them. She leaves Paris soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Citoyen Doyle will see to that.”

“These new husbands . . .” Madame smiled.

“He is very protective.” The English spy Doyle was like a great mastiff. He was a formidable enemy, but what he took under his protection was safe for all time. “He calls her Maggie, you know. I suppose she will become used to it.”

“And the boy Hawker?”

She had to smile. “He is mine.”

Madame bowed her head with a touch of mockery. “I congratulate you. Even the English are not sure he is theirs.”

“For the space of one night, he is mine.” In the midst of many troubles, amusement filled her. “Oh, I have been Machiavellian. You would have been so proud of me. I did not argue passionately. I showed him the barbarity of that place and told him what was planned. He will not permit it.”

“You trust your judgment of him? He has killed men, my child. He has a reputation for cold-bloodedness.”

“It is deserved. But he has weaknesses, as all men do. I watched him carefully. He is driven by his curiosity. And, most especially, he does not like to see women hurt. I took care he should see one of the girls being mistreated upon the fighting field. Now he is tied to my cause.”

“That was astute.”

The praise filled her with warmth. “One may hang many hopes upon the hook of a single small decency.”

“Do not forget he is an enemy, Justine.”

“He is a most useful enemy.” In all of France, she could have found no more perfect associate. There was a core of honor in him, though he would have denied it vehemently. Once he was committed, he would not turn back. “I will use that ruthlessness of his.”

She ran plans through her mind, as a woman might run a strand of pearls through her fingers, every pearl familiar in shape and texture. “If we are caught, I will see the blame falls upon him and the English. Everything works out perfectly.”