The Forbidden Rose

Nine

MADAME LET THE LAST OF THE PAPER BURN TO ASH in the saucer of her coffee cup before she spoke. “His name is William Doyle. He landed in France ten days ago. He is crafty. Knowledgeable. Very dangerous. He has come to put a stop to the assassinations in England.”

Madame’s sources were beyond reproach. If she said an English spy had come to France, then that was what had happened.

Justine waited silently while Madame poured coffee upon the ashes in the saucer and, with the back of the spoon, patiently destroyed all semblance of writing.

Madame said, “He must enter Paris. But it could be any day and through any gate. He might even circle the city and come from the east.”

Music came faintly from the pianoforte in the parlor. It was still full daylight, but men had already come to drink with the girls. They came earlier and earlier every day. There were not many salons in Paris where the wine flowed so freely and the wit was so unfettered. In a brothel men believed their words were not immediately reported to the Secret Police.

They were correct in that, and not correct. Madame decided which indiscretions would be carried to the Secret Police. She was one of its chief agents.

“If William Doyle is so unpunctual, it would be a great waste of time to send me to watch at one of the barrières.” Justine dared to speak so frankly to Madame. She was young, but she was not the least of Secret Police operatives. “Where shall I wait for him, this English spy?”

“I think . . . at the Hôtel de Fleurignac. De Fleurignac’s home. I have a great wish to know who comes and goes from that house. William Doyle will arrive there sooner or later. Here. Take this, please.” She held out the saucer.

A pitcher of clean water stood on the sideboard among the liqueurs and good wine. She poured the mess of coffee and ashes into the washbowl and rinsed the dish. She returned, drying the saucer with a soft cloth. Carefully, she set everything in place on the tray. She took it upon herself to anticipate the next request and poured new coffee. “The British are sure of this connection to de Fleurignac? Between the deaths and his visits to England?”

“It is Monsieur Doyle who has done that. He asked many skillful questions concerning the men who were killed and discovered the silly French scholar who studied each of them and filled his notebooks with their histories and spouted such absurd theories. Monsieur Doyle is entirely the best field agent of the British Service. I am gratified when our enemy sends their very best to do our work for us.”

She wishes me to understand what she is saying. To show that I am clever. “William Doyle is not to be killed.”

“Do not be bloodthirsty, child. There are conventions in these matters. Be glad the British observe the old customs and do not commit slaughter among our own group. In any case, we will let him find de Fleurignac’s troublesome list and put a stop to the murders of young men. Perhaps he will even discover which Frenchmen loosed this atrocity upon the world. Then,” Madame sipped coffee delicately, “we will see what becomes of William Doyle.” She set the cup aside. “You must dress beautifully tonight. Wear the gown with gillyflowers and the blue sash. It becomes you immeasurably.”

For an instant . . . a brief instant . . . she was sick and afraid. Because a year ago dressing beautifully had meant she must entertain men, as a whore does. It had meant—

“Child, I did not mean to frighten you.” Madame’s hand was on her arm, reassuring. “Forgive me for being clumsy. You will not do that. Never anymore. I have promised. We attend the Opéra tonight. Only that. We will go, you and I and Citoyen Soulier. For your birthday.”

Joy, uncomplicated joy, filled her. Because she was safe and Madame had remembered the day for her. They would go to the play and laugh and then, perhaps, afterward Soulier would take them to the Boulevard des Italiens for ices.

“Will you buy me cakes? May I bring cakes home for Séverine?” She was impudent. If Madame worried that she had been dismayed by memories of her past, this would smooth the moment between them and make all well again.

“You must ask Soulier to buy sweets. He is the one with bottomless pockets. Now, off with you. I must dress and go downstairs before my women are induced to give themselves away entirely for free. I will send Babette to you to put ribbons and curls in your hair so all the young men will fall in love with you.”

Justine went, dancing a little on the steps to the attic, to tell Séverine. It is not every day one becomes thirteen and goes to the playhouse in the company of the chief spies of France. She would wear a wide blue sash and perhaps drink absinthe at the café, if Madame was not attentive. Tomorrow she would watch the Hôtel de Fleurignac. Perhaps next week she would be allowed to kill an English spy.

Oh, but life was good.