The Forbidden Rose

Twenty

“THE AGENT WILLIAM DOYLE GAVE ME THE SLIP in the market at Les Halles. With donkeys. He went through the stable yard of an inn and I lost sight of two donkeys among the pack animals. I am a donkey myself, Madame, and I am ashamed.” Justine hung her head.

Madame laughed at her. Oh, not with her mouth. She was too kind to do that. She laughed with her eyes. “He is very good.”

“I am very good as well. My heart is broken. I would have sworn there was no man I could not follow through my Paris. And now I am defeated by an Englishman.” There was worse. “The boy also disappeared sometime after they left Hôtel de Fleurignac. I was not exactly following him, you understand, but it is a mortification to add upon the other one that I am not entirely certain where he went or when. I have the brains of a pineapple.”

She was in the salon, which was the prettiest of several fine rooms in the brothel. All was effortlessly elegant here; the pale, cream-colored walls, the blue curtains with gold swags, the delicate mahogany furniture. No part existed by accident or failed to harmonize with the whole. Someday, she would create rooms like this.

Madame made her a cup of chocolate, made it with her own hands from hot milk Babette brought up from the kitchen. Madame had taken her own silk shawl from the arm of the sofa and pulled it over the dust and dirt of the servant dress so that Justine would not feel shabby in this beautiful room.

“When I admitted to myself that I had lost this offensive Monsieur Doyle of England—and that was not soon for I am very stubborn—and lost also two entire donkeys, I came home to confess.”

Madame did not interrupt her or hurry her.

She drank chocolate and delayed one more minute. She must admit straightforwardly what she had done. “I have deserted my post. You set me to watch the hôtel and report on any who came to Victor de Fleurignac. Instead, I followed the Englishman. I judged you would want me to.”

“Exactly well. You did exactly well. I can set any of a dozen girls to watch front doors and make reports. You are one who will know when to abandon your post to follow an order that has not been given.”

“I am abashed that I lost him in the confusion of the market. I will try to do better.”

Madame had set a white dish heaped with raisins upon the table. Now she nudged it forward. They were not so sweet, these raisins, but they were perfumed like dreams. They were made from the grapes of Burgundy. Burgundy had been home once.

She rescued me from hell. When I make this failure before her, she comforts me with a tiny gift from my old home. Madame made nothing of her stupidity but only smiled and tipped more chocolate from the flowered pot into the cup.

“You shall take these raisins with you and share with your sister. She will enjoy them. Now. Consider this with me. We discover that the admirable William Doyle travels in the company of the daughter of Citoyen de Fleurignac.”

“They do not merely travel together. I saw her face when she looked upon him. They are lovers.”

“That is ingenious of him, is it not? He seduces the daughter so she will lead him to her father.”

“That would be very stupid of her.”

“Alas, yes. Even clever women commit stupidities in the name of love.”

“Love.” Justine shrugged. “We will sell love tonight to anyone who can pay.” She lived in a brothel. She could set an exact price on what happened between sweaty bodies in a bed.

A point of light slid on Madame’s silver ring as she turned it upon her finger. “As you say. Let us hope this woman is not so cynical. We will wish Monsieur Doyle every success in finding de Fleurignac. Perhaps he will become so vexed he strikes de Fleurignac fatally upon the skull and rids us all of a nuisance. Perhaps he will even discover the man who stands behind de Fleurignac.”

“And orders the deaths in England . . .”

“Which can only bring reprisals, if we do not put a stop to them.” Madame spoke to herself, knowing her words would go not one inch further. “We have a rabid dog upon the playing field. It is, I fear, a Frenchman of some importance.”

“The Secret Police have brought down important men.”

“True. But I would rather the British killed him. Like Rousseau, I am a great admirer of the natural order of things.” Madame had walked to the window to look out over Paris. “I have a task for you, Justine. Not an easy one.”

“I will not fail you this time. I—”

Madame waved her to silence. “You have not failed me yet. Listen, child. I have learned that Marguerite de Fleurignac is the Finch.”

“Finch? The de Fleurignac is Finch?” Now that it had been said, it made sense. If La Flèche was backed by one of the old nobility of Normandy, it explained many things. “And I did not discover this. Not in all the months I have been your eyes inside La Flèche.”

“You have discovered other things.”

“I never caught a glimpse of her. We are all a little jealous, here in Paris, because the Finch holds herself aloof. She meets only with the same few friends who were with her from the beginning.”

“And thus does not show her face to spies of the Secret Police. I hope you will someday be as shrewd.” The milk jug went to the tray beside the flowered bowl. Ashes, damp in that little bowl, said Madame had received messages recently, and burned them. “Here is your task. You will watch her as well as this William Doyle. When the time is right, you will approach and gain her confidence.”

“I would like to meet her.” She bit delicately at the edge of a raisin. “She smuggled several of the Dantonists out of Paris. In dung carts. I admired that.”

“I was much amused myself. You will come to her as the Owl and give her the passwords. Try to have many convincing stories under your tongue. She will be more discerning than your Gardener, Jean-Paul. Peste. What is that?”

From below came a sound of tearing cloth and a shriek of outrage. Two girls of the house shouted back and forth, quarreling over a scarf no one would admit to borrowing. Madame turned, ruefully, to the door. “I will go quiet matters downstairs. No, do not get up and leave. I am not such a taskmistress as that. You shall finish this excellent chocolate and then go to your room. You will not, my poor child, wash. You must continue to be the sweepings of the street for a while. But you shall sleep for four hours. I will send Babette to wake you. Go then to the Café des Marchands and become involved in polishing some doorstep in the neighborhood. Citoyen Doyle will doubtless return there. Follow him and see what an interesting life the Englishman leads.”

When Madame left, Justine did not sit to finish the chocolate but carried it up the stairs to the attic to give to Séverine. She brought the raisins in the little saucer as well.

Séverine was on the bed in their room, humming to her doll, Belle-Marie, telling it stories. They all sat together and held a small celebration on top of the blankets, passing the chocolate back and forth between them, and the raisins, making sure the doll had a portion. Séverine ate those, since Belle-Marie, for reasons of indigestion, could not finish them.

The window of her room looked out over the back of the whorehouse, where there were stables and a shed behind them. Already, men were coming and going with their horses. The business of the house had begun.

Séverine lay down, holding her Belle-Marie tight in her arms. Justine held Séverine.

She would sleep for a while, then begin her own work, when it was evening, and cooler. There would be wind moving through the streets soon. The country people called that hour between evening and night the hour between dog and wolf. She had chosen to be the wolf in life, not the tame dog.