The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 10

He raised her hand to his lips. "Until we meet again."

She gave a slow seductive smile. "Anytime you like, milord."

He gave a smile he hoped was not a grimace. Another female mooning over him. One he would never let close to who he really was. Then he slipped out to the gentlemen's retiring room to adjust his appearance before entering the main gaming salon. People expected to see him without a hair out of place.

He strolled into the large, comfortably appointed room. Chandeliers dripped glittering light on red and gilt. The women, clad in low-cut gowns and those silly little tricorns, moved among the tables with food and drink and new cards. Men crowded round the baize-covered tables in the center playing faro and baccarat. Every card table was filled. Only the place he had vacated an hour and a half ago was still empty.

"Avignon, old beast," General Digne called. "Where have you been?"

"Er ... busy, General."

"How will we win our money back if you keep disappearing?" The general had grown more interested in gaming than in leading armies since soldiers now felt they could vote on the general 's strategy before each battle. Equality made for poor military outcomes, and the French armies were beleaguered on all sides. Which made the general want to spend his time in Paris and leave the actual fighting to his lieutenants. One in particular, a Corsican n.o.body named Bonaparte, seemed able to inspire the recruits as the general could not.

The others around the table were equally keen to take their revenge on Avignon. Rustau was a minor dignitary in the new government. St. Martine was a remnant of the old n.o.bility so ancient he could not bring himself to emigrate. Romaine? Now what did Romaine do? Ahhh, yes, he ran some of the less savory coffeehouses that fleeced the sans-culottes of their coins in games of chance while giving the new poets of the Revolution a stage to read tracts and dogmatic poetry. Normally Avignon struggled to lose to his fellow gamblers. People thought much more kindly of people who lost money to them. But it was hard work. Vampires were notoriously lucky at any game of chance. It had something to do with the positive energy of the Companion. And then of course, he had some skill. He'd had hundreds of years to develop it.

But tonight he was in no mood to lose. He sat at the table in front of the pile of chips he 'd left. "Well, gentlemen, let's see what you can do."

She was in a dark place that had no walls, no ceiling. Even the floor was obscured by rising mist. Every direction was like every other, so there was no place to run.

And she must run somewhere. There was something very frightening in this s.p.a.ce with her, something that would do more than rend her limb from limb. It would d.a.m.n her for eternity. She started to run, not knowing whether she was running away or toward her deepest fear. She ran until her heart was pounding in her chest and her breath wouldn't come. She wouldn't be able to run forever, but the monster would pursue her unto death and beyond. Even now she knew it was behind her. She fell, and struggled up ...

And there! A gladiator's short-sword gleamed in the light like pure salvation.

Or d.a.m.nation.

She stood, slowly, unable to turn away from the gleaming sword. And then she heard boot heels clicking across a surface she couldn't see. Terror gripped her. Grab the sword, she thought. It's your only protection.

But she didn't. She couldn't. Because she wasn't sure the sword would save her. Using it might change her beyond recognition. She turned to face her nemesis.

Avignon walked out of the darkness, looking as satanic as ever. His hand was bleeding. Francoise woke, gasping. She couldn't even scream. Slowly the room resolved around her. The darkness wasn't featureless.

The wardrobe loomed. The chair sat next to the dressing table. She cowered in her bed in the room she had been given in number sixteen Place Royale.

Slowly she became aware that she was drenched in sweat.

Then another feeling began to creep over her.

The sword. She could feel that sword in the bag under her bed like a squat and evil presence in the room. Something inside her wanted her to use it for the worst of purposes.

She scrambled out of bed, breathing hard. She couldn't sleep with that thing beneath her. She stood there, chest heaving. She couldn't imagine crawling under the bed to retrieve that leather bag in the dark. She'd sleep in another bedroom.

But what would the servants think? She didn't want to advertise her ... Well, the kind word would be "whims," but some might call them something else. Incipient madness, maybe.

Was she going mad? That feeling of fullness and impending disaster, the certainty that everything she did she 'd done before ...

was that why she imagined she already knew what the naked due would look like even before she saw him?

There were no answers to her questions. No way out.

She crawled up into the wing chair that crouched before the cold grate and curled up to make herself as small as she could.

There were forces at work here she didn't understand. And they might just tear her apart.

Eight.

"Too lucky by half tonight, Avignon." St. Martine tossed back a brandy, too many for the evening. "No one has luck like that."

Henri ignored the implication. "Why, I thought it was skill." One of the girl attendants sc.r.a.ped his winnings into a pile with a small rake.

"A kind of skill," St. Martine muttered.

"You're drunk, man." General Digne was surprisingly always the peacemaker. "Don't say things you'll regret. Avignon loses often enough. And he doesn't need the money."

"If you object to being fleeced, stop buying his goods," Rustau remarked. "Playing cards with him is the least of our problems."

"Ahhh, but we all like what he provides too much for that," Romaine remarked. "Tonight is just is the way of the tables. Some are up, some are down. We will soon be up again." He was the philosopher of the group.

St. Martine was about to respond in an unfortunate fas.h.i.+on when the double doors to the grand salon burst open with a bang.

Soldiers marched in and spread out.

A hush fell over the room. Henri glanced to the door to see Robespierre, the tidy martinet of a man, marching in behind his henchmen. Henri continued putting the coins into equal stacks that could be wrapped into roulades.

"The declaration that gaming is an antirevolutionary activity was clearly posted." Robespierre glared at those members of his own government salted around the room. Some colored, some stuck their chins out in defiance. Someday, Robespierre would not be able to keep his own in line. You couldn't suppress everything without having something give way.

"Where is the owner of this establishment?"

"Here, sir." Lacaune stepped forward.

"Arrest this man," Robespierre ordered. Soldiers moved in to do his bidding. d.a.m.nation. Lacaune was an honorable man, and there were too few of those, no matter their trade.

Henri felt a spring inside him coiling. Uncoil it, he told himself. You can do nothing here.

"I am certain you citizens want to contribute your winnings to the revolutionary cause." Robespierre had such a prim voice. Was he really so tightly controlled? Or was he afraid that the violence and s.e.xual urges within would unleash themselves and destroy him in the eyes of the world? Perhaps both. Henri wondered what Robespierre's s.e.x with his mistress was like.

Murmurs of protest broke out around the room. Henri retrieved some roulade papers left on the table and started wrapping his gold. When each man had "contributed" he was allowed to go, though Robespierre dispensed lectures liberally during the proceedings.

Henri lounged in his chair, his winnings now stacked in neat roulades before him. At last Henri was the only guest remaining besides the soldiers. The little man came and stood in front of him. The employees gathered in a nervous clump near the baccarat table.

"Foucault, I might have expected you to be here." "But you did not? How odd."

"Report has it that you were absent for some time in the middle of the evening."

"I come. I go. Even I can't keep track of me." He was going to brazen it out of course, but the man had a purpose for asking.

Not good.

"Well, there were some other surprising events tonight."

"I am agog to know," Henri murmured in his most bored voice.

That goaded Robespierre. "Well, you should be. Because there aren't enough prisoners in the Conciergerie tonight."

"Are there ever enough prisoners for your taste?" Henri inquired politely.

"I mean that one escaped."

"However would you know in all that crush?"

"Because we heard a scream." Robespierre smiled like the proverbial cat. "And screams always portend an escape."

"I take it you have made a study." Henri let his tone imply that he could care less about screams. But if they had jumped to that, it would make his job harder. He often had to return to the same cell twice or three times to get an entire family.

"And this particular escape was most interesting. It wasn't like the others."

"The others? Dear me. I didn't know you were so careless with prisoners."

Robespierre frowned. "The others were families. This was an old woman. Your neighbor in fact."

"Madame LaFleur?" Henri put up his quizzing gla.s.s to examine the little man. He had the satisfaction of seeing him squirm a bit.

"You let her escape your clutches?" He shook his head in dismay. "Hardened criminal that one. I hardly feel safe knowing she's at large."

Robespierre's lips tightened. "I'd like to know where you were during the time you left the premises tonight, Foucault."

"Left? But I never left." The quizzing gla.s.s came down.

"Then where were you for the period between ..." He referred to a small notebook. "Ah, approximately one and two-thirty A.M.?".

Henri glanced to the huddled employees and smiled. One girl smiled back. "Ask her."

Robespierre stared at him. "You ... Right on the premises?"

"In the cloakroom." Henri began loading roulades into his pockets.

"Those winnings belong to the state."

Henri glanced up. "Oh, surely not. What would Madame Croute do for lace?" He disposed of the last roulade. "By the way, why ever did you tax salt and brandy? No one can afford them now. And you know how French like good brandy and good food.

And of course there's the clean water you and Madame Croute both love so much."

Robespierre flushed. "I could confiscate your wells."

"Probably with the same result as the other enterprises you've confiscated. Factories are not exactly humming. Whatever would your revolutionary friends do if the water ceased to flow? As for procuring the niceties of life-you just don't have my contacts."

"I'll talk to the girl. Don't think I won't."

"Ahhh. I would never doubt that." Henri lounged back in his chair as Robespierre stalked over to the girl, who answered his questions tearfully but with what she believed was the truth. When Robespierre turned away in disgust, all the other girl attendants crowded round her asking very particular questions about Henri's anatomy and technique. Robespierre must have heard them, for his face grew grim.

Henri raised his brows as Robespierre approached. "I take it I'm free to go."

"Yes." The word was torn from the man's gut.

Henri rose. "It would be an honor to have you and Madame Croute attend my small soiree on Wednesday. You'll be quite the toast of the party. Celebrities of the Revolution and all."

"I would never attend one of your dissolute gatherings."

"Never say never, Citizen." Henri lounged toward the doors, pockets bulging.

He was in no immediate danger, but Robespierre and his cronies would be watching him a little too closely from now on. d.a.m.n.

And he had a s.h.i.+pment to deliver next week.

Henri shut the door to the house in Rue Lespa.s.se in the Faubourg St. Germain with a slam. What was he thinking? That would only draw attention. That was the last thing he wanted.

He'd thought to make his s.e.xual urges stand down by spending himself at Madame Fontaine's exclusive establishment. Yet when it came to the point, so to speak, he couldn't manage. The girl had been willing enough and beautiful. He provided her pleasure and care, as always. She would have only wonderful memories of tonight. But his nerve failed him (among other things) when it came to his own satisfaction.

He strode down the street, glowering. It was nearly dawn. His cane tapped on the cobblestone with an irritated sound. As well it might. Maybe it was because the prost.i.tute fawned over him. They had no choice, did they? Maybe it was because she only went through the motions of pleasing a man. It all seemed pathetic somehow. He only accentuated his loneliness, not alleviated it by stopping in a brothel. What had he expected? He'd been alone since his mother left him. He'd never known his father. And craving love for one such as he was always a disaster.

In any case, tonight he couldn't do it. Mother Mary and Joseph, what was he coming to?

Insistent tapping. Francoise lifted her head and groaned. She uncoiled herself from the wing chair, stiff in every part of her body.

A bright channel of light cut across the carpet. It must be late in the day. She 'd fallen asleep after many hours in fear of ...

something. "Come in."

Annette bustled into the room. "Mademoiselle," she said breathlessly, "Make haste. La Fanchon will be here at any moment."

Francoise rose and tried to stretch the kinks out of her body. The last thing she wanted was to see a dressmaker. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table. Alors, but there were circles under her eyes from not sleeping. Or maybe from crying over Madame.

The events of yesterday poured over her. She bit her lip. She had to get out of this house. Now that she couldn't help Madame, she must leave this place. Except there was something she had to do before she could go. She couldn't think what. But it made her s.h.i.+ver.

In any case, before she could go, she must find another situation. "I ... I need to go out today, Annette."

"Ayyyyyy!" Annette practically wailed. "The duc, I cannot vouch for his temper if La Fanchon is kept waiting for even an instant."

But she wasn't kept waiting, because the door burst open and the lady herself swept into the room. "Me, I do not wait downstairs, for the jeune fille may escape by the servants' entrance for all I know."

The woman before her was pet.i.te but bursting with energy. Her impossibly high coiffure, studded with real flowers and various feathers, only contributed to the impression that she was exploding with personality. She had been a beauty once and she was still a handsome woman. And her dress ... Francoise had to admire how the military epaulets enhanced the shoulders, and the decreasing bands of gold between the frogs made a vee down her bodice that only emphasized her tiny waist. She wore the colors of the Revolution in a way no revolutionary would ever consider, and that was in itself a triumph.

"I am so sorry I missed you yesterday," Francoise apologized. "Please don't blame his grace. It was my fault entirely."