Signora Ruggeri had told me at Marianne’s soiree that she feared for her life. She’d related this with a melodramatic quaver, so I had not quite believed her, but perhaps she’d been telling the truth.
Her fears were proving true. Madame Jourdain was now doing her best to subdue Signora Ruggeri in a boat on the wild river.
Without a word, Moreau started down the bank. I followed, shoving my walking stick hard into the slippery earth to keep myself upright.
The bridge towered beside us as I half-slid, half scrambled toward the river. This bridge, whose massive arches spanned the great Rhône, had been built and rebuilt for the last thousand years. Floods had regularly torn it down, but the citizens of Lyon had doggedly replaced it each time. Now it stood solidly, the river forming rapids around its foundations.
The water was high—no cargo ship could have fit beneath the bridge today. The tiny boat Madame Jourdain had commandeered would skim nicely downriver, however. That is, if it didn’t overturn and drown both women.
Moreau reached the boat before I did. Signora Ruggeri cried out to him, begging for help.
Madame Jourdain turned a pistol on him.
Moreau backed away, water splashing to his knees, and Madame Jourdain fired.
The fuse of the ancient gun sputtered feebly, and then rain drowned the spark before it could ignite the powder.
Madame Jourdain cursed and flung the pistol into the boat. Signora Ruggeri lunged for it, but I could tell her it would only be useful as a club in this downpour.
Moreau and I rushed the boat, he reaching to seize Madame Jourdain.
I shouted a warning before Madame Jourdain sank her knife into Moreau’s arm. He hung on to her, blood running from his sleeve to spatter into the water.
Madame Jourdain fought him, clawing and stabbing, and managed to loosen Moreau’s hold.
She leapt from the boat, landing up to her waist in rushing water, but she came on at us, brandishing the knife.
She slipped, fell, and went under.
I plunged my hands into the water where Madame Jourdain had gone down, finding nothing but emptiness. I groped, teetering dangerously myself, sweeping my walking stick through the current to find her. She’d drown in moments, and while I was not fond of the woman, I could not simply dust off my hands and let her die.
Moreau called out. From a few yards downstream, he hauled Madame Jourdain from the water, where she hung from his grip like a waterlogged rat.
Moreau dragged her toward the bank. I waded to them and caught the woman under one of her arms, helping Moreau pull her out of the river. Madame Jourdain hung limply, the knife no longer in her hand.
We dropped her on the bank, where she coughed, still alive. I left her to Moreau while I turned back to pull Signora Ruggeri to safety.
Signora Ruggeri screamed as a wave caught the boat and sent it spinning toward the middle of the river. At the same time, the clouds belched forth torrents of rain, and lightning whitened the sky.
I flung aside my hat, jammed my walking stick into the mud, and dove for the boat, blessing my misspent youth sailing anything navigable in Norfolk. The middle of a tumultuous river during a storm wasn’t the same as punting in the Broads, however, and I was no longer a youth.
I stroked for the boat and seized its gunwale before it could careen too far. Signora Ruggeri wept, begging me to take her to shore.
I could stand on my feet in this depth, the water to my chest. It was cold—the river’s source was the Alps—though not the deadly cold the water might have in winter.
I gripped the boat’s side, but the river fought to wrench it from me. The craft rocked and bucked, tearing my gloves as I tried to keep my hold.
I’d need to climb inside and row, but getting the boat to stay still long enough to heave myself into it was the trouble.
The hand Signora Ruggeri extended to me bounced in and out of reach. I kept dragging the craft forward, trying to reach shallow enough water where Signora Ruggeri and I both could climb to shore.
Moreau had pulled Madame Jourdain higher onto the bank, where she lay prone, hands outstretched in fists. Whether she still lived or not I’d have to worry about later.
No one rushed from above to help us. The storm had finally driven residents indoors, and the sheets of rain, steaming when they hit the cold river, would hide us from any still on the street.
Moreau left Madame Jourdain and splashed out toward the boat, whatever cuts he’d sustained not slowing him. He grabbed at the boat just as the gunwale jerked itself from my hands. Moreau caught the prow and hung on, and I was finally able to claw my way up onto the boat’s side.
I’d hoped for a coil of rope with which we could tow the craft to shore, but only a shred of whatever had tied it up in the first place remained. Madame Jourdain must have cut the rope and left it at the pier, in too much of a hurry to haul it in and stow it.
