“You have a plan to get us out of Paris, monsieur?” Dubois asked, a cynical expression in his brown eyes.
Christian had grown used to being greeted this way and knew he needed to gain these people’s trust if they were to obey him implicitly. Exhausted, starving and hunted like vermin by their own countrymen, he had found they were not good at following orders from those they believed to be beneath them. Arrogant and self-serving many of them, but that had been the way of the world for centuries. This young family didn’t deserve to die for it.
He opened the bag he carried and took out the peasant rags. “Yes, they are dirty, and they stink,” he said, as the woman shrugged her thin shoulders with distaste. “But dressing this way may save your lives.” As the man took them, Christian said, “Expect me back in an hour. Have the children ready. I will tell you more then.”
As promised, Christian re-entered the room an hour later. The British embassy staff had left France, but he had contact at the Hotel D’Angleterre in Rue Jacob. He headed over there for further instructions.
An hour later, he returned carrying money in a secret pocket of his coat along with forged travel documents. The family were dressed and waiting. The children complained in high, privileged voices. It would be a dead giveaway. Peasant’s children did not whine. They were too fresh-faced and well-fed for peasants, with their bright hair and eyes. Christian scooped ashes from the fireplace and took hold of the youngest, a girl. He smeared the ashes over her forehead and cheeks and into her hair. Taking hold of one tiny hand, he covered it in dirt and dust up to the elbow. She whimpered and tried to pull away as he repeated it with her other hand. “Do the same with the boy,” he instructed their father. “And then yourselves.”
That done, Christian dabbed the warm, softened candle wax onto their skin. He removed a pot of rouge from his pocket, opened it and began to paint the children’s faces in circular motions around the wax, moving on to their legs and arms until it looked as if they had the blisters of the pox.
“We leave Paris through the north barricade.” When they were ready, Christian led them from the room.
“They will stop us—” the baron began, faltering in the street.
“Do not speak, Baron unless you must,” Christian warned. “The children must not utter a word. Do you understand? Your lives depend on it.” He helped them climb into a cart laden with hay. “Your voices will give you away. Do not panic. I know someone who will let us through. The rest won’t examine you too closely for fear of catching what you have.” He addressed the children. “I want you pretend you are very ill. Both of you are to lie down in the hay and close your eyes when I say so. Can you do that for me?”
The boy smiled and nodded. The little girl looked to her mother first before she shyly nodded. “Remember, leave the talking to me until we are safely out of Paris.” He put his fingers to his lips. “Not a word.”
With a crack of the whip, the horse shuffled forward. They trundled north through the city. Their arrival had to be timed for when his contact manned the barricade. He paid him well. It had proved a regular source of income, so the fellow continued to allow him through. The day would come when he would decide it was too dangerous and refuse, and then Christian expected he would be thrown in prison. Each time he approached the barricade, he hoped this would not be the day.
As they drew close, Christian saw a crowd gathered around the gate. An aristocrat in a silk coat was dragged cowering from a hidden compartment beneath the carriage seat. He was led away to jeers from the people.
Christian flicked the reins and called in gutter French to the crowd, “Out of my way, I have sick people here.”
The crowd parted like magic, and let him through, their faces a picture of curiosity, loathing and fear as he passed. Two soldiers barred his way at the gate. Christian stopped the cart. After ten nerve-wracking minutes, his contact, a barrel-chested man with fiery red hair, pushed his way forward.
“Give way for this pox-ridden lot,” Christian called as his family began to groan.
The man poked around the cart and furtively tucked inside his coat the drawstring bag of money that Christian had planted beneath the straw. He nodded and signaled for the gate to be opened. As the soldiers did his bidding, a cart approached from the opposite direction with two birds of paradise, ladies of the theatre, in high wigs and vivid gowns. They waved, winked, and blew kisses to the crowd.
Shocked, Christian drew in a sharp breath. Henrietta! There was nothing he could do but lower his head to hide his face as she drove the cart past him. What was the odds of passing them again as in London? What the devil were they up to now?
He slapped the reins and continued, leaving the bleak Paris streets behind him. He was responsible for this family and must see them safely to a port where a ship would carry them to England. His orders were to accompany them to English shores then present himself back in London, but he now had no intention of it. Once they were safe, he would return to Paris. He flicked the reins. They were still in great danger, so he must concentrate on his mission. But the image of Henrietta, her face roughed and painted like a trollop of the theatre, accompanied by Mademoiselle Garnier, made him curse and then give a reluctant chuckle. He sobered fast. Her appearance here meant only one thing; her father and her uncle were still in France.
