Anthony felt fury rise like bile in his throat at the inhuman treatment of these people. He curled his hands into fists, ready to take on any guard who entered their cell. But the hours passed, and no one came.
Finally, the cell door creaked open. A guard entered and pulled Josette to her feet.
“Where are you taking her?” Philippe cried.
Anthony jumped up. He planted himself between Josette and the guard. The guard hit him on the jaw with the butt of his gun and he dropped to the floor. Through a haze of pain, Anthony watched helplessly as they dragged Josette away. Phillipe shuddered and put his head in his hands.
The cell door clanged shut.
Anthony rubbed his sore jaw and swore.
The hours passed, the man and wife couple not speaking. Helpless, he prayed that Henrietta would live a full and happy life without him, and have many children he would never see.
He must have slept for a few hours. The sun shone onto the filthy floor, highlighting the path of an inquisitive rat. The cell door opened, and two soldiers entered. Without a word, they pulled the old man and woman to their feet and ushered them out.
“Your turn next.” The soldier spat in Anthony’s direction, then pulled the door shut.
Anthony listened to the turnkey in the huge lock. He could do nothing. The British consul could not come to his aid. He wandered over to the high window. Listened to the rush of the river below the prison. Damp climbed the walls, the rank smell overpowering. From somewhere over the Seine, a crowd chanted above the clatter of the tumbrel wheels, where prisoners were taken to the guillotine.
He turned to meet Philippe’s gaze. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to be said.
* * *
After Verity left the next morning, Henrietta prowled the rooms. They were scented with apple blossom. Verity’s dainty touch was everywhere. Paintings of bounding stags, camellias and pears hung around the walls. She ran a finger over the smooth surface of a tulipwood table. The furnishings were of excellent quality. Incongruous in this setting. As if Verity had come down in the world and brought a few of her possessions with her. The thought occurred to Henrietta again that she knew nothing of the actress’ past. She pulled aside the fringed damask window hangings and gazed down from the dormer window at the cobbled street below, busy with carts from the nearby market. Ragged peasants stumbled behind vehicles in the hope of something edible falling into their hands. Henrietta’s heart ached for these people, especially the children.
While she sat crumpled on the sofa, Verity came in. “What did you hear?” Henrietta cried, jumping up.
Pale with fatigue, Verity pulled off her gloves and bonnet. “I spoke to friends, but they can’t help us.” She held up a hand to silence Henrietta. “Except for Monsieur Morel at the theatre. He seems confident he can find out where your father is. I am to return at three of the clock.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Verity sighed. “Please remember, your presence in Paris could jeopardize your father’s life. Not to mention your own. You wouldn’t be able to help him if you’re thrown in prison too, now would you?”
With a cry, Henrietta whirled, and flung out her arms. “I cannot stay in this cupboard a moment longer.”
Verity raised an eyebrow. “Not what you are used to, I imagine.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened. She rushed to take Verity’s hands. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’m going mad here.”
“Then play your part as my cousin who has no interest in the concerns of the Viscount Beaumont. Are you a good enough actress?”
Henrietta’s eyes flashed. “I’m sure I am.”
“You must be, for this is the most important part you will ever play.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“We’ll dress simply. There are linen caps in the trunk. No sense in drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t forget to pin on your cockade and bring your papers. We’ll walk, for those that ride everywhere in fiacres are looked upon with suspicion.”
Despite a lowering sky and the threat of rain, the boulevards were busy with the poorly dressed who now walked confidently among the rich. On the north-eastern outskirts of the city, they hurried along a broad, tree-lined avenue.
“This is the Boulevard du Temple where the theatre halls are.”
They stood in front of The Gaite. “Theatre has become popular for people from all walks of life,” Verity said. “This is one of the largest. It’s renowned for its acrobats and buffoons, but they also put on plays.”
Verity led Henrietta through the rear stage door. Henrietta peeked out from behind the curtain. Spectators stuffed the galleries to the rafters. A loud murmur of gossip from the boxes, coupled with quarrels in the pit, competed with the performance on stage. She wrinkled her nose at the smoke of hundreds of candles and the liberal use of perfume, which failed to disguise the rank odor of unwashed bodies.
A sign on a stand told them the pantomimeThe Lover Entombedwas playing. When two actors in Columbine and Harlequin costumes appeared on stage, they enthralled the audience into silence. A roar of laughter went up when an actor in flowing black robes, mistook Harlequin for a dog, and the dog spat in his face and snatched his purse.
