‘So we need to be fast.’
A forest-green open-top phaeton carriage splashed with dirt was rattling towards them and Camille didn’t hesitate. She pulled her pistol out and stepped into the middle of the road.
‘Stand and deliver!’
The driver yanked the reins and the horses clattered to a stop. Two pale women in Perdita dresses and unpowdered hair sat side by side.
‘What’s going on—?’ They caught sight of Camille. ‘Oh, good lord! Highwaymen? This close to the city?’
Camille aimed her pistol into the sky and let off a shot.
‘Everyone out! Now!’
The women almost fell over each other in their hurry to get out. Camille directed Al to take charge of the horses and ushered the battalion into the carriage. There was scarcely space for four people to squash inside.
As soon as Camille was up and squeezed in, half-sitting on Ada’s lap, Al cracked the reins and they were off at a lick towards the smoky roofline of Paris.
They’d barely gone five hundred metres before Camille heard screaming and twisted to see the women running as a man on horseback burst out into the road.
Dorval.
Camille swore and yanked on Al’s coat.
‘How the hell did we miss the stables? Faster!’
‘You’ll knacker the horses.’
‘I don’t care – we only need them as far as the city. If he beats us there we’re dead.’
Al cracked the reins again and goaded the horses to a gallop. The carriage wasn’t built for such use. They were hurled around so violently it was all Camille could do to stop herself falling out. Slowly, painfully slowly, the Porte St-Denis drew closer. There was no traffic at the barrier, just a bored guard lounging and smoking a pipe. Beyond, the bustle of the city took over.
‘Should I—’ Al started.
‘Don’t you dare stop.’
This time Al swore. He was a good horseman, but even he couldn’t jump a carriage over a barrier. The only way was through.
Camille braced herself.
The horses jumped. The weighted-down carriage couldn’t follow, and the shafts snapped. The carriage slammed into the barrier, knocking it out of its posts and tangling it in the traces. The horses pulled forwards, dragging the wreckage and the damaged carriage into the city streets as crowds scattered. Finally the traces broke under the strain and the freed horses bolted along the Rue Saint Martin. The phaeton pitched and they tumbled into the street.
Camille scrambled up, dizzy and aching. She didn’t dare look behind to see how close Dorval was. All she could focus on was keeping them on the move.
For a moment she was paralysed with indecision, each road spoking into potential salvation or disaster.
Then Al was tugging at her sleeve and her thoughts.
‘Come on. I have an idea.’
13
The Théâtre Patriotique
Inside the theatre, the stage and the expensive boxes were brightly lit but the pit was dingy. Faces half in shadow, a sheen of sweat catching the light here or there. The theatre had been rebuilt only a few years ago, but the murals on the walls and ceiling were already smoke- and tobacco-stained, the paint peeling in the corners where the damp festered. The discordant hum of the orchestra tuning to a common key filled the air.
‘Where’s the best place to hide?’ Al had asked Camille, as they’d dodged carts and pedestrians, beggars and street performers. ‘A crowd.’
He had led them on a short dash from the Porte St Martin east to the Boulevard du Temple and the Théâtre Patriotique where they’d quizzed Léon for information only the day before.
