Tossing them on the table, he said, “The Secretary of State’s instructions are very clear, Mr. Steele.”

“And forceful, too. Jefferson’s writing usually is,” replied the young man, dryly.

Gouverneur Morris smiled slightly at the rejoinder, then grunted. “Jefferson says the French are our friends. They helped us during the War. Now they are merely emulating our efforts, trying to establish a democracy here and freeing themselves from tyranny. We should do nothing to interfere in their internal affairs.” His blue eyes glittered. “Bah, never did we see such blood-letting in America as we are seeing here. A war is one thing, an honorable way to die. But this parade to the guillotine is something entirely different. This isn’t the people fighting for freedom. This is a mob, lead by a few demagogues, bent on public murder, enamored with bloody spectacles. This is what Mr. Thomas Jefferson tells me is the friend of the United States.” He glanced toward the window and sighed. “I suppose the French already know the contents of the letter.”

“Of course,” said Steele, suavely. “My luggage was thoroughly searched . . . on the ship coming over and again at Havre. The message was found both times. That is why Mr. Jefferson asked me to deliver a small postscript.” Humor shown in his sienna-brown eyes.

“Postscript?”

Steele rose. His height accented his slender frame. He stood as straight and as narrow as the sword at his side, and, Morris reflected, recollecting his friend’s prowess with a blade, he was just as deadly.

“If you’ll pardon me,” said Steele as he took off his coat. Although it was a plain, homespun garment of dark blue—as befitted a student—there was something in the way Steele shrugged it from his shoulders that gave it an air of elegance.

With a small knife, Steele split a seam two inches. “My favorite coat,” he gave by way of explanation, and withdrew a small, wafer-thin, folded piece of parchment. With a bow, he handed it to Morris.

The ambassador to France unfolded the sheet and scanned the paper. At first, he started, then a smile broke on his face. He limped to the fireplace and tossed the sheet into the flames, watching as it was consumed. “You are acquainted with the contents?” asked Morris.

“Mr. Jefferson provided me with the essentials,” said Steele.

“So, with the King beheaded, and the rest of the royal family in imminent danger, you are to plot the escape of the Queen Marie Antoinette and her children, especially the Dauphin, the future King of France, and smuggle them out of France to safety.”

“That is the essence of my mission.”

“Are you certain you understand the risks, Richard?” asked Morris, aware that by using his friend’s first name he was bringing urgency to the utterance, though the volume of his voice dropped. “They don’t have trials here, to speak of. You are summarily judged by a tribune and the routine sentence is death by the guillotine.”

Steele nodded. “My mother is French and taught me the language when I was an youngster. I have lived in Paris almost as long as I have resided on the Hudson. I, too, have a special interest in this country, you know.”

Morris went on. “The United States is a friend of France. Mr. Jefferson seems to think that if the Marie Antoinette is brought to trial and beheaded, as happened with Louis XVI, that such an event will completely turn every civilized country against France. However, France will not listen to our pleas for moderation. The only thing left is to aid the Queen’s escape. That is your goal. If you should be captured for your part in the plot, officially, we have no choice but to condemn your action and deny any knowledge of your attempt to free her. We must maintain neutrality. Unofficially, of course, I will do what I can to help you.”

“That is all I ask.”

“Have you a plan?”

Steele shook his head. “There is time enough for that.”

“How are you presenting yourself?”

“At the moment, I am enrolled as an art student at the Atelier of David.”

Morris said, “You’ve chosen well. You would be hard pressed to find a more fiery revolutionary than David. His school is more a training ground for revolutionaries as it is for art students.”

“Exactly why I chose it,” said Steele. “I will make plenty of democratic declarations. As far as the French government is concerned, I am an American citizen with revolutionary leanings, an art student studying in Paris, and that is all.”

“Plausible enough.”

“I hope so,” replied Steele. “My life may depend on it.”

“So it may, Richard. So it may.” Gouverneur Morris gestured for Steele to join him at the window. “Unfortunately, there is not much I can do to help you, for I am watched night and day. But let me at least show you your enemy. He regularly stops for reports from his spies about this time each afternoon.”

Morris carefully drew aside the curtain—no more than an inch. Steele looked over his shoulder. Across the muddy Rue de Richelieu, several men loitered.

“Do you see the one at the corner?” asked Morris, pointing to a dirty man attired in ragged, filthy clothing—sure evidence of patriotic zeal in the Paris of 1793. “He has been assigned to watch me. Now, look at the man coming toward him.”

“The shopkeeper?” said Steele.

“That shopkeeper, as you call him, is one of Saint-Just’s most trusted agents. In a country where bribery is rampant, he is honest. In a time of compromise, he is implacable. In a city of cynics, he honestly believes.”

“The most dangerous of men,” said Steele. Perhaps the stranger looked like a shopkeeper, observed the American, but there was an intensity about him. A recent shave had blued his long jaw. As his piercing black eyes scrutinized the street, his perception seemed keen, alert. He glanced toward the window. “His name?” asked Steele, stepping back.

“Binot,” said the ambassador. “He will have you watched, of course. Everyone who visits me is.”

Steele shrugged. “I have nothing to fear. What could be more natural than an American citizen visiting his ambassador in a foreign country? The only incriminating evidence is now ashes in your fireplace.”

“Be careful, Richard. Binot is clever and relentless. He has ears and eyes everywhere.”

“Then it is for us to be more clever and more relentless. The Queen’s life may depend on it.”

“And your own, Richard.”

“As you say.”

In the clubs, Steele joined the debates concerning the fate of Marie Antoinette. The voices calling for her trial became louder and louder, but none were louder than Steele’s, denouncing her Austrian depravity. In the corner sat the patriot assigned by Binot to watch him, his eyes glowing like a smoldering pipe. Occasionally, looking out his window, Steele caught a glimpse of Binot receiving his reports, lean and intense, like a ferret silently coming and going about the lodging. On such occasions Steele would frown—a chill always accompanied Binot’s presence.

Steele took classes in drawing at the Atelier David. There he probed students concerning their loyalties. He sought not those who were opposed to the Revolution or its ideas; for those he had no use. He sought, rather, men whose loyalties were linked to assignats or louis d’or; men who were corruptible. That was the kind of man Steele wanted for his scheme, for they, he knew, would not be watched.

Patiently, Steele went about his calculations, meticulously planning the escape of Marie Antoinette from the Temple, where she and her children were imprisoned. He obtained counterfeit foreign passports. He located a livery that would furnish—no questions asked—a coach and horses upon short notice. By taking his sketchbook with him, he studied and drew the grounds and walls of the Temple, making a map under the very noses of the guards. Once he even offered to show it to a sentry. “Come, observe my skill as a draftsman, citizen-soldier,” he invited a surly guard who shoved it away, uninterested.

“Crazy artist,” was heard more than once.

Apart from the building’s layout, the entrances and exits and windows, Steele observed the security surrounding it—the time and routine of the changing of the guards.

For all his cool calculations, however, one item had not entered his mind. That one miscalculation had gray, flashing eyes and hair of bronze; her name was Heléne Droét.

So when Steele casually mentioned that he needed a model for sketching, Henri Droét, always ready to keep everyone but himself productive, immediately suggested his young sister.

“Citizen Steele, I swear to you, Heléne, she is so beautiful that Apollo himself would declare her the winner of the golden apple.”

Recalling only the ghostly presence of the girl, who seemed to disappear whenever he entered the house, Steele had never studied her features. Accustomed to the boasting of his host, Steele offhandedly replied, “Send her to my studio. I’ll have a look at her to see if she is correct type.”

Later that day at his studio, Steele was busy with a Roman scene when a soft knock trickled into his concentration. “What is it?” he snapped.

The door opened, rust rasping the air.

“Well?” he demanded, not turning from the sheet in front of him.

“My brother sent me. He said you might have some work.” Her voice was soft, gentle. But not weak; there was a timber of strength and confidence in it.

Steele glanced at the door. Instantly, he stopped, gripping the chalk in his dusty, slim fingers.

She was as slender as a reed, but like her voice, there seemed a tensile strength to her. Perhaps it was in the set of her mouth that said, “No nonsense,” or the way she held the door frame, or the frank gaze of her wide, gray eyes. She seemed unafraid of Steele’s gruff manner, merely curious. Her narrow chin accentuated the massive halo of cooper-colored hair surrounding her face.

Steele recalled a painting he had seen in Rome, Raphael’s Madonna, that was at once ethereal and sensual. When he had first seen it, he wasn’t sure if the church fathers would approve, but he found it captivating. Now, looking at this French reincarnation of Raphael’s Madonna, with a glowing halo of fire surrounding the creamy complexion of her face, he was captivated once more.

“Monsieur?” She looked quizzically at him.

Steele suddenly realized he was staring. “Come in, come in,” he exclaimed, rising hastily.

“For only a moment. I have much to do. My brother says monsieur is looking for a model?”

“Yes, yes,” said Steele.

To him, there was never any question that she was perfect for his model. Mademoiselle Droét had that sovereignty that beauty carries—that it is expected to be honored. It could not be said that he fell in love, for turning around stunned, he found himself already there, a citizen in the realm of love, the moment he laid eyes on her.

A week later, in the Luxembourg Gardens, kneeling at her feet, he declared his love, and Heléne touched his cheek, murmuring in her soft voice, “Richard, Richard, this is not the place nor the time for love. There is death and danger everywhere.”

“Then let us go where there is a place for us.”

“And where would that be?”

“My home,” he said, “in New York.”

“New York,” she said in wondering tones, rolling the unfamiliar consonances and vowels off her tongue.

“Will you come?” he asked.

“I will,” she said simply.

Then Steele thought about Marie Antoinette, thought of her helpless in the Temple, and said, “My beloved, there is much about me you do not know.”

“Then tell me.”

“I am honor bound to complete a task, the reason I came to France. Once that is done, you and I will be free to travel to New York.”

“But I am a French citoyenne.”

“We can be married at the American Embassy. Surely they will not stop an American and his wife from leaving the country.”

“Perhaps not,” said Heléne. Although her words were simple, a silver ripple lay beneath their utterance—an inverted shadow. Her calm seemed to tremble with hope that they could flee the insanity of the revolution.

Brushing the cascading cedar of hair from her face, she asked, “And this task to which you are honor bound, what is it?”

Immediately, the danger sharpened in Steele’s mind. Not the danger to himself—he was already well aware of that—but the danger that his plan could represent for Heléne. If they were married before the escape attempt, then she could be implicated in the plot, should it be discovered. Where an American citizen might go free, a French one surely would not. It was best that she not know, furthermore—and here Richard hesitated—that they keep their betrothal a secret.

“Darling,” he said, “I ask for your understanding. The task is of such importance that it must be kept secret.”

“Even from your betrothed?” she murmured, gazing at the ground, her eyelash fluttering, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

“For your own safety, even from you, beloved Heléne,” Richard said reluctantly. “In just a few weeks, a month at most, all will be finished. As soon as we leave for New York, I will provide you with a full explanation. Until then, I ask that our engagement be our secret.”

“But Richard!”

“Just a few weeks,” he promised her, and his kiss muffled, then melted her protests.

More than once he saw Binot prowl the edges of his existence, whispering with the patriot assigned to follow him. Binot’s passing was like the shadow of a predator falling over its prey. Saint-Just’s agent could afford to bide his time, but Steele, although anxious, was as careful as he was brave. He convinced himself he had nothing to fear from the observant and relentless Binot.

“Don’t you think you should guard your sister’s virtue more assiduously?” he demanded. “Women of the republic must maintain the highest standard of conduct.”

Through sunken, bloodshot eyes, Henri gazed at him with surprise. “Of course.”

“There are rumors in the street of your sister.”

“What rumors?” said Henri, in his rage shoving the hapless Cincinnatus backward.

“About the American and your sister.”

“Bah,” said Henri, shrugging it off. “Heléne’s virtue is safe, I tell you. She is a citadel of purity. And the American, he is mad.”

“Don’t say I did not warn you,” said Cincinnatus, gnashing his teeth that Henri did nothing to protect his property.

Cincinnatus decided he would have to take matters into his own hands. As far as he was concerned, Heléne was his wife, and in his mind, where religious vows mattered not, he considered claiming what he already counted as his. Now, the American had intruded. With his restless, furtive eyes Cincinnatus continued watching the secret lovers.

“What is it with this American artist, hey, Heléne?” he demanded one day, confronting her when they were alone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said haughtily, tossing her hair to the side, as if it were a cooper shield to protect her from his unclean and leering gaze.

“Don’t you?” he said. Along with his glare, there was the purr of a dangerous cat in his voice. “Do you think I am blind? It is obvious this Richard Steele seeks to become your paramour.”

“If so, he seeks something you will not find.”

“You are promised to me by your brother,” growled Cincinnatus, taking her arm. “And don’t you forget it.”

“On that point you needn’t worry,” stated Heléne.

Still, Cincinnatus was not satisfied. Later, he confronted Steele.

“You leave her alone,” he blustered.

Steele looked at him disdainfully, then laughed—the melodious timbre of his voice floated into the hallway of the Droét lodging house. “Get out before I throw you out.”

“Watch yourself,” muttered Cincinnatus.

Angrily, he stalked out while Steele carefully watched him. He was about to close the door when Steele’s conciliatory voice called him back. “Good citizen, please,” called Steele.

Cincinnatus turned. “What is it?” He was always high-handed when his attention was being sought.

“You mistake my interest in Mademoiselle Droét. As an artiste, I always admire beauty. That is all. She is only a model to me. If I admire anything, it is your good fortune.”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more.”

Cincinnatus grunted, unconvinced.

“And to show my goodwill toward a fine upstanding patriot like yourself,” continued Steele, “I would like to make you a proposition, offer you employment.”

Cincinnatus waited in suspicious silence.

“How would you like to earn enough money so the two of you could be wed as soon as you desire?”

Wed or not, at the sound of the word “money,” Cincinnatus’s grudge melted, and with warm and rheumy eyes, he leaned toward the American.

“It will take a day or two, but I am sure I can.” Morris paused. “I suppose you have a plan.”

Steele smiled, yet kept his own counsel.

The American ambassador lifted his palm and sighed. “I know what you are thinking: Best not to tell me what it is. I am a poor liar—poorer than I am a diplomat. If they were to ask me if I knew, I probably could not disguise my knowledge.”

“Your honesty is what makes you my friend,” said Steele.

“Still, curiosity nags,” said Gouverneur Morris. “Can you at least tell me when, so I won’t be surprised, should diplomatic repercussions occur?”

“A week from today.”

Morris considered. “Why, that is—”

Steele nodded. “I thought it a fitting tribute.”

“The Fourth of July.”

“Exactly.”

Gouverneur Morris laughed until large tears stained his cravat.

“Have another drink,” Cincinnatus urged Henri.

“To your health,” proclaimed Henri, lifting an unsteady goblet.

“I daresay it is better than that meddlesome American’s.”

At the mention of her fiancé, Heléne became immediately attentive. She pressed as close to the edge of the wall as she could, her long skirt swishing at the angle.

Henri swayed from side to side, the red wine sliding down his throat. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gazed blankly at Cincinnatus, staring at the red bulb of his large-pored nose.

Cincinnatus seemed annoyed that Henri asked no questions. “By tonight there will be no American to meddle in my affairs.”

Heléne bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. Although fear welled up in her, she was not afraid. She edged closer to the corner in order to catch every scrap of sound.

“But who will pay his rent?” asked Henri, ever the practical one.

“Who knows,” said Cincinnatus, “I might rent it myself. Especially”—he nudged the fat Henri—“if I have house privileges.”

“Where would you find money to rent my fine room with the good light and large windows?”

“That is the irony of it.” Cincinnatus chortled. “I received twenty louis d’or from the American in a plot to betray France. Then I received another twenty to betray him. Tonight, when we go to the Temple to save the Austrian whore, he will be walking into a trap, and I will be walking into riches.” Cincinnatus laughed.

Heléne made a move to leave. She had to run and warn Richard. But as she turned, Cincinnatus heard her.

“What’s that?!” Seeing her flee, Cincinnatus leaped after her. His hamlike hand clamped on her shoulder.

“Get away from me, you pig,” she cried. With her small fists, she pounded his chest.

Towering over her, he clenched his huge fist as if to strike her. Then a menacing smile played across his lips. “Perhaps you will think more highly of me tomorrow when your paramour is in prison.”

“I can think of no reason why I should do anything but despise you.”

“When your lover’s life depends on it, you may change your mind,” he insisted, dragging her down the hall. He tossed her into the bedchamber, then locked the door behind her.

Futilely, Heléne banged on the stout oak door, shouting for help. But no one came . . . no one.

In frustration, she threw herself onto the bed and wept.

He sighed. He had best bestir himself, he thought, if he wished to return to America. “Let the comedy commence,” he murmured, in English.

The night sky was a blue crystal, pale and lucid. Near the Temple, moonlight spilled into an alley. Steele gathered his eight men about him. He had obtained uniforms for them; Steele was dressed like an officer. A more disreputable lot would have been difficult to find in the Republic, he thought with a smile—perfect patriots. As an escort, they would do admirably. In his pocket he carried forged documents to release Marie Antionette and her children into his custody.

In a half whisper, he told them, “The task will be simple. None of you need utter a word. Simply follow me, marching, muskets on your shoulders. When the prisoners are released, you will escort them to this alley—after which all of you will be dispersed immediately, much richer than when you arrived this evening.” He jingled his pockets to advertise the coin he carried.

Steele did not tell them, however, that they would be escorting the Queen. To do so would ignite their cowardice. If they realized the stature of the prisoners, they would also recognize the magnitude of the crime and perhaps have no part in it. Instead, Steele told them they were to rescue the wife and children of a friend. Their murmur of assent was unanimous. Cincinnatus, Steele noticed, took a spot in the back of the column of soldiers.

Through the streets they marched, the dust making blue puff balls at their feet. At the head of the column, Steele marched resolutely—rigid, straight, in command.

Perhaps, she thought, the pile might break her fall . . . that is, if she could leap that far. But she had no choice, she decided in desperation. She might be too late already. Richard, her beloved Richard, needed her.

Taking a deep breath, into the night, into the darkness, into unknown space, Heléne leaped.

“We have not been informed of this,” grumbled the guard, peering first at the papers, then searching Steele’s face.

Steele shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“I do not, citizen-lieutenant.”

For an instance, Richard felt cold sweat. “Ask the Committee of Public Safety if you have any complaints. I am here by their authority.”

Hearing the intimidating name of the Committee, the officer grunted, handing the papers back to Steele. Stepping aside, he ordered the guards, “Let them pass.”

Steele and his troop marched into the impregnable walls of the Temple.

Her vision cleared. She remembered what Cincinnatus had said—Richard was betrayed, walking into a trap.

She took a step . . . gasped at the pain. Squeezing her eyes closed, she took another. Another. Limping heavily, Heléne shambled down the street.

Cincinnatus shouted: “Traitors, traitors. They mean to free the Queen. Stop them.”

Instantly, the scene turned to chaos. Men called and came pouring through doors. Shouts and shots rang out. Cincinnatus dove for cover. Curses and bodies jostled in the moonlight. Steele’s bewildered accomplices broke rank, scattering pell-mell in all directions. Steele found himself locked in battle with two guards. Dazzling and silver, his sword flashed in the moonlight. Confusion erupted, spreading throughout the courtyard.

Heléne slipped into the building. Bedlam swirled around her. Through the milling crowd, she immediately spotted her lover. “Richard!”

Her shout apparently startled him. The two sentries, noting his distraction, lunged forward. But Steele recovered. His sword slithered under one of his opponent’s weapons; the point slipped into the guard’s chest. The Frenchman toppled with a groan, disengaging Steele’s sword. Seeing Steele weaponless, the other guard swiftly attacked. Steele dodged the blade. He slammed his fist into his opponent’s midriff, and the man slid heavily against Steele.

Taking Heléne by the hand, Steele recovered his weapon, then sped through the second gate, into the shadows of a small atrium. Men rushed back and forth while Steele held Heléne against him. His chest pumped with the exertion of battle. Sweat glittered on his forehead. The blood on his sword looked black in the moonlight.

“Shh—” he whispered.

Heléne, wide-eyed, leaned against him as they watched the mêlée. Her breath was as ragged as his.

The hired men battled desperately. “To the street,” one called. With their backs to each other, they formed a circle, fighting their way toward the entrance.

“After them,” Cincinnatus shouted, pushing the men in front of him to chase the ragged band.

The courtyard emptied, and the sounds of the battle grew distant. Several bodies lay motionless on the ground. Steele pulled Heléne with him. Bravely, she tried to walk, but winced.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“My ankle.”

For an instant, he knelt, inspecting her foot. His fingers grazed her ankle, which had swollen to twice its normal size. He carried her into the inner Temple, where the sound of the fighting had almost completely vanished. Steele located a hidden alcove with a small seat, and gently lay Heléne upon it.

In sudden alarm, he heard what sounded like a throng of men coming toward them from within the Temple. He put a finger to Heléne’s lips before the they pressed back far into the alcove. He listened carefully to their muttered conversation about the “Austrian whore” as they passed. Their guttural voices and footsteps echoed as they disappeared into the gloom.

After several minutes, Steele spoke, relaxing. “What happened, my love?” he asked, as he used a strip of her petticoat to bandage her ankle.

Heléne told him how she had overheard Cincinnatus boasting, how she had leaped from her window, and hobbled here to save him.

He kissed her ankle. “My precious love,” he murmured. She touched his chestnut hair as he bent over her. “Do you think you can make it a little bit further?”

She nodded. “What are you to do? Your plan is completely ruined.”

“My plan is going exactly as I designed.”

“But Cincinnatus—”

“Did precisely as I expected.”

“You mean you wanted to be discovered?”

“I wanted everyone to think we had been discovered.”

Heléne shook her head, and her hair glimmered like a transparent, delicate flame in the moonlight. “Now that your scheme is discovered, the entire garrison is alert. They will be even more vigilant.”

“Do you really think so? I think the opposite will happen. Having thwarted my escape plan, the officials will relax and become careless. They might even celebrate, for I have made certain they have a plentiful supply of wine.

“And while the garrison is drunkenly celebrating their vigilance against and victory over despotism, I will be secretly implementing my real plan. Where nine men failed, one will succeed. I have located a small side entrance out of which we can slip unobserved. It is how the Queen was originally brought here—”

“The Queen,” exclaimed Heléne.

“That is why I am here,” said Richard, “to rescue Marie Antionette.”

Heléne blanched at the plan’s audacity. “This is madness!”

“Ahh, but what a fine madness.”

Heléne sighed, knowing she could not deter her lover, knowing in her heart that was why she had chosen him.

Richard went on. “Bribes have managed to unlock the side door for us. Just beyond is a carriage. A loyal man is waiting. We will slip out of the Temple and flee Paris before they realize the deception. Wait here. I’ll fetch the Queen and return.”

“No,” said Heléne, clutching his sleeve. “I will go with you.”

Steele hesitated, looking at her. “As you wish.”

Heléne gritted her teeth. “Lead the way,” she said, rising with all the grace she could muster.

Like two blue shadows, they moved along the wall of the Temple. A sudden noise jarred the silence, and Heléne started. Sword in hand, Steele listened until he was sure no one was there. They crept forward again and climbed to the next level. Ahead was an open door, and a wedge of candlelight flickered on the stone floor.

“The Queen’s chambers,” Steele whispered.

He hesitated, scrutinizing the scene. He didn’t like it. Not a single guard stood sentry. From the open doorway came a sob, so forlorn and hopeless that a chill rippled through Steele, and he experienced a shadowy foreboding.

Holding Heléne by the hand, he stole up to room and peered inside. Marie Antoinette was within. Her face was in her hands, and she was bent over, weeping. Candlelight shuddered on her hands and dark hair, and washed across her simple gown.

“Your Majesty,” said Steele gently, stepping into the room, bowing slightly.

Dropping to her knees, Heléne knelt behind him. The Queen looked up at him, her face tear-stained. Her sobs quieted.

“Dry your tears. I came to take you from here. Safety is but a few minutes away.”

Shaking her head no, she wept anew. Her hand muffled her soft sobs; a profound despair issued from her throat.

“Your Majesty, time is pressing. Let us go.”

“I cannot,” she wailed.

Steele opened his hands in bewilderment. “What is it, Your Majesty?”

“My children,” she moaned. “They have taken them from me.”

For a moment, Steele was stunned. As he considered, a blackness fell across the Queen and landed at Steele’s feet. A figure detached itself in the deep shadows of the cell. Steele looked into the cold face of Binot. His expression was somber; only the smallest smile, flickering on his lips, gave any indication of his triumph.

Steele swiftly lifted his sword.

“No need for that,” said Binot, holding up his hand. When Steele stayed his sword, Binot went on. “No one will attack you.”

“How did you know my plan?” asked Steele.

Binot smiled. “I appreciate discernment. You seemed far too clever to employ such a mountebank as Cincinnatus in your scheme. So the thought occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t the true thrust of your plan but merely a feint. Once I realized that, the plot became plain.”

Steele nodded his understanding. “Still, it is difficult to see how you can stop me.”

“Oh-ho,” chuckled Binot, almost gleefully, “I have no plans to do so. This citoyenne”—he casually waved his hand toward the Queen—“is free to go with you if she chooses.”

Steele said, “Your Majesty, I implore you, come with me. I can rescue you.”

“Monsieur,” she said pitifully, “I cannot leave my children.”

Steele turned on Binot. “Where are they?”

“Oh, they are safe enough. Her cooperation will insure that and determine when they are returned to her.”

Steele turned back to the Marie Antionette. “I swear, Your Majesty, if you come with me, I will not rest until the Dauphin is again safely by your side.”

“That is a risk I cannot take,” she said.

Binot shrugged disdainfully. “So you see, my American friend, there are many kinds of prisons.”

Steele’s shoulders fell with despair as he listened to the woman’s sobbing. He knew it; he was defeated.

At last he said, “So I suppose you wish to make me your prisoner.”

Binot said, “I wish nothing of the sort. I do not wish the populace to be alarmed by sensational reports of attempted rescue. I have no wish to provoke the enemies of France with an excuse for hostilities. America’s continued neutrality is valuable to us. We still hope to enlist your country on our side. No, my friend, no one will hinder your leaving.”

Referring to Heléne, Steele asked, “And her?”

Binot glanced over Steele’s shoulder. “That is the one Cincinnatus claims for his own?”

Steele nodded.

The French agent hesitated, then a smile lighted his face. “I have as little admiration for traitors as you do, my friend. Take her and begone. It serves Cincinnatus right. It will be a fitting reward for his treachery.” He made a small chuckle. “I believe you have in your pockets forged documents from the Committee of Public Safety for the passage of a woman to Switzerland. I recommend you use them . . . immediately.”

“Go,” said the Queen. “I will never forget your courage, but take your beloved and go. There is nothing more you can do here.”

“That is sound advice,” observed Binot, a narrow smile of triumph flickering across his dark face. “Go and be happy. It is, after all is said and done, the most you can hope for in this imperfect world.”

Richard was silent. He gazed at the despondent Marie Antionette. With a sigh of regret, he bowed before her forlorn majesty. “As you say, there is nothing more I can do,” he admitted, and he touched his lips to the royal hand.

As Richard and Heléne slipped out of the door, Richard stopped a moment and looked back at the Queen. Her face was like an ivory flame in the darkness. Richard lifted a hand as if saluting her, and although she said nothing, there was a sparkle of acknowledgement in her eyes.

A few days later when he and Heléne were wed in Lausanne, Switzerland, Richard reflected, holding Heléne to his chest as they gazed at the Swiss Alps, it was one of the few times he had ever agreed with Binot. Perhaps happiness was all you could hope for in this world.

“What do you think will happen with the Revolution?” asked Heléne.

“Little good, I’m afraid, my love. But I do know I have been a witness, not to great events perhaps, but to great people.”

And if by going to France, Richard Steele did not change the course of history for an entire world, at least—he reflected, with an elegant shrug of his shoulders—he changed his own history, and with that he was more than satisfied.