The violet whispered,"Your eyes are blue And lovely and bright to see, My heart is yours and I'm fated for you, So dwell in the light with me.
Mignon stood in the deserted, narrow street and stared at sullen black clouds scudding above, darkening the Paris sky. She hugged her arms to her against icy gusts that bit at her exposed flesh and burned her lungs. Her breath rose in a frigid vapor, snatched into oblivion by the blizzard.
Alarm shot through her, sending her heart into a staccato beat that echoed in her ears. The humiliating thought came to her that she would die on the street like an animal and no one would see or care.
With trembling hands, Mignon opened her small beaded bag and fingered the few remaining coins inside. The howling wind whipped through the trees, bending limbs low, twisting her cloak about her body. She jerked the cloak free, and it ballooned out behind her, pulling her off balance, making her reel and stagger as though she had taken too much strong drink.
Hunger rumbled inside her like a live thing trying to claw its way out. She swiped at her brimming eyes and gave in to the deep sorrow overwhelming her. Mignon mourned anew the loss of Mama and Papa San Marco. Now Uncle Etienne was gone, and she had no one.
The shrieking wind and booming thunder intensified her panic. Shop signs screeched and slammed against their chains. Mignon clasped gloved hands over her stinging ears to shut out the discordant keening that reverberated in her head. Looking up at the leaden sky, she screamed out her terror, adding it to the fury of the storm.
"I'm scared!" she cried. "I'm scared, and I'm hungry!"
Lightning ruptured the black clouds, briefly lighting the quartier Saint Germain. The dark, angry sky mocked her, hurling down a torrential rain that challenged the wind in its intensity. She stumbled across the cobblestone street and took shelter in a recessed doorway.
In minutes gutters overflowed into a miniature flood, sweeping debris before it. A sour wet odor of mildew and decay stung Mignon's nostrils and her empty stomach churned. She fell against the building. Icy tears burned her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands.
The door suddenly opened. Mignon stumbled back in alarm. An arm shot out and grabbed her.
Across the river a carriage made its sodden way through the deserted streets, buffeted by wind and assaulted by freezing rain. Charles Eugene von Klein, the duke von Kleinhoff, sat back against the plush upholstery. He expelled his breath and drummed his fingers on the seat. The carriage jerked and jolted, making slow progress in the stormy Paris night. Its lamps glowed faintly within a pale nimbus, unable to penetrate the darkness. The leather flap blew open. The duke peered out into the rain-filled night. At each crash of thunder, the horses snorted, reared and thrashed, bumping one another, straining at their harnesses. The coachman cursed and cracked his whip over their wet flanks, adding to their fright.
The duke shouted into the weather, "Can't you make better time, Älfrat? I'm already late for my appointment, and I would like to get home while travel is still possible."
"Ach, ja!" the coachman yelled in answer.
Tossed back into the seat as the carriage lurched to a stop, the duke sighed and raised the flap again. He heard Älfrat's sloshing steps moving toward the rear of the carriage and the desperation in his voice as he cried, "Take those lamps, go ahead of this accursed vehicle, and light the way. I'll have to lead these spooked beasts myself. Herzog von Kleinhoff is impatient, and we must make haste."
"I vow," a footman growled, "we'll freeze solid if we don't make haste."
"I think my bud has already froze inside my breeches and won't never bloom again," the other groaned.
Getting a good grip on the reins, Älfrat swore lustily. "Blessed be the Holy Mother! Scheisse! What a godforsaken night!"
The carriage moved again. When next it halted, they were at the entrance to Allerman's where the duke's top agent had urgently summoned him. A footman opened the door of the carriage and Charles von Klein stepped out into the storm. He beckoned to his retainers.
"Come inside, have a mug, and warm yourselves. We'll not tarry here long."
The duke entered the tavern and paused at the entrance to the public room while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the wax-lit interior. Water dripped from his cloak, forming a pool at his feet.
Charles saw Julien, the agent he had come to meet, and strode across the broad, rough- hewn boards of the floor. Removing his black felt hat and gray velvet cloak, he tossed them on the table and sat opposite Julien.
The agent extended his hand. "Monsieur le duc, thank you for coming. ‘Tis not a night one roves about in without just cause."
Charles accepted the outstretched hand. A young barmaid, who smelled of beer and wood smoke, placed a mug before him. He paid her, lifted the mug to his cold lips and drank a huge gulp of the hot buttered rum, welcoming its fire as it went down.
"What was so urgent, Julien, that you felt the need to summon me on such a night?" The duke spoke French, his heavy guttural accent not out of place at the German-owned tavern in the heart of Paris, whose patrons were mostly German.
Julien leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. "Your excellency, the girl is back in Paris. She has been in the city for some time. I think I know where to find her. We must ... deal with her."
Charles shoved the candle toward Julien, lighting his companion's solemn bearded face, while casting his own features in shadows. "I do not war on women, Julien."
A frown flitted across Julien's brow. "No? I do, if necessary."
Charles fought his anger and spoke with rigid self-control. "When her father was assassinated she became of no benefit to our cause."
Julien laughed softly at the duke's gentle reprimand. "Isn't that what you wanted? The traitor's death?"
Drumming his fingers on the wet brim of his hat, Charles eyed its water-logged condition in a sort of outrage, as if it were a personal affront. Glancing at Julien, he sighed. "That is what I wanted when it would have made a difference to our cause."
"You don't think it made a difference?"
"I know it didn't. It came too late."
Julien took up his mug and downed its contents, then looked at his superior without malice. "I don't make decisions, your excellency, I obey orders."
"I know that." Charles' exhaustion worked its way into his voice. "What I don't know is why, more than a year after du Croy's assassination, you believe his daughter is still important to us. Too late again." His eyes burned, his temples throbbed with fatigue. He fixed his penetrating gaze firmly on Julien. When Julien did not respond or avert his gaze, Charles softened his voice. "It will take more than our small conspiracies to bring that Corsican devil to his knees. The girl is no longer an option we can use to advantage."
"I don't understand that, your excellency. The emperor's bond with her father extends to her. It would be to our advantage to have her under our control. We could use her father's great wealth and lands against Napoleon if we could arrange a marriage between her and one of our own."
Charles rubbed the scar on his cheek and exhaled a long sigh. "We will forget about Catherine du Croy, Julien. Napoleon has control of the du Croy inheritance until Jean- Francois' daughter is wed. By the time such a marriage could be arranged, I expect that Bonaparte scoundrel to be ruler of all Europe or completely vanquished."
Julien expelled his own breath loudly and shook his head. "Oui, he controls her inheritance until she marries." After a pause, during which the duke made no further comment, Julien asked, "Will you share a tankard with me?"
Charles reached for his hat and cloak. "No, I've had a trying day and wish to get home. Stay alert and keep to the work at hand."
"Your excellency," Julien insisted, "you should think about the girl. ‘Tis my opinion we should find her and--"
Charles had donned his hat and cloak and started for the entrance. He whirled and strode back to the table. Leaning toward his agent, he said through clenched teeth, "You have my answer, Julien."
Mignon gazed at the young woman who had saved her life and closed her eyes against the uneasy fear that constricted her throat. She dropped her gaze before Simone was aware of her scrutiny, dipped a finger in the lip pomade, and rubbed the delicately scented scarlet color onto her lips. Pinching her cheeks, she looked one last time at her reflection in the small hand mirror, and stared into eyes that flashed an uneasy excitement.
She splashed fragrant jasmine scent on her arms and neck, tied her bonnet strings under her chin, inhaled a deep breath and turned to Simone. "How do I look?"
Simone smiled. "You look like the beauty you are. And aren't you the lucky one? The duke of Kleinhoff sent his man to fetch you. After this night, p'tite, you'll be able to afford a pretty new dress to make you even more desirable."
Mignon exhaled slowly and hugged the new friend who had provided her with food and shelter and taught her how to survive by means of the ‘profession'. Still traumatized by her ordeal on the streets of Paris, Mignon had been an easy convert, convinced the ‘profession' was the only alternative for a girl who had no family. Simone had spent countless hours teaching her the tricks of the trade, and Mignon was a quick learner. She also believed Simone's assurance that she, Mignon, would not be an ordinary femme de la soirée. Simone had caught her imagination with the idea that she could become a courtesan, a paramour of aristocrats. She would be sought after, given fabulous gifts, fashionable apparel, magnificent homes, a good life, and never again would she be hungry or cold or alone.
A deep gratitude and affection for Simone warmed her, and she desperately wanted to please her benefactress. A small dread overcame her. What if she did something wrong and the duke didn't like her? How else could she earn her keep? She couldn't expect Simone to continue to bear the burden of her care, and the idea of being back on the streets paralyzed her with terror.
"Mignon, do you recall the things I told you? ‘Tis most important you give this man a night to remember, and he will send for you again and again. It can be most profitable to have a rich and titled gentleman for a friend. Not many of us are so blessed. ‘Tis your unusual beauty which caught his eye. Tiens! What I wouldn't give for your face and form!"
"Is the sum the valet offered a fair price?"
Mignon hugged her friend again. As she walked away, she cast a glance in Simone's direction, managed a faint smile on her trembling lips, and stepped out into the frigid night. A footman opened the door of the duke's elegant carriage and helped her inside.
She gazed at the duke's manservant, arranged her skirts and sat opposite him. A startled look came into his eyes, and a sudden fear gripped Mignon. She clasped her pale, tense hands. For a short while they rode in silence. Aware of the manservant's fixed attention on her, Mignon pulled her redingote more snugly about her stiff body.
The valet unfolded a carriage blanket and said softly, "Mademoiselle, cover yourself with this lap robe. We'll soon be at the duke's house where it is warm."
She was not cold. His obvious disappointment dismayed her. She searched his face, trying to discern the reason for his reaction. Meeting his gaze, she said, "You fear your master will not like me."
The manservant smiled. "He will like you."
"You're disappointed in me then. You didn't seem displeased when you saw me earlier."
"You looked much older when I first saw you. Tonight, you seem ... so young."
Mignon looked away. "I'm not as young as I must appear to be."
He whispered, more to himself than to her, "I hope not."
She drew in her breath, caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and pulled the lap robe over her legs.
The duke removed his dark green frock coat and fawn vest and draped them over the back of a graceful Louis XV chair upholstered in rose velvet. He was bitterly disillusioned with his assignment in Paris, and a constant anger smoldered just below the surface of his composed exterior, troubling him. He no longer believed his work had any real import, and he viewed it as futile as the hurling of a stone at charging cavalry.
The duke's assignment--to organize the factions which opposed Napoleon into an ordered and disciplined group, designed to hinder the Corsican's phenomenal rise to power--had failed. He placed the Bible with its hidden message on his desk.
A scornful smile curled his lips, making him aware of the saber scar on his left cheek that tightened and pulled. The words ‘divide and conquer' came unbidden to mind, and he laughed without mirth. "Too late," he said aloud. How many times had he said ‘too late'? How many times had it been true?
He removed his cravat, opened the neck of his shirt and tugged it free from his breeches, sensing he had forgotten something important. Frowning in concentration, he stepped to the bed, sat on the mauve silk counterpane and removed his black Hessian boots.
A proud and painful defiance lurked within him, a silent grief for Austria's humiliation, as much a part of him as the anger. Napoleon Bonaparte! Charles despised the man responsible for Austria's lost battles and lost territories; yet he could not help but admire him.
Tired and bored and eager for a more active role in the defense of his beloved fatherland, he got to his feet and rubbed his neck and shoulders. Knotted muscles ached with a persistent monotony. He clasped his hands, pressed them hard together forcing his biceps to resist until a burning sensation radiated from his shoulders up into his neck, relieving the tension in his jaw.
Charles opened the bedroom door to summon his valet to give him a massage before he remembered he had sent André on an errand. He breathed deeply, expecting his manservant to return at any moment with the woman. A tumble in bed would take his mind off his work, release some of his unexpended energy, and help him relax.
He pulled his shirt over his head and touched the scar on his shoulder, the end result of the saber blow which had gashed his cheek. He combed his fingers through his thick blond hair.
A tap-tap on the entrance doors alerted him to the return of his manservant. In stockinged feet he crossed the huge salon, feeling the luxurious Aubusson rugs underfoot. Highly polished parquet floors between the rugs gleamed in the bright light of hundreds of candles in crystal chandeliers and silver candelabra. He unlatched and opened the arched double doors.
André gently pushed the girl into the room and looked at his master. A flicker of a smile touched the valet's lips. The duke's gaze went from André's odd smile to the girl. She stood very still, a frightened waif, a conspicuous air of uneasiness about her.
Mignon stared at him, the titled gentleman who had sent for her. Her breath caught in her throat. He was beautiful! Not at all like the soldiers, or even the officers, from whom Simone got her money. A tremor of apprehension washed over her. She folded her arms over her breasts, acutely aware of the too large redingote with its double capes of dark fur.
The duke stepped nearer, eyeing her with a steady gaze. Mignon dropped her small blue and white beaded reticule. She inhaled audibly and saw in her mind's eye her borrowed finery.
Simone's girls had provided her with a taffeta bonnet, soft gloves, stylish shoes and stockings, and a lovely India gauze dress, too tight across the bodice. Under his probing gaze a flame of embarrassment burned her cheeks, but a trace of defiance lifted her head high, and she endured his impertinent inspection. She was aware of a slow visible anger that touched his eyes and etched itself along his jaw line, deepening his scar.
He shook his head. "No, André. This girl is too young. She's a child."
His quick rejection pierced her through, and her mind reeled with alarming images of returning to Simone a failure. In confusion she breathed a silent prayer that she might remember the things Simone had taught her to do to entice a man's interest and excite his desire. Unable to think, she horrified herself by slapping her hands on her hips and protesting, "I'm not a child. I know how to pleasure a man."