The Star of Versailles Page 3

  Damn the man and his timing. He kept the less than gracious thought to himself though, opening the door to tell the girl, “I will be with him directly.”

  It was no more than a minute before William rapped at the door of Tessier’s study, the inhabitant already speaking as he entered.

  “The city is restless.”

  As William stepped into the room, Tessier rose from behind the enormous desk, one of the few ornamental pieces he had kept when he’d taken over the home of the Plamondon family. He was more bureaucrat than butcher now, hands clasped behind his back and his plain gray coat a world away from the jet-black frock he had worn for the execution. Gone was the glint of furious excitement that had sparked in his eyes, and instead, he was almost placid, his voice measured and quiet.

  “Monsieur Morel.” He gestured for William to sit, waiting until he obeyed. “I am sorry you could not join us on the scaffold yesterday—you apprehended Gaudet, after all.”

  William bowed his head in acknowledgement, telling Tessier, “One cannot put personal pleasure before the greater good, Monsieur.”

  “I had hoped that the sight of his brother-in-law on the scaffold might focus Gaudet’s mind somewhat.” Tessier resumed his seat. “But it did not. Today I intend to move onto more rigorous methods of persuasion—might you be free to accompany me to the Conciergerie?”

  William felt his heart quicken at the invitation, the thought of setting foot inside the prison one he had not dared to anticipate. Accompanying Tessier in the interrogation of Alexandre Gaudet was something he’d neither expected nor relished, and he realized now what that meant, how far he might have to take his role today.

  “It would be an honor,” he told Tessier carefully.

  “You are aware of the Star of Versailles?” Tessier did not wait for a response before he went on. “I believe it was taken by Madame Plamondon when she fled Paris. Her brother, I am sure, holds the key to her whereabouts.”

  “A woman.” He sniffed, even as he watched the other man. “You think she would be capable of such a thing?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Morel, I am surprised at such…small-mindedness.” Tessier held William’s gaze. “The Star represents largesse, the obscenity of monarchy…all that we have toiled so hard to overcome. The widow Capet taunted me with it until the very morning of her death and I will not see it pass to another over-privileged, ermine-clad poodle.”

  “So, we must track the woman down”—William returned the look unflinchingly—“and Gaudet must be made to speak.”

  At that, Tessier drew in a breath. “I intend to ensure it is kept in Paris for the people.”

  William smiled, nodding even as his mind drifted back to the guaranteed buyer waiting in England, though the Prince of Wales’s own depleted coffers might make the transaction interesting.

  Dee’s problem, not mine.

  “Then we shall make a visit to Alexandre Gaudet,” Tessier decided, “and see if we cannot convince him that he would be happier if he unburdened himself.”

  * * * *

  Within the hour, the two men were in Tessier’s carriage en route for the fortress on the Seine. It did not escape William’s attention that his companion had changed into a black suit once more, the scars hidden beneath supple leather gloves. As they traveled in silence he studied Tessier, as he had so many times, taking in the narrow face and thin lips, the pale skin that seemed as though it had never seen the rays of the sun. He was tall and almost painfully thin, yet when he headed the procession to the guillotine or strode the platform in the midst of his Revolutionary fervor, Tessier seemed an enormous figure. After all, a reputation like his was not won on words alone.

  Nor were scars like those that wrecked his flesh.

  The noise and bustle of Paris did not diminish on their approach to the glowering building, but the place seemed infected by despair, a malaise that hung heavy in the air itself. Those who shuffled here kept their heads down, the children scurrying around the carriage and the stench stronger than ever.

  There was no question of detaining this most important of visitors and, without any preamble, Tessier and William were admitted to the prison. Despite all that he had seen, the adventures he had known, William was unprepared for the scene that greeted him. The fortress buzzed with life, prisoners and guards sharing the same space in air so fetid it turned his stomach.

  It was utterly repulsive, everything he hated most about mankind crammed into this heaving, stinking space, but he kept his expression clear of it all, face remaining closed, impassive. The smell was breathtaking, a stink that burned the back of the throat, and William found himself momentarily stilled by it. Tessier pressed on, the guards clearing a space for him as he went, William following in his wake. It occurred to him that a man with the wealth of Gaudet must have been able to, at least, buy himself some moderate comfort away from the rabble. Yet, as they descended deeper into the fortress and the air grew heavier, all sunlight fading into a dirty haze, William wondered if their next stop would be Hell itself.

  Tessier hardly stopped speaking for the duration of their walk, warning that Gaudet was a man of extraordinary intelligence and fortitude, that William would do well to watch for him. This was in marked contrast to his knowledge of the man who was the toast of London light theater. Gaudet’s plays were not exactly noted for their challenging intellectual content.

  In fact, as William well knew, the man Tessier sought was not Dee at all, because that estimable character was safely concealed in a farmhouse some miles from the prison. Whatever Alexandre Gaudet may or may not know, he was simply a man in the wrong place at the worst possible time. No matter what William might wish, what heroics others might believe he should perform, there was nothing to be done to save Gaudet now.

  “What,” he asked Tessier, “are your intentions?”

  “That the spymaster will give up his secrets.” After rounding a final corner they stopped before a heavy door. “And here we are.”

  The guard who had led the way through the prison produced a heavy bunch of keys and selected one, knocking at the door in a mockery of manners before he called, “Visitors to the salon, Monsieur Gaudet!”

  “Dignity,” Tessier said with a sharpness in his tone that surprised William. “We are not here to torment, Jacquet.”

  “Monsieur,” he said, bobbing his head in a gesture of apology.

  “Morel,” Tessier introduced William to the guard, who regarded him with a nod, “is here to speak to our playwright.”

  “He’s having a look at life from the other side—those who had nothing have made good, those who had it all are in the sewer,” Jacquet explained with a sly smile. “A few years ago, my son scraped for a coin, but when the widow left the Conciergerie on her way to meet her maker, he was the person watching the gate. The last few years have brought opportunities for some that they wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

  “And he behaves meek as a mouse.” Tessier smiled indulgently. “Our spymaster.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Jacquet assured him. “He knows better than to upset Jacquet, unless he likes the taste of his own teeth.”

  With that he turned the key in the lock and the door opened on the private cell in which Alexandre Gaudet now rested, a world away from the fine salons of London that had been his home since his departure from France half a decade earlier.

  William had expected that Gaudet’s wealth might have bought him some comfort, yet in this dim cell, with its small barred window set high into the wall, he saw no such thing. As if on cue, a rat scampered over his boot and through the door, leaving the confined, festering room as soon as the opportunity arose. There was no shred of gentility in the place where William now found himself, just a thin covering of straw on a floor that swam with the filth of innumerable previous occupants. Manacles hung on the damp wall and, despite the heat, he shivered, forcing himself not to jump when the door slammed shut behind them.

  Alexandre Gaudet sat on a chair toward the
back of the room, hidden in shadow. From the angle of the playwright’s shoulders William could see that his wrists were bound. His head hung forward until his chin almost touched his chest, the only movement the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

  “Monsieur Gaudet.” Tessier’s voice was as bright as though he were visiting an old friend. “I have brought another illustrious visitor. Yesterday Robespierre, today Citizen Yves Morel, visiting from the south.”

  When Gaudet gave no signal that he had heard, Tessier went on, “You would do well to consider him a man deserving of your full attention—not a village is left standing after he passes through it, nor a man left breathing that ever crossed him.”

  “Perhaps,” Tessier said when Gaudet still did not speak, careful to keep any hint of emotion from his voice, “Monsieur Gaudet is not receiving visitors today?”

  When William could no longer avoid it, he let his eyes settle on the prisoner, hardly recognizing him as the richly dressed character he had encountered just days earlier. The flamboyant coat and waistcoat were long gone, a once crisp white shirt filthy and torn, stained with blood here and there. His feet were bare, bright blue breeches muddied with dirt, and dark bruises bloomed wherever his skin was exposed

  “He won’t eat,” Jacquet informed them. “Won’t do anything.”

  “Why will you not eat?” Tessier leaned close to Gaudet, who raised his head, peering at them through the blackened eye. After a moment, he let his eyes slide across to William, holding his gaze until Tessier told him, “Then you can starve, sir, it is of no concern to me.”

  “And neither should it be.” William found that he had to glance away for just a moment, Gaudet’s gaze too haunting. “He will talk, either way.”

  Tessier reached into his waistcoat for a key and slid it into the lock that held the manacles. As soon as they fell to the ground Jacquet dragged Gaudet from the chair and flung him onto the floor. Clearly already used to this, the playwright curled into a ball. Tessier advanced on him, landing a kick to his spine as he said, “Tell me where I might find your sister, Gaudet.”

  The playwright said nothing, body curling tighter in response, and Tessier said, “This, Gaudet, is nothing but the beginning.”

  Chapter Four

  There was a time not so long ago when Paris had meant something to Alexandre Gaudet. For a young man with money and celebrity it was a playground of hedonistic delights, of days lost to drink and nights abandoned to beauty, sights that he would never forget and scenes that he wished he could remember, and all of it, seemingly, lost to another lifetime.

  Where he had once known pleasure he now saw nothing but terror, swift and deadly as Robespierre had promised, and uncompromising as time itself.

  How had he ended up here, where the sunlight couldn’t shine and the air itself felt damp, where a cloying darkness gnawed at him through his every waking moment, where men told him he was a spy?

  A spy?

  The very thought of it would be laughable if the consequences weren’t so serious. After all, Alexandre Gaudet’s private life was anything but—he had reveled in scandal, had enjoyed the favors of the finest gentlemen London could offer. Had dressed in the most flamboyant fabrics and had been found at a different dance every evening and a different salon every day, had been able to light up even the dullest party with his presence and always had a story to tell that was guaranteed to entertain and, even better, to shock.

  And yet they think it possible that I, a man who can’t keep even his own secrets, could trade those of the very nation where he was born?

  Not in this lifetime.

  He would say all of this if he could form the words, if he weren’t so preoccupied with the pain in his shoulders and the weals on his wrists, or if his throat weren’t lined with sand and broken glass.

  He didn’t know what time it was, or even how long Tessier had been standing before him, silent and still in the hours since the man he called Morel had left them. The few strands of light that pierced the bars had all but disappeared and a flickering candle threw dancing shadows onto the wall. Each passing hour was lost to him and a deep shudder ran through his body as he heard Tessier shift from one foot to the other, leather boots creaking.

  Just speak, he wanted to scream but he couldn’t muster the energy—say something, please.

  Don’t just stand there watching me as though I’m some sort of animal.

  “You came into my home,” Tessier said eventually, his voice as quiet and steady as ever. “And you will not eat—is this what passes for gentlemanly behavior in England?”

  “Is this really your idea of hospitality?” Gaudet asked, eyes still closed.

  “I have treated you very well, sir,” Tessier told him quietly. “Believe me.”

  “You have blackened my eye—”

  “You broke into my house and resisted arrest.”

  “And kept me without sleep for three days,” Gaudet reminded him. “The best you can offer me now is food not fit for a dog and ‘hospitality’ in the form of imprisonment.”

  “Life in France has grown harder since you left for England—your kind don’t belong here,” Tessier explained as though the reasoning should’ve been be obvious. “This isn’t your country anymore.”

  “You are killing our land,” Gaudet murmured, lifting his head to watch Tessier, who responded with a bloodless smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. “You and your kind.”

  “We are cleansing it.”

  This time it was Gaudet’s turn to smile and he wetted his lips, feeling the dry skin rough on the edge of his tongue.

  “Even you cannot believe that, Monsieur Tessier.”

  Tessier’s hand darted forward like a snake striking at its prey, the gloved fist hitting Gaudet’s jaw with more force than he would have expected from such a slight figure. He jerked his head away uselessly as a second punch landed, the salty taste of blood filling his mouth almost immediately. Then Tessier turned away and began to pace the room, kneading his still-clenched fist into his open palm.

  “Tell me about the Star, Gaudet,” he demanded with an urgency that hadn’t been there previously. “Where is it hidden? Where is your sister?”

  Gaudet shook his head, unsure of how he could say anything other than the truth that Tessier had already rejected as the weakest of lies. He swallowed the blood in his mouth and squeezed his eyes together, a roaring in his head threatening to drown out the whole world.

  “Where”—Tessier wrapped his fingers in Gaudet’s hair as he had the dismembered head of Philippe Plamondon—“is the Star of Versailles?”

  He jerked Gaudet’s head up sharply, fixing him with those unblinking eyes, a blue so pale as to be virtually colorless.

  “I don’t know where your diamond is.” Gaudet gave a gasp of pain, his stomach knotting at the darkness that seemed to cloud Tessier’s face. “I came here for my family—”

  “Where is the Star?” Tessier asked the question for what seemed like the millionth time. “Tell me and the pain can end.”

  Gaudet’s hair was pulled so tight that he felt as though it might rip out from the roots, yet still he could only whisper, “I write plays. I am no spy.”

  Tessier began to pace again, the shadow from his slender figure enormous and black as night in the single candle flame. Gaudet could understand now why this man commanded such fear, why people spoke of him in whispers.

  The Butcher of Orléans.

  “Have you seen it, Monsieur Gaudet?” Tessier’s pacing ceased and he linked his fingers behind his back, breath audibly faster and a trace of admiration in his voice. “I think you know where it can be found. I have never known a man with such fortitude.”

  “If I had your Star, believe me, I would give it to you.”

  I know where Philippe is, of course, I can’t forget that. It haunts me even now.

  Whatever else happens, that will always be with me, the look of a man barely thirty-five years old ashen and stooped, silent and broken.
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br />   That will be with me to the grave.

  “My hospitality only extends so far, Monsieur Gaudet—you have just exhausted it.”

  With those words, Tessier left the room. As the key turned once more Gaudet let out a long-held breath, screwing his eyes shut when he leaned over and spat out a mouthful of blood. His mind was jumbled and he couldn’t form anything resembling a coherent thought, brain racing as he tried to find one thing to hang on to, some kind of a rock in the current.

  And it can’t be the sight of Philippe on the guillotine, the faces of the mob contorted like medieval devils—nor can it be Claudine and her child lost in France waiting for help that is never going to come.

  I will die here.

  The thought lodged in his head, and when two of Tessier’s soldiers returned to the cell Gaudet felt as though he was barely there, looking down on his own body as he was dragged toward the back of the room. After three days without food or sleep his struggles were always going to be futile, but Gaudet gave them as much of a fight as he was able until the younger of the two slammed the stock of his pistol down into the back of his head then, when Gaudet was suitably subdued, they slammed their prisoner into the wall.

  Gaudet felt his senses return as the manacles were removed from his wrists, but any relief was short-lived when a length of rope replaced them, pulling his arms roughly upward and fastening them to an iron ring. After so long without movement, the violence of the action tore through the stiffness in his shoulders and Gaudet winced in agony, flexing his fingers in the air. With some effort, he managed to twist enough to watch the door, where the soldiers had turned their backs on him, lost in a muttered conversation as though they were waiting for a tavern to open rather than readying a man for torture.

  The sight of Tessier’s shadow looming on the wall of the corridor filled Gaudet with new terror. He pulled at the rope as the jailer dismissed his warders then, once again, closed the door. Gaudet turned his face to the wall and waited, hearing the swoosh in the air before the riding crop hit his back. He couldn’t hold back his cry of pain, body arching away instinctively with every muscle tensed in agony.