Page 38 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“Well enough,” he replied without looking up. “Not getting any younger.”
“That is what you have been telling me ever since the day we first met.”
“And it is as true now as it was then.” Baptiste stood up, dusting off his knees. He paused, a chuckle erupting from deep in his chest. At Belle’s inquiring gaze, he said, “I was thinking of that first day,mon ange. What a mad lady you were, all draped in your fake mourning, attempting to transport that coffin with the petite Duc de Ferriers hidden inside past the very noses of the soldiers sent out to look for him.”
“I was doing well enough until the poor child happened to sneeze Then you popped out of nowhere, covering for me with your little snuff box, spilling so much of the stuff, you had half the street sneezing until no one could tell where the first sounds had come from.”
“Ah, I recall it well! How ridiculous those great hulking soldiers looked, wheezing until the tears ran down their cheeks. Having thus come to your rescue, I would have been far wiser if I had gone about my own business.”
“But think how much duller your life would have been. Besides, my ‘funerals’ proceeded much more smoothly after you had become partner to them.”
“C’est vrai.” Baptiste scratched his chin, his thoughtful manner belied by the twinkle in his eye. “How many elderly aunts and uncles did you have perish in that one year alone?”
“Oh, a dozen at least. I was once part of a very large family.”
Baptiste’s smile faded and Belle could have bitten out her tongue. Her jest came too near the truth for Baptiste. Once the eldest of five siblings, he was now the last of the brothers Renault.
He turned away from her, picking up the poker and taking sharp jabs at the logs. “Why is it so easy to burn down the house,” he said gruffly, “but wood never catches when you want it to?”
Belle realized he was signaling her that he wished the subject turned, and she regretted that it had ever been broached in the first place. Even the lighter recollections of their days during the Revolution invariably led to other ones more tragic. All memories were better left untouched.
While Baptiste struggled with the fire, Belle moved toward the chamber’s high narrow windows, their latticed panes overhung with double curtains of gold-fringed silk. Belle parted them to allow more light into the room.
The Rue St. Honoré in all its bustle lay sprawled below her, and she pressed her face against the glass, the pane cool against her cheek. She had spent much of her time in that other Paris apartment at No. 17, too much perhaps, staring down into the street.
From such a lofty height she had once watched a king pass by in the frosty morning hours of a winter’s day to keep his appointment with death, and a host of other folk as well, more humble perhaps but bearing the same regal dignity as they were trundled forth to meet the guillotine’s embrace. Would she be able to behave with such courage if faced with the prospect of such a terrifying death? Belle had often wondered.
“You should not have come back,mon ange.”
Belle turned, surprised to discover Baptiste standing at her elbow, even more surprised by his remark.
“And I thought you were so glad to see me again,” she mocked.
“I am—but it is a most selfish joy.” His mouth turned down at the corners, and Belle sensed for the first time a subtle change in her friend. Despite what blows life had dealt him, Baptiste had ever remained Baptiste, a man with a fierce, unquenchable joy in life. Such a somber mood was most unlike him.
“I wish Merchant had sent someone else,” he continued. “My Paris has never been good for you.”
“Perhaps this time will be different. Who knows? If we succeed in removing Napoleon, restoring the king, perhaps you will finally be able to show me that glorious Paris of the old days which you have always told me about, the city that you so adore.”
Baptiste merely shook his head, his dour expression calling forth to Belle once more the image of the brooding dwarf king.
“Ehbien, in any event you are here. There is naught to be done about it now.” He sighed. Detaching the apartment key from his belt, he pressed it into her hand. “So! And what else would you have me be doing besides procuring you an apartment?”
His abrupt question caught her off guard. She had focussed so much of her energies into the task of simply getting to Paris, surviving the floodtide of memories, she had given little thoughtto the next step. As she ran her hand distractedly through her hair, her mind worked quickly.
“Give me the rest of the day to settle in, then tomorrow afternoon I want a meeting to lay out our strategy, you, myself, Sinclair, and Lazare. I also want you to get word to Marcellus Crecy and old Feydeau.”
“That might prove difficult. Old Feydeau has been summoned by an angel with higher authority than yours.”
Belle frowned at him in confusion.
“The Angel Gabriel.” Baptiste rolled his eyes heavenward. “Feydeau is dead,mon ami.”
Feydeau dead? Belle thought she should have been accustomed by now to the uncertainty of life, but Baptiste’s words sent a shock through her all the same. Had it not been only a month ago that she had stood in the innyard of the Golden Sun, listening to Feydeau swear at her for having no outriders?
“When did he die? How?”
“A coaching accident, not long after your little adventure with the Coterins. Feydeau was believed to have been drunk.”
