Page 98 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
How long she remained asleep, she could not have said. A few minutes or a few hours—it was all one inside the Conciergerie. She was startled awake by the sound of the key’s scrape in the lock. The cell door was flung open. She sat up, shading her eyes from the glare of the torch.
“Isabelle Varens?” a gruff voice called.
She nodded slowly, rubbing her eyes, clearing the last webbings of sleep from her mind.
“You are summoned upstairs.”
“So soon?” she began, but the protest died upon her lips. She would as soon have the ordeal over with. It had been the waiting that had nigh broken her the last time, that unending succession of days, each hour dreading to hear her name called to face that grim tribunal whose judges knew but one sentence—death.
She felt almost a sense of relief as she allowed the turnkey to lead her from her cell. The chill of the prison seemed to have seeped into her soul, bringing with it the numbness of resignation.
When the guard nudged her forward, saying, “This way, madame,” she nearly smiled. She could have shown him the direction. This walk was most familiar to her. She had followed the path through the narrow dark corridors a hundred times in her nightmares.
As they approached the stairs that twisted upward, she almost expected to see them thronged with jeering spectators as they had been in the old days. But the worn stone risers stood empty now, the light of dawn casting pearly gray shadows through the small round windows.
When Belle moved toward the steps, preparing to mount to the vast hall of justice above, the turnkey caught her arm impatiently.
“Not up there,” he said. “Go that way.”
He shoved her in the opposite direction. Belle regarded the man in astonishment, but his laconic expression told her nothing. But she asked no questions, fearing she understood.
This time there would not even be the mockery of a trial. She was being herded along a crosswise corridor that she remembered led to the Galerie des Prisonniers, the area where those waiting to board the tumbrils had been kept. Some of her calm began to desert her. She had expected at least a little more time to steel herself to face the guillotine.
Yet somehow she managed to keep herself erect, taking her steps with dignity. She had never had many dealings with God before, but feverishly her mind sought to recall the words of a prayer she had oft heard Baptiste utter.
“Sweet Jesus, have mercy upon my soul,” she whispered below her breath.
The guard yanked her roughly to a halt. “In there,” he told her as they paused before another door.
She frowned in bewilderment, knowing this was not the way that led to the courtyard where the tumbrils were loaded. But she didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
“What is all this?” she demanded, whipping about to face the turnkey.
“Inside!” the guard barked. Opening the door, he shoved her backward across the threshold. Staring at him, she saw him snap to attention with a smart salute, then retire discreetly from the room, closing the door after him.
Belle knew the salute had not been meant for her. She turned slowly, discovering that she had been led to a small office, thereception area for new prisoners. But it was not the captain of the prison guard who sat behind the battered desk.
The pale light of morning glancing through the windows only served to highlight the whiteness of a marble complexion, the chilling intensity in the blue-gray eyes.
Bonaparte.
Belle’s breath snagged in her throat. So the first consul, himself, had decided to sit in judgment of her. She had heard once that he could be sentimental, easily moved by a woman’s weeping. But as she moistened her dry lips, she knew that she could not summon up a single tear, not even to save her life.
Long moments ticked by as Bonaparte sat with his head bent, his eyes fixed upon some papers before him. “Sit down, Madame Varens,” he said without glancing up.
Her legs felt like stalks of wood, but she managed to ease herself down into a stiff-backed chair. The nerve-racking silence continued. At last he looked at her, but the fine-chiseled lines of his eagle’s profile gave nothing away of his thoughts. He did not appear vindictive. Nor was there sign of any compassion, either. Rather, he looked impartial, like a judge.
That, Belle supposed, was an improvement over the tribunal, whose condemnation she had read even before her trial had begun. When she could endure his steady regard no longer, she asked, “How did you know my name?”
He arched one brow. “I think it is my place to ask the questions here, madame. But I will gratify your curiosity. You met an old acquaintance at my reception, did you not?”
Understanding broke over Belle. “Fouché.”
“Exactly. You are quick, madame. Fouché, my former minister of police and I have one trait in common, a memory for faces, although Fouché’s is not quite as excellent as mine. He did finally recollect who you were, did some ferreting out of your past and presented the facts to me.”
Bonaparte tapped the papers before him. “Isabelle Varens, once wife to Jean-Claude Varens. Known by some as the Avenging Angel. You came to trial in the summer 1794 for helping people proscribed escape from Paris,”
“I was never actually condemned,” she reminded him.
