Page 17 of To Tempt a Rebel (The Scarlet Chronicle 4)

But no one would believe he had mistakenly escorted the abbé out of the city. That was highly irregular and quite suspicious.

“You needn’t reveal who you are,” she told him. “We have papers, but if anything goes awry, we have you as our failsafe.”

“And how am I to ever return if it becomes necessary for me to reveal my identity? I might as well flee with the abbé. My life will be forfeit.”

She did not even blink. “Then you had better hope our papers are good.”

Tristan parted the curtains again, peering out. They were close to the gates now, and his anxiety grew with each step the horses took. He had no faith in these papers. No faith that even with perfect papers, signed by Robespierre himself—which these very well might have been—the guards would not ask questions. No one was to be out and about during curfew, and the guards were most certainly not to allow anyone to pass through the gates in the middle of the night.

It was then that Citoyenne Martin lowered her hood and positioned herself in a prone position on the seat across from Tristan and the abbé. “What are you about?” Tristan asked, and then he drew in a quick breath.

The carriage was dark or else he would have seen it before. Small red spots dotted her face, and now she applied a bit of water to her temple and her upper lip so her hair would be damp and give the impression she was bathed in sweat. When had she developed smallpox? Her skin had been perfect and clear at the café.

Beside him the abbé drew in a breath as well.

“Do not fret, Abbé Bertrand,” she assured him. “I am not ill. This is a necessary ruse if we hope to leave the city tonight.” She looked at Tristan. “You are my husband, Citoyen Valois, and this is our priest. I have taken ill with smallpox, and you are removing me from the city before the sickness can spread. I am close to dying, and the priest has come so he might give me last rites before I am buried in the city of my birth, which is Chatou, just outside of Paris.”

“I suppose you have family there who will nurse you in these last hours,” Tristan said, his voice flat. The plan was absolutely perfect. At the first sight of the contagious disease, the guards would almost certainly wave them right through. They did not want to catch the illness and would be in a hurry to see the carriage as far away as possible.

“I have a dear sister who survived an outbreak of smallpox when she was a child. She has begged us to come to her so she might nurse me in these final days.”

“Mon Dieu,”Tristan muttered. It was as close as he came to prayer these days.

The carriage slowed, and Alexandra, taking that as her cue, began to moan and mutter unintelligibly. Outside Tristan heard voices as the guard stopped the carriage. His heart began to gallop again, but this time it was more terror than excitement. The abbé, who seemed to recover quickly from his shock, pulled a rosary from his pocket and began to pray, making the sign of the cross over her several times.

The door swung open, and a guard in a stained uniform and a hat wildly askew on his head peered in. The man reeked of wine, and Tristan wondered at his ability to stand, much less speak.

“Whadda we have here?” he said, his speech so slurred he was barely intelligible. Tristan looked to Citoyenne Martin, but she continued to moan and writhe on the seat across from him. Then Tristan looked to the abbé, who only bowed his head lower and prayed more fervently.

What was it the English said? Bloody hell?

“I’m sorry to trouble you, officer,” Tristan said, trying to sound contrite. “I know the gates are closed—”

“Thas right.” He pointed a finger at Tristan, or in Tristan’s general direction at any rate. “Go home and come back tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that much time. My wife, Citoyenne Valois”—he prayed he’d remembered the name correctly—“is gravely ill and I fear she will not live through the night. She would like to see her sister one last time before she passes into the next realm. As you see, we have our priest here, ready to do the last rites.” He pointed to the abbé who made the sign of the cross again and muttered something in Latin. “And we have our papers in order, I trust?” He said this last part loudly, hoping whoever had the papers in his possession would produce them. To Tristan’s relief, the footman stepped forward, bowed, and handed the guard the papers.

The guard stared at them, squinted, and crumpled them in his large, meaty hand. “I don’t need any papers. The gate is closed. Go home or you can all go to the National Razor.”

Tristan’s heart had begun to slow its rapid beating, and he kept his voice level now as he spoke. “I don’t think you understand, citoyen. My wife is ill. She has”—he made as though to look furtively about them—“smallpox.”

Just then Citoyenne Martin began to convulse, her body rigid and rising up so the telltale red spots of the disease would be clearly visible to the guard in the light of the lamp he held.

Tristan held his breath. If the guard did not panic, did not let them through now, then he would have to use his position to gain leverage. Clearly they could not return to the city with the abbé. But just as clearly to Tristan, he could not declare his true name.

The guard seemed to waver unsteadily. Tristan looked at the man’s face and knew they were doomed. If he had been sober, he might have reacted as a normal man might—with panic and fear. But he was too drunk to understand the implications of what Tristan had told him.

“I don’t care whas wrong with her,” he said, righting himself again. “No one leaves the city after curfew. By order of the Committee of Public Safety.” The sergeant held out his hand as though expecting something, though Tristan knew not what.

Tristan knew the law. He’d been there when it had been drafted. He’d helped Robespierre write the law before it had been proposed. And while he agreed with the law in theory, in fact, the spread of smallpox in a heavily populated city like Paris was no small matter. This drunken guard was basically condemning who knew how many hundreds to death by sending a clearly infected woman back into the city.

Tristan’s anger began to rise, and it was the salute that lit the fuse. The guard finished his speech about the Committee, then gave a mock salute, as though he were the greatest patriot that lived.

“Just who the devil do you think you are?” Tristan said, rising and pushing the guard back so he might climb out of the carriage. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I told you. My wife has smallpox. Do you know what smallpox is?” He jabbed the guard in the chest, making the man stumble backward unsteadily.

The footman, who had been standing respectfully to the side, glanced at Tristan with interest. He was a large man with dark hair and features, and Tristan saw his hand move to his belt, where, no doubt, he had a pistol hidden,

“I may be a poor man, but I know the law. No one passes,” the guard said.

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