Pax argued with them for a while, but three stayed behind.
Twelve
SHE WAS NO INFANT IN THIS BUSINESS OF SPYING. She was on the rolls of the Secret Police, working for Madame and the great spy Soulier. For them, Justine became the servant girl, passing without notice, lingering and listening, gathering up whispers and rumors. For them, she had crept into the confidence of the tariff smugglers of Paris and kept their lookout and walked their secret ways. She had become a trusted member of La Flèche and plucked men and women from the very shadow of the guillotine. For two years, she had been a spy.
This was the first mission she had planned by herself. This time, there was no one to turn to for advice and direction. When she stepped her way silently downward, she was on her own, and her stomach was filled with spears of ice.
The stairway wall held samplers worked by the Cachés. There was sufficient light coming from the hall below to read the stitching. I live to serve France. The next one said, I will die to do my duty to France. The house was filled with such cheerful mottoes.
She felt Hawker’s silent comments follow behind her as she descended. She ignored him. She carried her gun exactly as if she had killed battalions of men. It was comforting to play the role of an experienced spy, even if she fooled no one but herself.
Hawker broke into the Coach House with a panache that spoke of many houses invaded, many schemes brought to illegal fruition. She had no such confidence. But everyone must begin somewhere. He had no special monopoly on death.
The stage was set, the curtain rising. The Tuteurs of this Coach House, Hawker and his comrade Pax, the Cachés . . . they were all committed to the drama she had plotted. She was committed as well. There was no going back.
Hawker’s job was to prod the Cachés on their way. He would be impatient and sarcastic and uncaring, what the English would call “damn your eyes.” The Cachés would believe him because rudeness is always convincing. Those who wish one ill are all amiability.
She was their last defense. If they were discovered, she would delay pursuers and give the others a chance to get away.
She had come to the bottom of the stairs where the banister ended in a soft curve, worn by many hands. She took the last steps carefully, her muscles thick and slow with fear. Her heart thudded inside the tightness of her chest, as if her whole body were a fist squeezed around that beat. Her mind was sharp as broken glass.
She was sourly afraid. Sick with it. Some dispassionate part of her spirit looked at herself, being afraid. I will not let fear control me. If I do, I will become nothing. I will not do that. Never again. She wrapped up the fear to be a small, whining bundle tucked away inside herself. She had learned to do this in moments of great danger. This was why Madame had taken her as protégée.
To the right, down the long corridor, forty feet away, a dim lamp cupped a yellow glow that sketched out the doors on both sides of the hall in oblong shadows. To her left, in a mirror beside the front door, the lamp reflected like a tiny star, hung deep and distant. The mirror was not here to set a hair ribbon straight or comb the hair. It held a view of the upper and lower halls. One would see every movement in the house. The mirrors in the halls of the Pomme d’Or were given the same work.
The gun she carried felt natural in her hand. Endless hours of practice made it so. Perhaps I will kill tonight. I have told Madame she may use me for such work. I am ready.
She was young. Thirteen. But someday, she would become the kind of woman who walked in the dark and carried a gun and performed great acts. Someday, she would not even be afraid.
She rounded the newel post. The reflection of the candle in the mirror disappeared and reappeared as she crossed the hall.
There were no obstructions to avoid on her way to the front door. No cabinets or cases or chairs to rest in.
Twelve
SHE WAS NO INFANT IN THIS BUSINESS OF SPYING. She was on the rolls of the Secret Police, working for Madame and the great spy Soulier. For them, Justine became the servant girl, passing without notice, lingering and listening, gathering up whispers and rumors. For them, she had crept into the confidence of the tariff smugglers of Paris and kept their lookout and walked their secret ways. She had become a trusted member of La Flèche and plucked men and women from the very shadow of the guillotine. For two years, she had been a spy.
This was the first mission she had planned by herself. This time, there was no one to turn to for advice and direction. When she stepped her way silently downward, she was on her own, and her stomach was filled with spears of ice.
The stairway wall held samplers worked by the Cachés. There was sufficient light coming from the hall below to read the stitching. I live to serve France. The next one said, I will die to do my duty to France. The house was filled with such cheerful mottoes.
She felt Hawker’s silent comments follow behind her as she descended. She ignored him. She carried her gun exactly as if she had killed battalions of men. It was comforting to play the role of an experienced spy, even if she fooled no one but herself.
Hawker broke into the Coach House with a panache that spoke of many houses invaded, many schemes brought to illegal fruition. She had no such confidence. But everyone must begin somewhere. He had no special monopoly on death.
The stage was set, the curtain rising. The Tuteurs of this Coach House, Hawker and his comrade Pax, the Cachés . . . they were all committed to the drama she had plotted. She was committed as well. There was no going back.
Hawker’s job was to prod the Cachés on their way. He would be impatient and sarcastic and uncaring, what the English would call “damn your eyes.” The Cachés would believe him because rudeness is always convincing. Those who wish one ill are all amiability.
She was their last defense. If they were discovered, she would delay pursuers and give the others a chance to get away.
She had come to the bottom of the stairs where the banister ended in a soft curve, worn by many hands. She took the last steps carefully, her muscles thick and slow with fear. Her heart thudded inside the tightness of her chest, as if her whole body were a fist squeezed around that beat. Her mind was sharp as broken glass.
She was sourly afraid. Sick with it. Some dispassionate part of her spirit looked at herself, being afraid. I will not let fear control me. If I do, I will become nothing. I will not do that. Never again. She wrapped up the fear to be a small, whining bundle tucked away inside herself. She had learned to do this in moments of great danger. This was why Madame had taken her as protégée.
To the right, down the long corridor, forty feet away, a dim lamp cupped a yellow glow that sketched out the doors on both sides of the hall in oblong shadows. To her left, in a mirror beside the front door, the lamp reflected like a tiny star, hung deep and distant. The mirror was not here to set a hair ribbon straight or comb the hair. It held a view of the upper and lower halls. One would see every movement in the house. The mirrors in the halls of the Pomme d’Or were given the same work.
The gun she carried felt natural in her hand. Endless hours of practice made it so. Perhaps I will kill tonight. I have told Madame she may use me for such work. I am ready.
She was young. Thirteen. But someday, she would become the kind of woman who walked in the dark and carried a gun and performed great acts. Someday, she would not even be afraid.
She rounded the newel post. The reflection of the candle in the mirror disappeared and reappeared as she crossed the hall.
There were no obstructions to avoid on her way to the front door. No cabinets or cases or chairs to rest in.
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