kind of house that would be behind the wall. It was the kind of
house she dreamed of having: three stories tall with
shutters on all the windows and lights burning within
against the gathering summer darkness.
Voices drifted out to her as she neared the door. She
didn’t need to sneak, she reminded herself. This was
Alain’s house, and she was Alain’s friend. She couldn’t
make out what the voices were saying, then she realized creeping closer wouldn’t help. The voices weren’t
speaking French. Alain’s was among them, speaking
something other than French. It sounded like English,
which made so sense at all to Cecile. She could make
out none of the words except the startling reference
that had her flying back to the gate and out into the
street. L’ Un.
Blocks away and certain she had not been detected
or followed from Alain’s, Cecile stopped to catch her
breath. She tried to tame her rioting thoughts. Why
would Alain be speaking English? Why would he be
discussing L’Un with others who spoke English? Suppositions began to form in her mind and the incongruity
she couldn’t name several weeks ago, became clear.
She had collided with Alain in March. But he had not
appeared at General Motrineau’s house for supper until
April. His appearance had coincided with the disappearance of the Panchettes. She found it odd that as an
officer, Alain had not immediately been invited to the
General’s home for a welcome dinner until April when
he’d have been in town for nearly a month.
She thought about the insinuations at the table that
night regarding L’Un. He was believed to have found
his way into the inner social circles of Napoleon’s Paris. Alain certainly had done so. She recalled thinking how amazing it was that Alain had risen so quickly
in the general’s favor, finding himself a guest at the
table any night he cared to lay a claim to an invitation.
Lately, he’d been dining there nightly. Was it possible
that Alain was L’Un? That he was not a Polish noble’s
son? The thought was wild and heady, yet sobering. If
Alain was not a Polish Lancer captain with a compassionate heart for the poor, then who was he? If what she
knew of him was not the truth, then she didn’t know
him at all. The man she’d spun her romantic fantasies
around was nothing more than a fantasy himself. She
had fallen in love with a fiction of a man.
Alain paced the back bedroom of the rented residence, pushing his hand through his hair in agitation.
The game had escalated without his awareness of it. He
had not guessed that there was even a hint of an evacuation effort. He’d been careful to disguise the boat and
to obtain French sailing papers so the harbormaster at
Calais would not grow suspicious. He’d been careful
not to be seen with any of the parties leaving his house.
Cranston too could not determine when the breach of
security could have occurred.
Of course, Alain knew the security breach was entirely his fault. He’d been so absorbed in his pursuit of
Cecile that he hadn’t assessed the situation growing in
Paris. Alain stopped in front of the window and stared
down at the small overgrown garden. If he’d been alert,
he would have realized Bonaparte was desperate. The
Grande Armee had been rebuilt over the winter in Paris
but it had not regained the strength it had known before the Russian campaign. In March, the German Nationalists had risen up against Napoleon’s supporters in Germany. Napoleon and his generals feared a repeat of the
disaster in Russia. Any sign of rebellion at home or
abroad must be put down. Les Chevaliers de Foi must
have sensed the desperation and began hatching their
plans, but they had not been careful enough to avoid detection. The faintest whisper of a plot had been enough
to alert Napoleon’s infrastructure.
Such a minor threat would have been negligible if it
had come on the tails of several military victories, but
against the
house she dreamed of having: three stories tall with
shutters on all the windows and lights burning within
against the gathering summer darkness.
Voices drifted out to her as she neared the door. She
didn’t need to sneak, she reminded herself. This was
Alain’s house, and she was Alain’s friend. She couldn’t
make out what the voices were saying, then she realized creeping closer wouldn’t help. The voices weren’t
speaking French. Alain’s was among them, speaking
something other than French. It sounded like English,
which made so sense at all to Cecile. She could make
out none of the words except the startling reference
that had her flying back to the gate and out into the
street. L’ Un.
Blocks away and certain she had not been detected
or followed from Alain’s, Cecile stopped to catch her
breath. She tried to tame her rioting thoughts. Why
would Alain be speaking English? Why would he be
discussing L’Un with others who spoke English? Suppositions began to form in her mind and the incongruity
she couldn’t name several weeks ago, became clear.
She had collided with Alain in March. But he had not
appeared at General Motrineau’s house for supper until
April. His appearance had coincided with the disappearance of the Panchettes. She found it odd that as an
officer, Alain had not immediately been invited to the
General’s home for a welcome dinner until April when
he’d have been in town for nearly a month.
She thought about the insinuations at the table that
night regarding L’Un. He was believed to have found
his way into the inner social circles of Napoleon’s Paris. Alain certainly had done so. She recalled thinking how amazing it was that Alain had risen so quickly
in the general’s favor, finding himself a guest at the
table any night he cared to lay a claim to an invitation.
Lately, he’d been dining there nightly. Was it possible
that Alain was L’Un? That he was not a Polish noble’s
son? The thought was wild and heady, yet sobering. If
Alain was not a Polish Lancer captain with a compassionate heart for the poor, then who was he? If what she
knew of him was not the truth, then she didn’t know
him at all. The man she’d spun her romantic fantasies
around was nothing more than a fantasy himself. She
had fallen in love with a fiction of a man.
Alain paced the back bedroom of the rented residence, pushing his hand through his hair in agitation.
The game had escalated without his awareness of it. He
had not guessed that there was even a hint of an evacuation effort. He’d been careful to disguise the boat and
to obtain French sailing papers so the harbormaster at
Calais would not grow suspicious. He’d been careful
not to be seen with any of the parties leaving his house.
Cranston too could not determine when the breach of
security could have occurred.
Of course, Alain knew the security breach was entirely his fault. He’d been so absorbed in his pursuit of
Cecile that he hadn’t assessed the situation growing in
Paris. Alain stopped in front of the window and stared
down at the small overgrown garden. If he’d been alert,
he would have realized Bonaparte was desperate. The
Grande Armee had been rebuilt over the winter in Paris
but it had not regained the strength it had known before the Russian campaign. In March, the German Nationalists had risen up against Napoleon’s supporters in Germany. Napoleon and his generals feared a repeat of the
disaster in Russia. Any sign of rebellion at home or
abroad must be put down. Les Chevaliers de Foi must
have sensed the desperation and began hatching their
plans, but they had not been careful enough to avoid detection. The faintest whisper of a plot had been enough
to alert Napoleon’s infrastructure.
Such a minor threat would have been negligible if it
had come on the tails of several military victories, but
against the
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