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Jean Marc looked at him innocently. “What object?”

A reluctant smile touched Francois’s lips. “Perhaps I’m in error, but Georges Jacques and I assumed you were seeking the same object after which Marat sent Dupree.”

Jean Marc’s expression hardened. “I could have wished you’d told me Dupree had been sent to Spain.”

“Perhaps I would have told you if I hadn’t been ‘taken ill.’ You encountered Dupree?”

“Yes.”

Francois looked quickly at Juliette. “He recognized you?”

She nodded. “But Jean Marc killed him.”

“Good.” An expression of savage pleasure flashed across Francois’s face before he turned to Jean Marc with his former composure. “Georges Jacques isn’t at all pleased I failed to obtain the object for him, but he would have been even less pleased to have it fall into Marat’s hands.”

“Marat won’t have it.” Jean Marc met Francois’s gaze. “You can assure him of that.”

Francois turned away. “Then I’ll leave you. I have to visit Georges Jacques at his home this afternoon. He hasn’t been at the convention all week.”

“Danton’s not well?”

“No, he’s not well at all,” Francois said, troubled. “His wife died last month and he’s been—” He searched for a word. “He’s not been acting reasonably.”

Juliette had a sudden memory of the pretty woman who had taken her to Danton’s study. “How sad. She was young, Jean Marc.”

Francois nodded. “Very young. Her death was unexpected and happened while Georges Jacques was in Belgium. When he returned, Camille Desmoulins said he went quite mad for a time. He made them dig up her coffin so that he could kiss her good-bye.” Francois shook his head regretfully. “I should have been with him.”

“You weren’t in Paris?” Jean Marc regarded him curiously. “Where were you?”

Francois hesitated. “Vasaro.”

“You didn’t return immediately to Paris?”

“No.”

“When did you return?” Juliette asked.

“Only a week before you arrived here.”

“May I ask why?” Jean Marc inquired.

Francois gazed at him levelly. “No, you may not I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and left the salon.

“Wait!” Juliette caught up with Francois as he reached the front door. “Then you left Catherine only a few weeks ago. Is she well?”

“Very well.”

“Why don’t you look at me? She’s not ill?”

“I told you she was well.” Francois reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I’m glad you followed me. This is for you.”

Juliette took the folded paper. “From Catherine?”

“No.” Francois opened the door. “Not from Catherine.”

Juliette frowned in puzzlement as she watched the door close behind him. His manner had been most peculiar when she mentioned Catherine, and she was not at all certain she believed him when he said all was well at Vasaro. She absently unfolded the paper he had handed her and glanced down at it.

She stiffened in shock. She knew that handwriting well.

The paper contained only one line of script.

I hereby grant in perpetuity the statue, the Wind Dancer, formerly the property of the royal house of Bourbon to Jean Marc Andreas .

Marie Antoinette

Francois had never seen Georges Jacques so haggard, his eyes glittering feverishly in his ugly face.

It was probably the worst possible time to approach Danton, but all he could do was hope that even in deep despair, Georges Jacques hadn’t lost the shrewdness that had caused him to rise to greatness.

In any case, Francois had little choice.

“I want you to arrange an appointment for me at the Temple.”

Danton slowly lifted his leonine head. “The Temple? Why?”

Francois hesitated and then threw the dice. “Because I want to arrange the escape of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVII.”

Danton stiffened and leaned back in his chair. “You joke.”

“No,” Francois said quietly. “I want the appointment, Georges Jacques. I could have lied to you and told you there was some other reason I needed to be there, but time’s growing short and I’m done with lies.”

Danton’s eyes were suddenly cold. “Then you’re a fool. A lie might have saved your life. Who bought you, Francois?”

“No one.”

“I know you. You hate aristos. You hate—”

Francois shook his head. “I’ve been bribing the nobility out of the prisons and smuggling them out of France for the past two years.”

Danton’s fingers tightened on the pen in his hand. “You did lie to me. You used me, you bastard.”

“As you used me. Did I ever refuse a task you set for me?”

Danton didn’t answer, his gaze on Francois’s face. “Why? Are you an aristocrat yourself?”

Francois shook his head. “My mother is Basque, my father is an English physician. My real name is William Darrell. We lived in the mountains near Bayonne before the revolution, but I persuaded my parents it was safer to go to England when I decided on this course. They live in Yorkshire now.”

“You consider yourself an Englishman?”

Francois shook his head. “You know better.”

“Then why?”

“The Rights of Man,” Francois said simply.

“They have to survive, but the bloodletting and corruption are washing them away. The Americans didn’t start cutting off heads after they won their battle for independence.

If they had, the British would have come swarming back across the sea and they’d have been crushed.

That’s what will happen to France if it doesn’t stop.

” He met Danton’s gaze. “We both know it.”

“What you say is treason.”

“What I speak is reason. You’ve always told me the guillotining of the king was madness.”

“The madness has already been committed. It’s over. We’re already at war with both Spain and England.”

“And we’ll continue to be at war as long as the royal family remains in the Temple.

It’s become a holy crusade to free them.

” Francois urged softly, “Let me free them, Georges Jacques. They’re less of a danger out of the country than they are in the Temple.

I’ll make sure no action of mine is traced back to you. ”

Danton was silent a moment. “You’ve taken a terrible risk coming to me. You’ve betrayed me. First Gabrielle, and now you. Betrayal…”

Francois frowned in puzzlement. “Your wife didn’t betray you.”

“She died. She left me alone.” Danton cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I’ll think on it. You may go.”

Francois rose to his feet and stood looking at him. The risk was high. In his unstable frame of mind, Georges Jacques could go either way. “I’ll be waiting at my lodgings for an answer.”

Danton smiled crookedly. “And you’re scared gutless my answer will be delivered by the National Guard.”

“There’s always that possibility.” Francois bowed. “ Au revoir , Georges Jacques.”

“No.” Georges Jacques coldly gazed at him. “Whatever my decision, I will not see you again.”

Francois experienced a sharp pang of regret Through these past two years they had been companions and, at times, even friends.

Danton’s had been a clear, sane voice in a mumbling chorus of madmen.

Francois’s life would be emptier and certainly lacking in color without Georges Jacques. “I understand.”

He turned and left the study.

The next day a messenger delivered an envelope to Francois’s lodgings. When he broke the seal and took out the document he found it to be a certificate of appointment for Francois Etchelet as special agent of the convention with orders to take up residence immediately in the Temple.

“You’re alone again,” Nana said disapprovingly to Juliette. “I told you—”

“But I’m not dressed at all richly,” Juliette interrupted.

“I have on a linen gown just like your own, and I’m far less handsome than you and therefore should attract even less attention.

You must tell everyone I’m your new apprentice.

” She made a face. “It’s the truth, for I’ve found these fans impossible to make.

I was far too sure of myself. It’s always been one of my most grievous faults.

You must show me.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And there are questions I would ask.”

Nana stood up. “Come with me. I have my materials on a work table in the back room of the café.”

The small room to which Nana took Juliette contained only four kegs of wine against the far wall and a work table on which a variety of paper, ribbons, and wooden spines were scattered.

“Sit down.” Nana sat down across from her at the table and reached for the scissors. “What questions?”

“Francois. He’s one of you?”

“His real name is William Darrell.” Nana began to cut the coarse paper. “I think that should answer you.”

“For how long?”

“Since the start of the revolution.”

“Then when he came to the abbey he was trying to help us?”

Nana shook her head. “He was sent to the abbey by Danton. He didn’t know what was going to happen there.

” She shrugged. “But even after he saw what was happening he could do nothing to help without revealing who he was. That would have meant his value to us would be ended. It was saving a few then or perhaps thousands later.”

“I don’t know if I could have made that decision.”

“He’s been making those choices for the last two years,” Nana said. “Who will die. Who we can save.”

“You admire him.”

“He’s a brave man.” Nana’s expression became shuttered. “And now I’ll show you how to make these fans. What was your problem?”

The subject of Francois was evidently closed as far as Nana was concerned.

Juliette shrugged. “Everything. But I had most trouble gluing the two pieces together without destroying my painting.”

“You’re using the wrong glue. I use only a special glue made for me of boiled-down shreds of hide, skin, and bones.”

Juliette made a face. “It sounds revolting.”

“It smells that way too, but it has firmness yet give. You must use only a little or it will destroy either the mount or the sticks.” Nana handed her a vial of glue and two wooden hoops.

“Then you stretch the paper very tightly on the hoops and let it dry for two days. After that you can paint your picture.”

“What about the sticks?”