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Eighteen

T he heavy wooden door closed upon Belle, finality in the dull slam.

Beyond the iron grill of the door’s narrow window, the turnkey disappeared with his torch, leaving her in darkness, that ageless darkness that had ever been so much a part of the Conciergerie.

Behind the thick stonework no light penetrated, no sound of life carried from the nearby quay, not even the rush of the Seine.

The proximity of the river caused the prison walls to drip with moisture, as though weeping with the tears of countless other unfortunates who had inhabited the cell before her.

Belle wrapped her arms tightly about herself, trying to still the lashings of panic as she found herself thrust back into the prison that had haunted so many of her dreams. Only this time her eyes were wide open and the darkness would not lift.

This time the dawn would not find her, To have escaped this stronghold once had been a miracle.

To beg such a favor a second time was more than the fates would allow.

The silence of her cell pressed down upon her until she fancied she could hear the echoes of the past, all those who had gone from here to meet their deaths.

The queen Marie Antoinette, the bloody tyrant Robespierre himself, and a host of others, the innocent, the not so innocent.

Impossible that so many tormented souls could pass through this place and not leave some whisperings of their existence behind.

The thought sent a chill coursing through her.

She bit down upon her fist to stem her terror.

To give way to it would be to allow Lazare to triumph.

This is what Lazare had planned for her all along, this descent down into the world of her nightmares.

She knew not where Lazare was, in hell, she hoped.

But she would never accord him the satisfaction of finding that he had broken Isabelle Varens.

Belle groped her way across the brick floor until she located the cell’s wooden bench. She sank upon up it, closing her eyes. The darkness was just the same, but at least it was of her choosing.

She would force herself to be calm, to think of anything but this dread place which had once been the very heart of the Revolution’s terror. She concentrated instead upon her rage against Lazare and all his twisted schemes.

How clearly she now understood what he had been trying to do, but the plan struck her as incredible.

To prey upon Jean-Claude, persuade him to assassinate Bonaparte, while Lazare waited calmly for Belle, in her ignorance, to make all the arrangements which would enable Lazare to carry out his bizarre plot.

With Bonaparte collapsing dead at her feet, she would have had to flee, but how could she have left Jean-Claude?

They both would have been arrested. As in her nightmares, she would have had to watch him die.

A madman’s fantasy and yet Lazare had nearly pulled it off.

He had been thwarted by two things—that core of nobility in Jean-Claude’s nature which rendered him incapable of murder.

And the other obstacle: Sinclair. Belle experienced a rush of gratitude when she thought of his timely arrival at the theater.

Somehow she was certain Sinclair had gotten Jean-Claude safely away. Surely Baptiste also had no difficulty slipping out of the theater amidst the chaos. These beliefs afforded her some measure of comfort, her only comfort.

She prayed that they would realize there was no way to help her and would try nothing foolish. She must count on Sinclair. He was ever a practical man. No matter what he felt for her, he would recognize that any rescue attempt was hopeless.

Such thoughts only tugged at the despair she fought to keep at bay.

She clung to her anger, cursing Lazare, but even more so Merchant.

Lazare, at least, bore the excuse of being half-mad, but Victor had betrayed her, plotting the assassination with Lazare behind her back, ordering her removal and Sinclair’s cold-blooded fashion. When she returned to England?—

A harsh laugh escaped her. When she returned to England, she mocked herself.

She could not be deluded on that score. Bonaparte had known her name.

Somehow he had discovered who she was. Part of Lazare’s plot had succeeded.

She would be the one held responsible for planning the assassination attempt. She could expect no mercy.

Shivering, she stretched out on the bench.

The bell mounted between the arches many floors above her rang seldom these days to announce that the tumbril was ready.

But she did not doubt but that the peal would sound again soon.

Exhaustion crept over her, threatening to steal away her strength and her courage. Sweet heaven, she dared not sleep.

Not here. If any place in Paris had ever been formed to entertain nightmares, it was the Conciergerie. She whispered the name of the one man who had been able to hold those hideous dreams at bay. “ Sinclair .”

Her need of him no longer frightened her, no longer shamed her. She sought his image in the darkness, the memory of his voice, his eyes, his caress, his arms embracing her, the fire of his kiss driving out the cold.

Only by holding fast to the recollection of every tender moment they had shared could she at last permit herself to relax, drifting into a deep dreamless sleep.

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, the reception 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.