Jane Feather - Charade by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

then followedstealthily as they made for the working part of the palace. TheTuileries and the Louvre housed over two thousand souls of every

station in life and the presence of a respectable French matron clearlyon her way to market would

attract no attention. Danielle exchangedcheerful greetings with those they passed and the

comte

gasped

insurprise. Cone was the delicate speech of the aristocrat, in its placea country twang. What the devil was she? he wondered for the secondtime.

He followed at a discreet distance as they walked briskly through thestreets of a city that in these days was far from a quiet, restfulplace of residence. Street corners were covered with posters announcingthe latest regulations of the commune, print shops abounded, and thesellers of newspapers cried their papers and pamphlets from everydoorway.

His quarry appeared unaffected by the signs of tension, the beating ofa drum, the sudden alerting peal of a church bell, the pounding of apatrol of militia down narrow alleyways. She went in and out of shops,haggling ferociously over the price of an ell of stuff and a yard ofribbon. In the open market on the rue St.Andre des Arts she boughtbread, wine, fruit, and cheese, selecting the produce with all thefastidious care evinced byher fellow shoppers with whom she blended as easily as a chameleon on aleaf. Not

even one of the spies of the

comitedes recherches

, minglingwith the crowds, noting looks and recording remarks, would findanything unusual about her.

But why? St. Estephe was quite at a loss as the conviction grew thatthere was much more to the Countess of Lin ton than met the eye—amaster of disguise who sang the songs of the people! Quite clearly hewas going to have to find out a great deal more about her before makinghis move; and London was the place to glean that information. But hecouldn't leave Paris at the moment. Not until he saw which way thepolitical wind would blow eventually; not while he had a foot in bothcamps.

Part3:  The Butterfly

Chapter17

St. Estephe was a shrewd and cautious man, building contacts amongstthe revolutionary factions as carefully as he played the committedaristocrat at court. When France decided which way it would jump, heintended to be on the right side, preserving his material wealth in theonly way possible—by a position of undisputed power in the governmentthat must at some point stabilize. For the moment he played a waitinggame, sensing the potential danger in aligning himself too soon withany one faction—unlike that ambitious fool Mirabeau, whose domineeringmanners and open desire for power had alienated both sides. The kingrejected his advice and the king's confidants would not listen to himand he was without credibility in the Assembly, for all that he wasquite the most capable politician around at the moment.

St. Estephe would play his cards close to his chest—he cared notwhether the king or the people achieved the final sovereignty but heknew that it would not be found in a middle course of moderation andcompromise, and he would play whatever part was necessary when the timecame. To do that, he must remain in Paris with his ear to the ground.The matter of Danielle and her husband must wait awhile longer. Itwould come to no harm for the keeping.

Four days later, as firmly convinced as St. Estephe of theinevitability of a volcano of blood and horror that would tear thecountry apart, Justin and Danielle left Paris with a relief that wasonly surpassed by Molly's.

In the peace of the Cornish countryside, the married lovers passed anidyllic summer during which Danielle displayed an inordinate interestin making love in the strangest surroundings. Her powers of inventiondelighted her husband who, as Lady Lavinia remarked to the Earl ofMarch, appeared to

grow younger by the day.

"I do not care for this at all, Justin."

Justin looked up from his solitary repast in the breakfast room atDanesbury the Christmas morning following their excursion to Paris andsurveyed his wife. She was an entrancing sight as she came into

theroom—the white velvet wrapper as crisp as the snow-covered landscapebeyond the French doors, her hair tumbling unconfined to her shoulders.Her feet were bare, he noticed, but at Danesbury Danielle rarelyconformed and, as a result, their guests were always carefullyselected. So far, not one of the small group had emerged from theirbedchambers this holiday morning, but it was not yet ten o'clock.Linton, after failing to persuade an unusually drowsy Danielle to joinhim, had taken an early ride and was now addressing his breakfast withsome enthusiasm.

"What business, my love?" he prompted when she seemed disinclined toexpand her comment.

"This business of babies," she announced, lifting her bare toes to thecrackling fire. "I was not aware that it would make one puke sodistressingly, but it is the same every morning . . ."

"What did you say?" The earl choked on a mouthful of beef and hadrecourse to his tankard of ale.

"I beg your pardon," she apologized, warming her other foot. "It is avery vulgar word, but it is actually

a very vulgar activity—thisvomiting."

"I do not care what you call it," her husband spluttered.

"What is it that you are saying?"

"Why, that I do not care to be sick every morning." Her eyes widenedinnocently. "But

Grandmaman

says it is good because it means that thebaby has taken firm hold . .."

"What baby?" Linton exploded, wondering if he had taken leave of hissenses.

"Yours, of course, milord." She turned from the fire and smiled.

"Danielle, I do not quite understand." Linton spoke carefully. "Are yousaying that you have decided to conceive, or that you have already doneso?"

"You are a slow top this morning, sir," she chided. "I would hardlycomplain in anticipation of

discomfort; it is not my way."

"Come here." He pushed back his chair and patted his knee imperatively.

Danny deposited