I raise the window and am pleased to see that it does, indeed, open. I stick my head out and look up and down the street. It is not a bad neighborhood, really—it doesn't stink too much, there is no open sewage running in the gutters, and there appear to be several interesting shops lining the curbs.
And there is a drainpipe right next to me, coming down from the roof and going all the way down to the street. I reach out and shake it and it seems strong and well fixed. I might find it useful someday. Hmmmm. Could it be that they trust me, or is it that they don't know me as well as they think they do, to give me such a room? I'm sure Carr and Boyd did not report that they had lost track of me that day back in London for fear of losing their jobs, or worse. I'd certainly never heard any mention of it. So maybe the ever-so-efficient Intelligence Service overlooked something and is not yet aware of my willingness to work in, well, high places—as in leaping about on rooftops. Hmmm, we shall see.
Certain that I am being watched, I give my hair a bit of a ruffle, then with a great big smile I greet the City of Paris and anyone who might be watching. Then I turn away to get ready. There are some things I need to do today.
First, I remove the wedges, then I unlock the door to look out into the hallway. Sure enough, there is a pitcher of water next to each door, as even girls of low morals do wash themselves. This is a high-class house, I now realize. And for all Madame Gris's cold greediness and the goings-on around my room last night, I also know that this is not a true brothel into which I have been put. Rather it is a place where no questions are asked if one of the local girls happens to entertain a gent for the night, and if a man shows up asking to call on a particular girl, he is not refused admittance. I am grateful for this, as it gives me some room to work my plots and plans.
I grab my own pitcher, pull it in, and relock the door. My door had been tried several times last night, but no one managed to get by my wedges. Still, I slept with my shiv in my hand.
I do the necessaries, then I wash up and empty the dirty water into the chamber pot, which I place along with the empty pitcher outside the door. I note that others have done the same. Ah, it is good to know that I'm right in figuring out how things are done around here.
I put on one of my everyday dresses—not everything I bought in London was high fashion—then throw my cloak around my shoulders, clap my hat on my head, grab my purse, and go out, the Lawson Peabody Look firmly in place. I have my shiv up my sleeve in case someone in this house would be of a mind to have me for nothing. One thing for sure, I will not go cheap. But it is much too early for the inhabitants of this place to be stirring, so I am undisturbed.
Madame Gris is seated next to the door and I fear for the health of the chair. It creaks as she shifts her bulk to stretch out her palm. She says nothing in the way of greeting and neither do I.
I slap the key in her fat fist, sweep out the door, and hurry down to the street. I look right and left. Which way to go? Ah, there is a café—the Café des Deux Chats—first some food and then it's down to business.
Following an excellent breakfast of coffee, omelet, and some cunning little rolls, and while reflecting yet again that the French sure can cook, I stroll up the street, looking all about me at the bustle of the city and feeling its quickening pulse—the shouts of vendors, the clatter of carriages, the snorting of horses, and the stink of their manure—yes, I am a city girl at heart, that is for sure.
At least I'm shed of Carr and Boyd, and it is good to be free—sort of free, anyway. I had asked my waiter at the café if there was a clothing store close by and was told by him that there was, indeed, one right up the street. Now it's time to see if I can spot who's been assigned to tail me.
I stop to look in the window of a boulangerie. All of the different loaves of bread and pastries look so very good, but I must watch myself. I have been given enough money to buy whatever I want, and the former urchin in me, the greedy little thing, wants much, but I must stay trim and so I must suppress her urges as well as my own.
As I peer in the window, I cut my eyes to the left, not moving my head, and notice a young man who has taken a similar interest in another shop window—one I know to be a women's hat shop. I move on.
Again, I pretend interest in a store, cut the eyes, and, ah yes, there he is, doing the same. I am sure he is the one. He is young and quite good-looking, but he is plainly not very good at this. And I thought Jardineaux's organization was supposed to be a crack outfit. Hmmm. Maybe they don't care if I know I am being followed. Maybe they want it that way. Well, let's see how they feel about that when I go missing.
Shall we make a game of it then, young man? Very well. You shall be the cat and I will be the mouse.
I spot a clothing shop across the street so I saunter over, and as I enter the shop, I see that he, too, has crossed over. I buy several yards of black cloth, some soft leather, a buckle, black thread, and a card of needles. Oh yes, and a tight black sweater. The packet of my purchases under my arm, I head back out. It is all I can do not to wave merrily at him and give out with a big yoo-hoo!
But I don't. What I do is nip into the marché des vins, which is right next door, where I buy three bottles of brandy—cognac, as the French would have it—two fine glasses ... no, get three in case one should break ... and some nice napkins. Several bottles of good wine, a corkscrew, and ... playing cards? You have them, too? Bon! Such a fine store that has so many things for sale. You shall have all my commerce!
That should do it. I ask that my purchases be delivered to 127, rue de Londres, room number seven. The proprietress, who has been beaming at me during all this, now gives a bit of a sniff and a look when she hears my address, but I suppose I must get used to that. At any rate, she lets her son make the delivery. Money still talks.
Now, back to the game.
He is out there, sitting on a bench, pretending to read a newspaper. On my part, I pretend not to see him peeking out over the top of it. I march on to the end of the street where rue de Londres meets up with rue de Clichy. It is a busy intersection and I find several coaches there, waiting for fares.
I go up to the first one in line. It is a cabriolet, a carriage that has a top that can be raised or lowered, sort of like an umbrella. The top is up now as I approach the driver and hand him several francs.
"Monsieur. Take this. I will get into your cab and go out the other door. If you will drive around the block, then come back and pick me up again, there will be more money for you. Do you understand?"
He nods but looks at me with that Gallic raised eyebrow, questioning just what is up.
"It is a joke. On a friend. You will see."
"Ah. Mais oui. Young love and all that?"
"Just so, Monsieur."
"Well, get in and play your trick."
I jump in the carriage, go to the other side, release the catch to the far door, and jump down, hidden from the young man who I know is on the other side of the street. There is an alley there and I duck into it, signaling for the driver to go on. He slaps his reins on the haunches of his horse and the cab moves away.
The young man comes running across the street, plainly perplexed. He signals for the next cab in line and says to the driver, "Follow that carriage!"
"What carriage, Monsieur? I see none."
"The one that just went around the corner, damn you!"
"You may damn me, Sir, but that cab could have gone in any of three directions, rue de Clichy, rue Saint-Lazare, or rue de Châteaudun."
The young man stands on the sidewalk, his head down. He knows he's going to catch it when he reports back to Jardineaux, and catch it good.
I tiptoe up behind him and take his arm. "Have you lost something, M'sieur?" I purr. He looks down at me and I give him the Big-Eyes-with-Three-Flutters-of-the-Lashes salute.
He takes a deep breath and stares straight forward. "This is not how it was supposed to go."
"Yes, M'sieur, but this is the way it went. Ah, here is our carriage," I say, as my faithful charioteer brings his cab around once again. "Please put the top down, driver, as it is a most pleasant day," I order grandly. The cabbie does it, and I pile into the seat and beckon the young man to join me. "Come on. You will now show me the charms of your most beautiful city, as I am a stranger here, and am in need of your kind guidance. Come on, I will not bite you." Not yet, anyway.
He shrugs and climbs up into the seat next to me.
You will show me the charms of your fine city, lad ... and I will show you some of mine...
"First let us go up rue de Clichy so I can see where Madame Pelletier's studio is..."
He snorts at the word "studio," so I know what he thinks of that establishment.
"...so I will know where to go in the morning. Ah, there it is. Now, let us be off to the river, the Seine, of which I have heard so much. And Notre Dame, is it possible we can see that?"
It is possible. We clatter over the cobblestones, and it is not long before I have him laughing, having gotten to my feet in the coach time after time to point at some especially grand fountain with Neptune surrounded by nymphs and mermaids spouting streams of water from their mouths, or monstrous gargoyles hanging off the roofs above us. It is such a wondrous city.
After one such outburst, I flop back onto the seat. "Your name, Sir?" I ask. "You have me at a disadvantage—you know mine, but I do not know yours." He seems to be a nice young man and just what he is doing in this nasty business, I don't yet know. But I am sure I will find out.
They had asked me to pick a new name for myself, as I certainly couldn't waltz into France under the name Jacky Faber, La Belle, and so on. So I picked Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier. I thought it had a certain romantic dash, plus it hints at a possible French ancestry, which I might find handy someday.
"I am Jean-Paul de Valdon, Mademoiselle Bouvier. À votre service."
"And why are you here?" I ask, looking at him closely. He has brown hair, more light than dark, a narrow nose, and a high, I might even say noble, forehead. The nobility of that forehead is softened somewhat by the curls that spill over it. His mouth is framed by a small brown mustache. He is very well dressed in a dark suit of what I suspect is the finest fabric. Not cut from the Carr and Boyd cloth, I know that.
He considers my question and replies, "I am a Royalist. I hate Napoléon and all he stands for."
"And why is that?"
"I lost my grandfather, many uncles, aunts, and cousins to the guillotine, all for the supposed crime of being aristocrats. Most of our lands were seized and our family was left disgraced and almost penniless."
"Ah. Too bad," says I, but having been penniless for a good part of my life, I really can't muster too much pity for the surviving members of his family. I do feel sorry, of course, for those who died under that monstrous chopping block. My dreams have already been invaded by memories of the day that I believed that my own head was going to fall into the guillotine's basket.
"But Napoléon didn't have anything to do with that," I say. "That was much earlier."
"It is all the same. The guillotine is still kept busy."