She should not be surprised that LeBreton could speak a few words of their language. He was a reprobate of six or seven kinds and had doubtless led an interesting life.
The ancient grandam put her knife away and climbed down from the wagon. She hobbled to the front, acting like a force to be reckoned with. LeBreton took out a pouch of tobacco from Dulce’s pack, jiggled it open, and offered it round, starting with the old woman. Adrian went off to the stream with the donkeys. In a minute he attracted a dozen half-grown boys. With his ragged clothing and dark hair, he disappeared among them. It would be one of those grubby boys who had brought her Crow’s message last night.
Dulce nosed somebody into the water.
Shandor and LeBreton finished the serious business of agreeing that, yes, it’s a hot day, and moved on to, those donkeys are bad-tempered devils. But so beautiful. Perhaps Shandor would take the pair in trade for a good horse or two.
Everyone laughed. Shandor sent a small boy running for his pipe and took tobacco with a liberal hand. He and LeBreton lit up from the same burning straw, passing it back and forth. They ignored her because this was the affair of men, after all, this discussing of the weather and donkeys and horses and the pleasure of smoking.
LeBreton was all that was placid and friendly. She did not trust him in this mood. Well, she did not trust him in any mood.
She tucked her apron in her waistband and knelt on one knee on the ground and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of children. Dark-eyed boys. One girl with her little sister on her hip, half as big as she was. A pair of babies, barely tottering on their feet. A pert flower of a child, six or seven, with gold bangles on her arms and rings in her ears.
They were delightful, both shy and bold. They spoke no French, nor any other language they could share with her. They giggled when she pointed at one and the other and tried to repeat their names. They were barefoot, like the children in the peasant cottages, but they seemed healthier. Strong little bodies, full of energy. And happy.
“Marguerite.” She patted her chest. And then, “Maggie,” because that was what LeBreton called her and she was getting used to it.
She brought this kumpania and these children into danger, time and time again. She sent arrogant, ungrateful men to hide in their wagons and eat their food and be impolite to their mothers and sisters. Even now, sparrows were hiding in these wagons, just a few feet away. Or they were dressed in Gypsy clothes, out there in the fields with the women, picking berries.
I risk these beautiful children to save out-of-favor politicians and the Marquise of This-and-That. It was no laughable thing to make these choices.
Shandor puffed on his pipe. “We were delayed at Vaucresson for a while. A rough road. Keeping a little to the south, though . . .”
LeBreton answered in turn. All offhanded. All as if they were talking only about washed-out roads and mud, not patrols of gendarmes. “I’ve heard Bois d’Arcy has bad roads, too. Just rumor.”
A nod. A dozen words about crossing the Seine at Saint-Cloud. Ten words to say the Versailles road was full of troops and a prudent man would let his path wind elsewhere, however long it took. This was Crow giving her what help he could by helping LeBreton.
“. . . but today should be a lucky day.” Shandor drew in smoke. Exhaled. “I’ll tell you what I saw this morning. I saw an egret take off from the field, fast.” He swooped a gesture, like wings flapping. “One inch ahead of a pair of foxes. He got away. Flew over my wagon and headed toward Caen. Now that’s a sign for you.”
Shandor was saying that Egret had been threatened, but escaped. Truly, her network was exposed from Paris to the coast. It was time for her people to run, to take new names, open new waystations. Everyone left in place must be warned.
Children pressed closer. Touching her braid. Fingering the white fichu she wore around her neck. It was of poor quality, but cleaner and more fine than what their mothers wore.
In her pocket, under her skirt, she still carried the length of red string. It would talk for her. She unwound the thread and tied the ends together to make a loop and wove a cat’s cradle between her hands.
She slipped it out to catch a little girl’s wrist. Giggling, the girl snatched her hand back. The Gypsies made string figures by the fire at night to delight the children. These little ones all knew this game.
She pulled her net on another. Some she trapped. Some were fast as lightning. “You must be very quick to get away.” She raised her voice. “You must run, or someone will trap you. See. I go one way. You go the other.” That was her answer to Crow. He must leave, and she would not go with him.
She saw him hear the words and understand.
“We have a saying.” Shandor was now playing the Wise Gypsy Patriarch. “The sparrows fly away to the west, but the Rom travel the whole world. Who knows where we will go next? Perhaps we will return to Paris. There’s work in Paris, even in hard times.”
No, Shandor. Not for you. Not anymore.
She wove the thread one last time, in a complicated pattern. A twist . . . and it became a ladder. Another twist . . . it was a net. Another brief, clever magic of woven string and she had a web that danced and changed. Even the men stopped talking to watch.
“And so . . .” She loosed a single loop and opened her hands. Everything dropped away. She held only a limp string. The children made a sound of disappointment. “It is time to stop. Let us do it before the thread breaks and disaster comes. We play out the last game and we walk away and we do not begin again.”
That was how she told Crow not to return to Paris. The wagons were too easy to recognize, now that they had been betrayed. Crow’s part in La Flèche was done. She would not put these children in danger again. Not to save a hundred sparrows.
Nine
MADAME LET THE LAST OF THE PAPER BURN TO ASH in the saucer of her coffee cup before she spoke. “His name is William Doyle. He landed in France ten days ago. He is crafty. Knowledgeable. Very dangerous. He has come to put a stop to the assassinations in England.”
Madame’s sources were beyond reproach. If she said an English spy had come to France, then that was what had happened.
Justine waited silently while Madame poured coffee upon the ashes in the saucer and, with the back of the spoon, patiently destroyed all semblance of writing.
Madame said, “He must enter Paris. But it could be any day and through any gate. He might even circle the city and come from the east.”
Music came faintly from the pianoforte in the parlor. It was still full daylight, but men had already come to drink with the girls. They came earlier and earlier every day. There were not many salons in Paris where the wine flowed so freely and the wit was so unfettered. In a brothel men believed their words were not immediately reported to the Secret Police.
They were correct in that, and not correct. Madame decided which indiscretions would be carried to the Secret Police. She was one of its chief agents.
“If William Doyle is so unpunctual, it would be a great waste of time to send me to watch at one of the barrières.” Justine dared to speak so frankly to Madame. She was young, but she was not the least of Secret Police operatives. “Where shall I wait for him, this English spy?”
“I think . . . at the Hôtel de Fleurignac. De Fleurignac’s home. I have a great wish to know who comes and goes from that house. William Doyle will arrive there sooner or later. Here. Take this, please.” She held out the saucer.
A pitcher of clean water stood on the sideboard among the liqueurs and good wine. She poured the mess of coffee and ashes into the washbowl and rinsed the dish. She returned, drying the saucer with a soft cloth. Carefully, she set everything in place on the tray. She took it upon herself to anticipate the next request and poured new coffee. “The British are sure of this connection to de Fleurignac? Between the deaths and his visits to England?”