Page 54 of A Fierce Wind

Pax nodded vigorously. “I would like that very much.”

“Good. We shall spend my remaining assignats to buy us a fine dinner, well, as fine as this establishment is capable of producing, and then I will tell you the story before you go to sleep.”

The boy’s eyes lit with expectation. Neither of them spoke of what would happen the next day. Freddie planned to tell the boy the story of David and Goliath and the shepherd boy who became a great king. It seemed appropriate since they would soon be meeting David’s God.

“François de Dordogne has agreed to meet us at the Conciergerie,” said Zoé’s uncle. “He tells me West still lives, at least as of today.”

Early that afternoon, her uncle, M’sieur Bequel, Gaspar and Flèche had gathered in the study to go over the details of the rescue. Set before them on the desk were the plans of the prison.

“What will this lawyer do for us, mon oncle?”

“He is to gain us admission without the need for a story about you being dishonored, and he has promised to bring papers allowing us to remove a prisoner.”

“Is he trustworthy?” asked Gaspar.

Her uncle exchanged a look with M’sieur Bequel. “He has not been in the past, but this one time I believe he will be—for his own sake. He is well aware of my reputation. And, with this favor, he will be released from his debt to me.” Turning from the drawing of the prison, he said, “There is another reason I wanted to use him. I intend for us to carry weapons and I don’t want to be searched. We can be glad ’tis a chilly day as we’ll all need to wear cloaks. With Dordogne waiting at the door, Émile can enter with us.”

Shooting their way out of the Conciergerie with armed guards and vicious dogs in pursuit had little appeal for Zoé but she could throw a lethal knife and would if it came to that. Freddie would have no weapons, of course. He would have her uncle, M’sieur Bequel and Gaspar to defend him. The three of them were good with a sword and crack shots with the French pistols they carried. She, too, would carry a pistol, a small one her uncle had given her.

When the carriage finally departed the townhouse, it was with eager anticipation more than fear that Zoé looked out the window to a fair day and busy streets.

She had not seen Dordogne arrive for the meeting with her uncle. But the man who paced in front of the prison dressed in a black suit with a great mound of lace at his neck and cuffs had to be the lawyer who once crossed her uncle. He was slender, almost feminine in appearance, and not much taller than she. His dark hair, longer than that of most Frenchmen, was tied back at his nape.

They stepped out of the carriage and François de Dordogne greeted her uncle with anxious eyes. It was clear he was not pleased to be about the task set before him. “I have come as you asked, Donet.” Working as he did for the revolution’s leaders, Dordogne could not utter the forbidden “Monsieur” of the Ancien Régime nor would he dare label her uncle a citoyen. In turn, her uncle did not introduce Zoé, Gaspar or M’sieur Bequel. “This way,” Dordogne said, gesturing them into the entrance hall. As he did, he paused, giving her a puzzled look.

To the thin jailor wearing a red cap who sat at the door, Dordogne gave his name, “François de Dordogne from the Committee of Public Safety” and handed the doorkeeper some folded papers.

Whether the jailor could read or not, he gave the papers a quick perusal and handed them back. “All seems in order, citoyen Dordogne. You may enter.”

The lawyer gave her uncle another paper and waved them ahead. “This may help. I will wait for you here. Be quick.”

Gaspar led the way down to the dungeons below. The stench of urine and rats nearly overwhelmed Zoé but the thought of seeing Freddie brought tears to her eyes and kept her moving forward. Soon, my love.

As they reached the lower level, a guard approached Gaspar, who offered the paper her uncle had passed to him. “We come for an Englishman wanted for further questioning by the Committee of Public Safety.”

“And the woman?” asked the guard, who reeked of strong liquor.

“To identify him,” said her uncle.

The jailor’s dogs sniffed at them, growling low in their throats, the beasts’ eyes predatory and fierce. Zoé felt like she was looking into the face of evil itself.

They paid most attention to Gaspar. Why soon became evident.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some raw meat, tossing it to the dogs. They fell upon it voraciously, snarling at each other.

“Aye, they do love fresh meat,” mumbled the guard, the smell of liquor strong on his breath.

From his waistcoat, her uncle lifted out a wad of assignats. “Here, for your trouble.”

Apparently satisfied, the guard nodded and pointed the way to a large area where many prisoners had congregated.

Searching the faces of the men, Zoé did not recognize Freddie until he stood and shouted, “Zoé!” A small boy held on to his coat or what was left of it. She could hardly believe the soot-covered man who stood before her, tears streaming down his face, was her childhood friend, her Freddie. Her love.

At his approach, she saw his clothing hung in tatters, filthy and stinking, his torn shirt stained with blood. He was thinner than when she’d left him outside of Rennes.

She reached out to hug him and he stepped back. “I am not fit to embrace you.”

Her uncle held out his hand to Freddie. “You have survived, West. That is all anyone can ask.”