“He listens to me better than you do.” She also confessed that she regretted that her crusade to restore the monarchy and avenge her parents was postponing her own marriage, household, and children. I’d actually catch her with a look of pensive sadness at times.
The comtesse could also be a witty dinner companion, sharing gossip of fallen aristocrats struggling desperately for new positions. She’d compliment as deftly as insult, and sought my wife’s suggestions of classic books to buy besides romances. Not that Catherine actually read such books; she simply enjoyed dropping the imposing-sounding titles into conversations.
She was mercurial toward me, disdainful at one moment and flirtatious the next. Catherine found an excuse to touch me when my wife wasn’t around. She’d propose that we go together to the arcades of the Palais Royale to listen to Parisian gossip and street speeches. Even when I kept saying no, she somehow appeared on my arm. When I was a widower, she’d treated me like the plague; when convinced I was married, she found it amusing to tease me.
An example is a time I came home when Astiza and Harry were at the fruit market and Catherine called for help from the kitchen. I found her bathing in the tub in a linen shift, as is the female custom. The fabric was transparent from the water, however, one arm only half concealing her breasts.
“Fetch me more hot water, Ethan,” she commanded. A golden necklace and bracelets accentuated her near nudity. A sheet lined the tub to insulate her from the metal.
“I’m not a maidservant, and this is inappropriate.” Not that I turned away.
“You don’t want me clean?”
“I don’t want to watch you get that way.”
“Then you’re a very peculiar man.”
I should have fled, but found it more enjoyable to debate the issue. “Comtesse, I’m happily married, as you’ve sourly observed. This is inappropriate.”
“And I’m not embarrassed at our lack of privacy after so many weeks together. I’ve heard your lovemaking with your wife and applaud it. What a stallion you are! Now, don’t stint me the pleasures of a bath.”
I didn’t miss the compliment. “I’m just saying you can bathe yourself.”
“Ethan, we’ve no maid because as spies we must be careful. That requires expediency. Please, warm water!”
So I poured some in, pretending not to look and looking plenty. Her nipples were pinker from the heat of the water, and there was a flush around her neck, tendrils of hair curling there. I retreated in embarrassment while she laughed.
But the comtesse also had a morbid interest in the guillotine, which is how she and I came together to watch poor Georges lose his head. There was a great slop of blood, the fiery color exciting the crowd, and a mix of cheers, curses, and weeping.
“If the Corsican is confirmed emperor, the whole world will be like this,” Catherine muttered.
“Not necessarily,” I said, being the judicious sort. “He’s strict, but not cruel like Djezzar the Butcher, or Omar the Dungeon Master, or Red Jacket the Indian, or Rochambeau the Slave Hunter. The useful thing about knowing horrid people is that they put everyone else in perspective. Even Napoleon.”
“We have to stop him from being crowned.”
“What chance do we have of killing him?”
“Not killing. Turning people against him. Breaking the spell he’s cast. We can’t mount a coup, Ethan, but we must mount an embarrassment.”
“But how, Comtesse? Word is that he’s seeking no less than the pope to crown him this winter. He’s determined to win over your class.”
“Then we have to act before winter, and before our money runs out. You’ve a reputation for being clever. Live up to it.”
“And your job?”
“To goad you.”
We turned to go, the crowd milling. She tugged my sleeve and nodded toward a gigantic dark-clad spectator.
“He’s been watching us instead of the executions. It’s the policeman Pasques, I think, as strong as he is tall. You’ve heard of him?”
“No, and nor do I want to. He looks big enough to cast shade for a picnic.” Had Harry seen something after all? This fellow was somber, with a great mustache that drooped to his chin. He had a dark suit, a cloak like raven wings, a battered and dated tricorne, and the bulk of a dray horse.
“Quick, to the left. We’ll melt into the street crowd.”
But other police materialized to block that way, and the giant proved surprisingly adroit. He used his muscle to part dispersing spectators like a buffalo through corn. Quickly, he loomed over us. “Monsieur Ethan Gage?”