fresh horses, running grubby children, guests, the ostlers and stable boys caked with grime, the scullery maids and the washerwoman, her laundry basket on her hip—all of them stared at the players in their white costumes. When they drew close, Camille wanted to rush back into the carriage and hide. The crowd made her skin crawl.
But Rosier made a grand flourish, exclaiming: “We are Les Merveilleux! One week from today, at this inn, we will perform for you—bringing you wonder and delight!”
The people laughed and cheered. Camille and Sophie curtsied deeply, and Camille let her wings unfurl, making the children gasp. But once the new horses were hitched, they scrambled into the carriage, relieved to pull tight the curtains and head west to the sea.
Each little town they passed, Camille searched its narrow streets for a sign. Was Lazare there, somewhere? Were he and Foudriard waiting around some corner, watching for the gilt carriage? She begged Rosier to go slowly, in case the boys were waiting somewhere, anywhere. He obliged her a few times before putting an end to it. “We left word for them, Camille. They know where we are going,” he reassured her. “We’ll wait for them there. Slowing down only exposes us, and we’re already alarmingly conspicuous as it is.”
The farther west they went, the more the towns fell away, until there was only waving grass, the sky’s washed-out dome, and the white road running toward the sea. It was nearly nightfall when in the distance, they spotted a smudge against the horizon. “Could that be it?” Sophie asked.
“Duprès told me we couldn’t miss it.” Chandon had been the one to arrange their lodgings—a favor owed to his mother, called in. “As long as we bore left onto the smaller road, we’d end up at his inn in Wissant.” Impatiently he pushed down the window. A cool sea breeze swept into the carriage. “There’s nothing behind it but endless water and endless sky. It looks as if it might be the very last house in the world.”
For now, their journey had come to an end.
56
The inn at Wissant was a rambling, low-slung building, its thatched roof dotted with windows like sleepy eyes. A towheaded boy was playing with a stick next to a high wall of gray stone. When he saw the carriage, he waved them on, running ahead through an archway opening onto a stableyard. As the carriage clattered over the cobbles, the boy pulled stout wooden doors closed behind them. Only when he lowered a massive wooden bar into place did Camille finally exhale.
Safe for now. They could take off these costumes, wash, edge slowly away from what had happened as they waited for Lazare and Foudriard to arrive. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath since the Paris gate.
Despite everything, there was a bright note of excitement in Sophie’s voice when she said, “This is my first time staying at an inn, did you know, Chandon?”
“I suspect there will be more in your future,” Chandon said, his voice colored with melancholy. “I do hope you like it.”
Where the carriage had come to a stop stood a man well into middle age. His clothes were very fine, but of a fashion already vanished from Paris. He opened the carriage door, and as he handed Camille out, he said, “Welcome to my home, madame, the last inn before the sea. I am Jean Duprès, and this was once the house of my ancestor, the Marquis de la Tourendelle, who was something of a pirate. I do a little in that way, myself, but mostly I am an innkeeper.” His sunburned cheeks said otherwise. “We do what we must, n’est-ce pas?”
Clapping Chandon on the shoulder, and asking after his mother, Duprès brought them all through the stables, where horses nickered softly as they passed. At the front of the inn, the shutters were fastened over the windows. Duprès pointed to a sign hanging on the glossy blue door: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.
“You see? We will not have any trouble, and you will be perfectly at ease here, I trust. Please sit while your baggage—and the cats—are removed to your rooms.” Beckoning them on, he led them to a cozy, low-ceilinged room where a fire crackled in the grate. The ceiling was laddered with chestnut beams; Turkish carpets warmed the flagstone floor. Oil paintings of boats on stormy seas hung on the walls. White curtains trimmed with cotton lace covered the windows. From the kitchen came the