dozen of his cohorts simply propped a ladder against the wall at the front of the building, cut a hole in an upstairs window, and climbed inside. There was so much to steal that they couldn’t carry it all away with them. But when they realized the theft had not been noticed, they came back two nights later, and again two nights after that. By their fourth visit, they’d become so bold that they turned the theft into a drunken revelry, complete with whores, food, and wine. Everything from jeweled swords to statues to bells was simply tossed out the windows to friends waiting in the street below.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Sebastian.
Francillon sighed. “I wish I were not. They were finally spotted by an officer of the National Guard, who sounded the alarm. But it took him so long to convince the building’s watchmen to open the chamber’s doors—which were, of course, still sealed—that the thieves managed to escape.”
“You’re saying none of them were caught?”
“One or two who were too drunk or too stupid to run were taken up at the scene; a few more were arrested later. But none of the actual ringleaders were ever apprehended. In the end, several men were executed. A few were given short prison sentences and then quickly pardoned.”
“That sounds rather suspicious.”
“It does, does it not?” Francillon cleared his throat. “At the time, the public was naturally outraged by the theft of the nation’s treasure. Some tried to place the blame for the theft on the Queen, Marie Antoinette—which was ridiculous, given that she was under guard herself at the time. Others thought it was a counterrevolutionary plot to destroy the Revolution by stealing France’s wealth. But there were those who suspected that forces within the revolutionary government itself had been responsible. You see, the Minister of the Interior had actually suggested back in August that the Crown Jewels be sold and the proceeds used to support the Revolution’s paper currency and defray other expenses—in particular the looming war with Austria and Prussia. But there was such an outcry that the scheme was abandoned.”
“At least publicly,” said Sebastian.
Francillon met his gaze, his expression solemn. “Exactly.” His eyes slid away. “One interesting point is that the thief who is credited with devising the scheme in the first place—Paul Miette—was actually imprisoned in La Force until shortly before the theft, as were nearly a dozen of his colleagues. There have been suggestions that their release was arranged by men within the government.”
“You say Miette was never captured?”
“Never. He simply disappeared. Some of the smaller stones were recovered in Paris in the days and weeks following the theft. But the major pieces—the French Blue, the Bazu, and many, many others—have never been seen again.”
“Do you know the names of any of Miette’s colleagues?”
Francillon frowned with the effort of memory. “Let me see. . . . There was Cadet Guillot; he is probably the best known, along with a man named Deslanges. And, of course, Collot.”
“Collot?” said Sebastian sharply. “You mean Jacques Collot?”
Francillon looked at him in surprise. “You have heard of him?”
“I have. He claims he comes from a long line of Parisian lapidaries.”
Francillon threw back his head and laughed. “I suppose he can certainly claim to come from a long line of ancestors with a marked interest in jewels. But I’m afraid the Collots’ talents have never been those of a lapidary.”
“Meaning?”
“The Collots are thieves,” said Francillon, his lean features hardening. “And they have been for a hundred and fifty years or more.”
Sebastian was in his dressing room rubbing ashes into his face when Hero came to stand in the doorway behind him, the black cat perched regally in her arms.
He looked over at her and smiled. “So, where was he?”
“He’d somehow contrived to get himself shut in the tack room in the stables.”
“Someone needs to tell him about curiosity and the cat.”
With a contemptuous lashing of its long, fluffy tail, the cat jumped from her arms and ran off. “I did,” she said. “He didn’t appreciate it.”
She brought her gaze back to his worn breeches and leather waistcoat, the disreputable coat and grimy shirt gleaned from the secondhand clothing stalls in Rosemary Lane. He’d also wrapped padding around his waist that effectively altered both his silhouette and his gait. “Do I take it you’re not planning an evening at your club?”
He leaned forward, his gaze on the mirror as he dabbed more ashes mixed with grease from the kitchen onto the dark hair at