Rebecca looked down at the address on the paper in her hand, and back
up at the small restaurant in front of her. Yes, this was the place
Chauvelin had instructed her to go. She stepped in and looked around,
searching for a familiar face. Chauvelin *had* said she would recognize these agents of his. She smiled to herself, realizing the silliness of her situation. Here she was, a spy spying on a spy! As soon as she'd arrived in England, she had come here. She didn't even know where she would be staying yet; her bags were in the coach that had taken her here from the docks. Shortly, a man and a woman entered, and Rebecca immediately knew they were the ones she was here to watch. The woman was Teresia Cabarrus, a Spanish spy who had done some work for Chauvelin in the past. She had heard of her, and seen her around, though they had never been introduced. The man she recognized as well, though she couldn't quite put her finger on his name. A painter of some sort, wasn't he? She sat at a table near where they did, and waited for a good moment to interject.
The restaurant in High Holborn was a new one. London was expanding rapidly, especially around the Bloomsbury area. A network of squares with town houses not for the aristocracy, but for the upper-middle classes. Teresia had rented rooms at a nearby inn, but that evening she wanted to see something of London by night. Already the novel streetlamps, the envy of cities the world over, were casting their weird glow on the damp cobbles of the street. She took no notice of Rebecca, for the girl was unknown to her, but she did have citizen Chauvelin on her mind. Three days ago she had sent him word of their lodgings, yet she had heard nothing. When the waiter had taken their order, she said as much to Matthieu.
The young artist was so fascinated with the concept of streetlamps and their effect on the London streets -- even though they did not truly give off that much light -- that Teresia at some points had to tug at his sleeve to get him to follow. Finally in the restraint, he lost most of his look of wide-eyed wonder. Restaurants were restaurants, really, no matter what country they happened to be located in. "Well, I suppose he's busy," he answered her. "All we really need to do is avoid him, so I suppose he can do that job just as well as we can.
"True" she murmured, but a twinge of worry still nagged at her. The ball was just two days away, surely Chauvelin would contact them before then. Making a valiant effort to put the thought out of her mind, she wondered aloud - but not too loudly - what the food would be like. So far she had not been impressed by English cuisine, it was plain and expensive. Tonight she had ordered lamb and had heard that the English served it with a mint sauce... it would be a new experience if nothing else!
He shrugged slightly. Chauvelin was more than simply competent, so his lack of communication did not bother the artist. He fully trusted the agent to do what was right. Of course, Matthieu placed much trust in almost all of the leaders of the Revolution. He'd ordered fish -- for him that was a rare treat which seemed rather common in England. But he too had commented to Teresia of the blandness of the fare. "What shall we see tomorrow?" he asked, sipping at his wine.
"How about touring the parks? We could hire a carriage or, if the weather stays fine, we could walk. I hear St. James' park is quite exquisite at this time of year and I'd love to see Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park again. Luc took me on a Sunday, when there's no one but evangelists preaching. I want to hear the politicians. An atmosphere like that might prove an invaluable source of information to us." Teresia's female intuition told her that she was being watched. She glanced quickly around at the other diners, mainly young well-to-do couples. A group of men, at the back of the restaurant, talked a little too loudly amongst themselves due to the effects of port. In one corner she saw a lone woman, perusing the menu. It struck la Cabarrus as odd that such a beautiful girl would want to dine alone, or even have the chance to. Perhaps she stared too long, for the woman raised her head. Their eyes met and Teresia smiled then looked away. "Do you think it strange that an attractive girl should dine alone in a restaurant such as this one?" she asked suddenly of Matthieu.
As Rebecca listened in on their conversation, she smiled to herself, a plan forming in her mind. If she was going to be watching the two, she couldn't just follow them around, that would be too suspicious. She would have to introduce "herself" somehow. And the opportunity had come up. "You are French!" she suddenly exclaimed to the two. "Thank goodness, I was beginning to worry I would never find a fellow countryman on this little island. You see," she smiled sheepishly and tried to sound embarrassed, "I just arrived and I seem to have already gotten myself lost." She looked up at them, hoping they would fall for her little ploy.
Her head shot round. The girl was there, standing over her. Madre de Dios, all she had done was smile at her! Now this lost sheep seemed to want to join their cozy flock. La Cabarrus could not, however, bring herself to be rude to the youngster. "Are you dining alone? Do join us. Have you ordered yet?" she snapped her fingers at the waiter. "Teresia, Comtesse de Fontenay, but between you and me, I'm Spanish not French." She left Matthieu to introduce himself, as she wasn't sure who he would like to be presented as. "Just arrived, you say? What brings you to England?" The girl didn't look like an aristo and Teresia was anxious to know her history before revealing anything further about either herself or Matthieu.
"Oh, thank you," Rebecca said, accepting the invitation and sitting beside Teresia. "Very sorry for interrupting you. I'm Marie-Noelle Provaire," she replied, giving the name she had formulated on the boat ride here. "I'm just doing a bit of sightseeing. I used to come here a lot with my brother." She sighed, and continued to babble. "England is so beautiful this time of year. But since the revolution, my brother has refused to take me. He says it's too dangerous," she said, rolling her eyes. "But I said no, I'm not letting a little conflict spoil my vacation." There, Rebecca thought. She'd forgotten just how tiresome is was playing the fool.
The ci-devant Comtesse listened with interest to Marie-Noelle's story. The girl was head-strong it seemed, and not a little foolish, to have come to England unaccompanied at such a time as this. She wondered how this flighty child had acquired a travel permit for her 'holiday'? "I admire your spirit, Mademoiselle Provaire, but you ignore your brother's advice at your peril. The French, on the whole, are not welcome in England at the moment unless they have a title and a woman alone is easy pray for thieves and rapists. I once heard tales of an area known as the 'Rookery', which would turn your hair quite white!" Teresia was still trying to fathom the newcomer out. "But let's not speak of such things over the dinner table. How long do you propose to stay in England? There are rumours that once one has left France, the Committee of Public Safety won't let one return. Does that bother you?" She scrutinized the girls face and added artlessly, "You do intend to return to France, I assume?"
Damn, damn, damn. Rebecca wracked her brain for an answer. This little story was not getting her in the right direction. "Yes...I plan to go back. Once I convinced my brother I was going no matter what, he was able to get me some papers and things." She waved her hand airily. "Some political mumbo-jumbo."
Ah, so her brother was a politician. Prouvaire, Prouvaire... Teresia searched her mental filing system for the name, but drew a blank. She made a note to run the name past Chauvelin, if he ever deigned to contact them. The conversation had, she felt, reached a crossroad and the Spaniard knew that she must either reveal her mission to the newcomer or commit herself to play the Comtesse de Fontenay for the remainder of the evening. Could she trust her? That was the real question. Republican or not, something about Marie-Noelle made Teresia hesitant. "Dios mio!" she exclaimed, nudging Matthieu with her foot under the table and hoping that he too would act the part of a self-righteous aristo. "You don't mean to say that your brother is a member of the Jacobin club?? And to think I pictured him as such a nice young man, caring for his sister like that." Her face showed a mixture of shock and sadness... she even caught herself tut-tutting, but stopped short of that immortal line: what is the world coming to? Outwardly, the Comtesse de Fontenay gasped with a prudish horror, far in advance of her years; but inwardly Teresia Cabarrus fought back an attack of infantile hysterics.
Rebecca almost laughed out loud at the irony of the situation, and was just able to restrain herself. She assumed Teresia was merely playing a role, as she herself was, but Chauvelin had told her very little about the pair of spies. In response to Teresia, Rebecca shrugged. "I know very little about politics. It all seems very confusing and silly to me. So, what brings you here, anyway?"
"The same as yourself, mademoiselle." replied Teresia. Scarce realizing the truth of that innocent statement. "Sight-seeing, that is. We were contemplating walking in Hyde Park tomorrow." She noted that Matthieu was singularly quiet and wished he would say something. That way, she thought, she could gauge his opinion of the girl. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but something jarred in the story she had just heard. Whenever Teresia pressed her, Marie-Noelle's tale became slightly vague. The food arrived and Teresia commented that, although the lamb was overdone, the mint sauce worked surprisingly well. "Would you care to join us in the morning?" La Cabarrus wanted to keep the girl in sight. If she accepted, Marie-Noelle would be in for the grilling of her life. Teresia intended to test her story thoroughly over the course of the day, to see whether it held water or fell to pieces and sank.
"Why, I would love to join you." That was easy, Rebecca thought. But something at the back of her mind nagged her. It had been almost too easy. She doubted Teresia trusted her, and made a mental note to be extra careful. But this would also give her an opportunity to find our more about the Spaniard and her quiet companion. She'd also have to make sure she got the name of Prouvaire to Chauvelin. The man, of course, did not exist, and if Teresia went asking questions to Chauvelin of her pseudo-brother, disaster would inevitably strike.
He sat silent through most of this, trying to figure out what Count Donatien de Villeneuve would think of this girl. He remembered that nobility placed a lot of importance on introductions, and therefore her unannounced presence would be considered rude. And then it turned out that she was the relative of a revolutionary, though one that Matthieu had never heard of, and he knew exactly what Donatien would think of *that.* But it seemed that Teresia wanted to keep company with the girl longer, so he couldn't be as unutterably rude as Donatien would likely be. "Well. Then tomorrow we must discuss why politics _are_ important," he said, in rather haughty French. He knew he was neglecting to introduce himself, but he would have to let Teresia do it. He couldn't imagine Lucien lowering himself in such fashion.
"Bueno!" Replied the Comtesse with delight, and arrangements were made for the forthcoming day. "How do you find your meal?" she asked. It was her intention to change the subject to something more general... and nothing, in Teresia's opinion, was quite so banal as the topic of English cuisine.
Rebecca's eyebrow raised ever so slightly as it does when she is surprised. So, she thought, the silent artist has an attitude. Playing an aristo himself, maybe? "The food was fine, Madame. A bit dry, but at least palatable." She smiled. Suddenly Rebecca remembered her things were still in the coach outside. "Oh dear, I haven't even found a place to stay yet. You wouldn't know anywhere I could, would you?"
La Cabarrus tried not to show her surprise. Was the girl trying to attach herself to them permanently? Teresia and Matthieu had work to do and couldn't afford to have their hands tied, looking after some stranger. "There are plenty of respectable guesthouses around, mademoiselle." She wrote down the addresses of a few, taking care to leave out the one in which she and Matthieu were lodging.
He blinked. She had no place to stay? Was she truly that flighty? Or was there something going on? He was rather glad Teresia was here with him. "By all means, mademoiselle, you must find some suitable place to stay, especially if you have no guardian with you."
"Thank you, Madame," Rebecca said, taking the paper from Teresia's hand. She glanced over the list, wondering if any of the places was the one the spies were staying at. Not that she necessarily needed to stay where they were, but it would be useful to know. Also, she needed to get her name and whereabouts to Chauvelin, and find out exactly what he wanted from her. What was she looking for in them, anyway? "Well, I guess I better find a place," she said, rising to leave. "Tomorrow then? Where shall I meet you?"
"Oh, how about 11 o'clock at Speaker's Corner?" Turning to Matthieu she asked, "Does that suit you Donatien?" It was the first time she had used his new name and it seemed strange. Then she focused her attention once more on Marie-Noelle, "Do you know where that is?" she enquired politely. "At the top of what used to be Tyburn Lane." The street had been renamed Park Lane not long ago, after public hangings had ceased to take place at the 'Tyburn Tree'. Park Lane and the surrounding area of Mayfair was becoming quite fashionable, now that anyone wishing to see a convict slowly strangled had to go to Newgate for the privilege.
He nodded. "It is suitable."
"Alright then, I'll meet you there. I think I'll be able to find it. Until tomorrow, then?" Rebecca walked out of the cafe and to the carriage, which was thankfully still waiting for her. She glanced over the list of guesthouses and one that she recognized caught her eye. She told the driver the address and was on her way. Once she was settled in she'd check the other places to see if Teresia and Donician was at any of them. Then she'd head over to where Chauvelin was staying.
La Cabarrus watched her go with a mixture of relief and consternation. "Well Matthieu," she said, when Marie-Noelle was out of ear-shot, "What do you make of her?" Teresia kept her voice as neutral as possible because she wanted to hear the painter's genuine first impression of their new 'friend'.
He took a bite of his dinner, trying to decide what he would say. "Frivolous," he said, after chewing and swallowing. Then he looked over at her. "I don't know. She seems like a silly girl. To travel all this way, alone, without any plans or even a place to stay? And she's been here before, so it seems like it wouldn't have been that difficult to make arrangements. And why would her brother agree to this, when he knows what might happen when she returns?" He shook his head. "I... I don't know. It's very unwise."
The Spaniard chewed her lip and looked pensive. Perhaps Matthieu was right, perhaps she was just a scatterbrained little girl trying to play with the adults, but Teresia wasn't convinced. Too many of the things she had said did not make sense. "There's something about her, something's not quite right. It's as if..." as if what? That was the question and Teresia did not know the answer. "Oh, I don't know! No me cae bien con ella, that's all. We must be very careful not to slip out of character tomorrow." It would be good practice for the ball, she thought.
He blinked, then smiled. "I need all the practice I can get. In fact, keep calling me Donatien or I'll never remember to respond to it. However... I think you've reached the limit of my Spanish. What did you say, just then?"
She nodded agreement to his suggestion that she should call him Donatien. Translating the Spanish phrase would be difficult. Teresia often reverted back to her native tongue when she could think of suitable expression in French and this one had no direct equivalent in the language. "I said that I don't like her. No, wait, that's too strong, care is more neutral than dislike. It's somewhere between dislike and indifference. It means... it means I don't feel comfortable around her, but can't put my finger on why. Madre de Dios, so many words to explain such a short phrase!" Teresia rose to leave the restaurant and reminded Matthieu with her eyes that *he* must settle the bill. Once outside she proffered her arm to the painter, "I need to clear my head, Donatien, shall we walk a while?"
He nodded at her explanation. "It did strike me as odd.... but I couldn't say she seemed to mean us harm." He shrugged, still rather new to this game, and (with Teresia's reminder) settled the bill. He offered his arm like a perfect gentleman (one of the many gestures she'd refined for him) and led her down the street. His attention was once again caught by the streetlamps, but this time he didn't let himself get too obsessed with them. "It is a very pretty place," he said softly in French. "But I do like Paris better.
So do I. London is huge and awe inspiring, but Paris has a charm and personality all its own. Paris lives, breathes, feels." Her mind wandered to the other cities she had seen in her life time, but none could she find to rival Paris in her estimation. Prague came closest and Madrid, since the War of the Spanish Succession, had copied Parisian architecture (the Palacio Real is a virtual mirror of the Louvre), but neither could quite match the atmosphere of the French capital. She led Matthieu round the Aldwych and along the Strand towards the river. Carriages rolled by, taking their occupants to Whites or Brooks or one of the theatres. By night, London was a different world. Still the city bustled, but these were revellers not tradesmen. Only at five a.m. the next morning would the world of each briefly cross, the one waking up to start the day, the other going home to sleep through it. "Would you like to go to Vauxhall, Donatien?" Teresia had heard much about this favourite haunt of the local inhabitants. Beautiful landscaped gardens, where the rich and famous mingled happily with any dreg of humanity who could pay the entrance price - and pay it they did, for Vauxhall was Eden to pick-pockets and prostitutes, so full was it with wealthy, drunken merry-makers.
He followed her lead, enjoying drinking in the sights, though he was streetwise enough to keep an eye out on their surroundings. In Paris he never really worried about thieves; in fact, he was friends with a few. But he did know their habits, and his transformation for this mission also transformed him into a target. "The Vauxhall?" He thought, trying to remember what is what, then remembered Teresia mentioning it on their journey. He smiled. "Yes. Yes, I'd like to see that. It will be interesting to see them all mix together like we do now in Paris.
She held up her hand to hail a cab, then remembered the Matthieu should be the one to do that. It was so frustrating to be reliant on a man, even if this were just a role was playing. Her gesture was seen, however, and a carriage stopped and they got in. "Where to, lady?" asked the driver. "Vauxhall gardens." she replied. The driver winked knowingly, "Nice night for it." he commented. Indeed the weather had improved considerably during the last few hours. The coach set off towards Vauxhall on the southern side of the Thames. The gardens no longer exist today. In their places is the main railway line to the south coast (and France) and a plethora of huge buildings, the most architecturally interesting of which is the cream and green MI6 headquarters. In 1792 though, Vauxhall was in its heyday.
"Why you independent woman, you," he whispered playfully as the carriage stopped before them. Rather certain that her hailing a cab was not going to blow their cover, he handed her into the carriage with a smile. When they arrived he paid off the driver, then looked around and immediately felt comfortable with his surroundings. There was something about the gardens that reminded him of Paris, so he paid the fee without protest and escorted Teresia in.
Coloured lamps burnt brightly and ribbons stretched from tree to tree. Winding paths led off in every direction, providing perfect seclusion for intrigues of all natures. The gardens were peppered with Greek statues and ornamental fountains. A quartet was playing in the bandstand and people were dancing on the lawn nearby. Others watched from the comfort of a terrace, where wine and spirits were flowing freely. Already one 'gentleman' had had too much and was making a nuisance of himself. Teresia pulled at the painter's arm and pointed to where the man was picking a fight with naval officer. "This promises to be entertaining!" she whispered gleefully and entertaining it certainly was. The obnoxious sot was leering at the officer's pretty companion and, though his friends made valiant attempts to restrain him, would not be deterred from asking her to dance. La Cabarrus saw the girl shake her head and the officer requested that the man go away and stop bothering his fiancée. Voices were raised, the officer stood up and Teresia could now see that he was a lieutenant. The friends made one last desperate grab at their mate's flailing arms, but he shook them free and continued to insult the officer, first verbally and then by pushing him. The lieutenant, who could see that the man was drunk and simply looking for a fight, showed admirable restraint, but eventually he tired of the abuse and swung a fist towards the aggressor. Near to passing out due to inebriation, it didn't take much to finish the man off. He fell backwards into the arms of unconsciousness and his waiting friends, who then carted him away whilst apologizing profusely for his behaviour. Teresia clapped her hands in delight. The naval officer watched the group escort the chap to the exit before resuming his romantic tete-a-tete as though nothing had happened. "Well!" exclaimed the Spaniard joyfully, "Vauxhall is certainly living up to its reputation tonight."
He laughed softly at the spectacle, even moreso when a rather stealthy thief managed to filch the drunken man's wallet as he was being escorted out. The artist's common sympathy with the lower classes gave him all the excuse he needed not to alert anyone of what just happened. Except Teresia, of course. "Did you see that?" he asked her softly, grinning. "The man will not only wake up bruised, he'll wake up with no drinking money."
"I expect the last thing he'll want to do when he wakes is drink anything!" Teresia laughed, the evening was getting better and better. "But it's a lesson to us. We can't afford to have the same thing happen to our purse. We must be on our guard."
"I already thought of that," he said, nodding. "When you grow up in Paris..." He shrugged and smiled. "Well, let's say I know a lot of interesting people."
"I'll bet you do." she hugged his arm. "Come, let's have a drink and you can tell me about some of them." La Cabarrus was looking forward to hearing any anecdotes the painter might have and, always thinking of the task in hand, thought they perhaps ought to take a turn along some of the more secluded pathways, where tongues waged more freely. So far they had learnt very little about the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel. Tonight, she hoped, might change that.
Matthieu retrieved their drinks and offered Teresia hers, then followed her as she steered them toward what seemed to be slightly darker, quieter passages. "Well, one of my favorities is Olymphe. She's... well, I'd guess 12 or so. She doesn't know. She's always been on the streets, she has no idea who her parents are, and she's got an amazing knack for climbing walls and slipping into windows." He grinned, remembering watching her doing just that to retrieve a purse load of bills from the study of an unsuspecting aristocrat. "What I like about her best, though, is she plays the part of a boy. She's very good. She says it's safer for her that way, and I agree. Girls have a rough time on the streets. I let her stay in my studio sometimes when the weather gets too cold."
"You certainly have a soft spot for children, Donatien, I've noticed that before. Poor child. What sort of life does she have to look forward to? Liberty or no liberty, I doubt she'll survive her teens. You must introduce her to me when we get back to France. Breaking and entering is a skill I could make use of." Teresia liked the sound of this child, who played a boy so well. Teresia too could pass for a boy if dressed correctly and had done so many times in the past as it gave her admittance to the many 'men only' clubs and literary salons, where she gathered much useful information. She had re-tailored some of Luc's old clothes and from a distance or in poor lighting was quite a convincing adolescent. Her accent, she passed off as Gascon and indeed she had invented an entire history for her creation, for she feared contradicting herself if forced to think on her feet. However, she avoided interaction where possible because, at close quarters, la Cabarrus was too obviously curvatious to be a boy. "She sounds intelligent, this little Olymphe, perhaps I should show her the delights of the Jacobin club one day." She smiled to herself, unable to remember if she had ever mentioned her little jaunts into the male world before.
He smiled almost bashfully, and it was easy to see why he had so many friends on the Parisian streets. "Well, I couldn't really refuse her, could I? And anyway, this way I'm assured that she'll never steal from me." He winked at her. "I have her doing a job for me right now that should keep her fed well enough while I'm gone. But I can't afford to help her much, so maybe you looking after her would be a good idea. I just have to warn you, she's one of the fiercest Republicans I've ever met! And when," he asked, glancing at her curiously, " have you been to the Jacobin club? I thought they didn't allow women."
"They don't." replied la Cabarrus with an enigmatic smile. "Your little friend is not the first female to don breeches from necessity and she certainly won't be the last." She shrugged, "I don't like to receive information secondhand, so I make sure I know what's going on and that means visiting the Jacobin club from time to time." Glancing at Matthieu's expression she added with mock seriousness, "Oh, don't worry I'm quite fair. I divide my time equally between ALL the political salons."
His expression was a mixture of shock and laughter. "I'll have to remember that next time I'm at the Cordeliers," he said. Cordeliers was the club frequented Danton, Marat, and Desmoulins -- not quite as influential as Robespierre's Jacobin club, but closely allied with it. "I suppose it's not too scandalous, at least not for us. Camille's wife sneaks in every so often to listen to the debates. And I do think that restriction is quite unjust.
"I've always thought so." She fell silent as they passed a secluded, rose-covered arbour, but no one was there. "You might ask Danton to moderate his language though. I've never heard one man swear so much in my life!" but the Spaniard's tone showed that she was not really offended. Loitering up ahead was a young girl, obviously a prostitute, who turned her attention to Matthieu despite Teresia's presence. La Cabarrus wondered aloud whether it would be worth playing up to the unfortunate creature, as she was in the position to overhear any rumours that circulated in the gardens and might prove useful.
He laughed at the idea of correcting Danton's language. "I'm afraid that there are some things I will not do, not even for you. That man could break me in half." When Teresia made her suggestion, Matthieu tilted his head a little, considering. "They do hear a lot. Though if we talk to her, the tale will likely be all over London by tomorrow... at least in certain sectors, anyway. Even if we say she's not to tell anybody, she'll know we have no way of preventing her. Do you think it's worth the risk?"
"Perhaps you're right." She sighed, "I simply feel we ought to be doing SOMEthing. The ball is tomorrow night, but we've discovered nothing yet." The Scarlet Pimpernel seemed to be as great a mystery in England as he was in France. "It might go hard on us with Chauvelin if we have no results to show him," La Cabarrus hated having to report on her actions like a common spy. She prefered to be a free-lance intriguer, setting her own timetable and selling to the highest bidder. "and we will have our hands tied tomorrow." Frowning, she wondered whether she should have invited the girl after all. Teresia, however, was not the sort to doubt her own actions for long. What was done, was done. Besides, she really did want to have the girl in her sight. The Spaniard's logic was simple: keep those you don't trust where you can see them and they won't be able to stab you in the back.
"Well, I really wasn't making the decision," he said with a small smile. "You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. Do you think it's possible she might know something? I assume that the man's actions have only started recently, or at least we have only heard of it recently, which is the same when it comes to this. And I'm betting if he's going back and forth to France then he's having to spend a lot of money for transportation and bribes. So he's... what, at least middle class? And his sentiments mark him an aristocrat." He glanced back at the prostitute, then looked back at Teresia. "So the question is, I guess, do you think she will know anything worth the risk of asking?"
"I don't know. The man's careful... extremely careful, but he doesn't work alone. I reckon he's an aristocrat. I smell boredom in his actions and the middle classes don't get bored," she smiled, "they're too busy making money!" She shrugged her shoulders. "Either way, he must have servants... servants who know his secret or at least find it odd that their master should suddenly be away from home so much. And how does he get to France? Unless he sprouts wings or, more ludicrous still, digs a tunnel, he will have to go by boat. Boats, Donatien, be they private, merchant or naval have sailors and sailors have needs." She looked significantly at the ragged whore up ahead. "We must be as vague as possible, but she might know of someone who has been ferrying this enigma back and forth, yes?"
"I fear I do not know English well enough to be that subtle, so I shall have to leave it up to you," he said with a regretful smile. "Just remember that an aristocrat's servants can be illogically loyal and tightlipped."
"We'll see." She replied non-committally and stalked over to the painted hussy. The strumpet had been watching them continuously and this gave Teresia her lead. She decided to pass herself off as a fellow prostitute, albeit a high-class one, who did not like others eyeing up her customers. It was a dangerous move for the girl might react unfavourably, violently even, but luckily the youngster backed down quite quickly and the two soon formed a bond of commradery. Teresia was acutely aware that Mattieu was waiting for her. "You should see the things I have to do for him." she nodded towards the painter. "The 'quality', pah! Just because I'm foreign they think I'll stoop to anything. Give me an honest servant or sailor any day." The tart agreed, but bemoaned their lack of money. The conversation progressed. The girl's name was Meg, or at least that's what she was calling herself that day. She had fled a loveless abusive home with her two older sisters and run straight into the arms of a lustful abusive pimp. Her sisters were both dead now. Meg was an animated speaker and her emotions danced across her face in quick succession. Finally the two said farewell and Teresia returned to Matthieu. She took his arm and walked in silence until they were out of earshot. "Nothing concrete." she whispered. "She has friends, fellow 'dressmakers'," prostitutes often gave their occupation as that on official documents, "who work further east. Greenwich and Graves End. They've noticed that some of their 'clients' claim to have been to France very often lately. I couldn't press her further," a shrug, "doubt she'd know any details anyway, but I did discover that these sailors all work together... at least they're friends and seem to be around on shore leave at the same time... on a private yacht. It isn't much, but it confirms our theory."
While Teresia was occupied Matthieu strolled around the area, examining his new surroundings, though he never strayed too far from where Teresia and the girl were talking. When she returned he gave her a smile and took her arm. "Well, that's something, anyway. I guess the man is not based in France then. It should not be too difficult for the port authorities to examine all ships going back and forth to England. Certainly there can't be that many of them, can there?" "I would that it were so simple, but I doubt the Scarlet Pimpernel bothers much about port authorities." The path was coming to an end and up ahead was the bandstand once more. "I wouldn't be surprised if he knows the smugglers' routes and anchorages."
"Oh." He frowned slightly. "I really don't know anything about sailing." Now that they were back near the bandstand he knew they'd have to be more subtle about their topic. French was not, after all, an exotic language in which they could speak with impunity. "Have you read any of the local papers yet?" he asked, knowing the question would mean nothing to anyone who might overhear them. "They're always looking for the latest rumors, are they not?"
"They all say more or less the same thing," she put on an exaggerated patriotic voice and intoned, "'We have no more idea than you do who this fellow is, but we're damned glad he's British!'." La Cabarrus burst out laughing. "And there is an amusing cartoon in Punch Magazine. Remind me to show it to you." she said, wiping her eyes. "What was it Louis Capet said about that journal, 'The English will have a revolution, if they continue to allow their monarchy to be publicly ridiculed'? How ironic."
He rolled his eyes at exaggerated patriotism, then smiled at her next comment. "It would be ridiculed no matter what it was published in. Capet's a fool if he thinks his own government managed to supress all the ridicule he's been subject too, long before the revolution."
"Ah, but open ridicule promotes laughter and acts as a steam escape, whereas covert ridicule fuels the existing discontent and adds to the pressure, simply BECAUSE it is forced to be covert." She replied, waxing philosophical.
He shrugged. "Yes, but I doubt it would have stopped the French people from finally taking a stand. The anger was just to deep. And if the English are ever that angry, one magazine isn't likely to make a difference."
"No, I suppose it wouldn't." she said thinking of her history lessons on Magna Carta and the English civil war. "What time is it?" she asked suddenly. The night was clear and the temperature had dropped accordingly. The Spaniard shivered and began to long for the warmth of her hotel room.
"I'm not sure. Late." He glanced at her and saw her shiver. "Would you like to return home? It is getting cold."
"I think that would be the best idea. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow." She was thinking of Hyde Park and the ball in the evening. Taking Matthieu's arm, Teresia led him towards the exit. He gave her a smile and headed for the exit.