Her futile banging echoed through the empty house. As the rain beat upon her bare head, she heard the hideous voice of Marat whispering, “You are too late—too late!” She leaned against the door, letting the rain wash over her in hard sheets, until she felt Shahin’s hand beneath her arm, leading her away across the soggy lawn to the shelter of the gazebo.
In despair she threw herself facedown on the wooden bench that circled the inner perimeter, sobbing until she felt her heart would break. Shahin set Charlot on the floor, and the child crawled to Mireille, pulling himself up on her wet skirts to stand teetering on unsteady legs. He wrapped his tiny hand around her finger and gripped it with great force.
“Bah,” said Charlot as Mireille looked into his startling blue eyes. He was frowning, his sage, serious face dripping beneath the wet hood of his little djellaba.
Mireille laughed. “Bah, toi,” she said, pulling back the hood. She ruffled his silky red hair. “Your father has disappeared. You’re supposed to be a prophet—why didn’t you foresee this?”
Charlot looked at her gravely. “Bah,” he said again.
Shahin sat beside her on the bench. His hawklike face, tinted the pale blue of his tribe, seemed even more mysterious in the eerie light reflecting from the violent storm that railed outside the lattices.
“In the desert,” he said softly, “a man may be found by the tracks of his camel, for each beast leaves a print as recognizable as a face. Here, the path may be more difficult to follow. But a man, like a camel, has his own custom—dictated by his breeding, conformation, and gait.”
Mireille laughed inwardly at the idea of tracking Talleyrand’s limping footsteps through the cobbled streets of London. But then she saw what Shahin meant.
“A wolf always returns to its known haunts?” she said.
“At least,” said Shahin, “long enough to leave his scent.”
But the wolf whose scent they sought had been removed—not only from London, but from the ship that was now lashed firmly to the rock that shredded it. With the other passengers, Talleyrand and Courtiade sat in the open boats hauling under oar to the darkened coastline of the Channel Islands and safe refuge from the driving storm.
It was refuge of another sort that relieved Talleyrand’s mind, for this chain of little islets, nestled so close within the coastal waters of France, was in fact English and had been since the time of William of Orange.
The natives still spoke an antique form of Norman French that even the French could not comprehend. Though they paid their tithes to England for protection against plunder, they retained their ancient Norman law, coupled with the fiery independence of spirit that made them useful and brought them wealth in times of war. The Channel Isles were famous for their shipwrecks—and the great shipyards that outfitted everything from warships to privateers. It was to these yards that Talleyrand’s ruined ship would mercifully be hauled for repairs. And meanwhile, though he might not rest in complete comfort here, at least he would be safe from French arrest.
Their rowboat sheered around the dark rocks of granite and grès pourpre that bound the coastline, the sailors pulling hard against the powerful waves until at last they sighted a stony strip of beach and hauled her in. The weary passengers went on foot in the driving rain, up mud trails that passed through high open fields of wet flax and dormant heather, into the nearest town.
Talleyrand and Courtiade, the satchel of pieces miraculously intact, adjourned to a nearby pub to warm themselves with brandy by the fire before seeking more permanent quarters. It was not clear how many weeks or months they might be stranded here waiting to continue their journey. Talleyrand inquired of the pubkeeper how fast their local shipyards could repair a ship with keel and hull as badly damaged as theirs.
“Ask the shipyard master,” replied the man. “He’s just come in from viewing the wreck. Having a pint in the corner there.”
Talleyrand rose and crossed the room to a ruddy man in his mid-fifties who sat, both hands wrapped around his ale tankard. He looked up, saw Talleyrand and Courtiade standing there, and motioned them to be seated.
“From the wreck, are you?” said the older man, who’d overheard their conversation. “It was bound for America, they say. An unlucky place. It’s where I’m from myself. I shall never fail to find amazement in how you French all flock to it, as if it were the promised land.”
The man’s speech indicated good breeding and education—his posture suggested he’d spent more hours in a saddle than in a shipyard. His bearing was that of one accustomed to command. Yet everything in his tone conveyed a weariness, a bitterness with life. Talleyrand resolved to know more.
“America seems a promised land to me,” he said. “But I’m a man left with few options. If I return to my homeland, I’d swiftly taste the guillotine, and thanks to Minister Pitt I’ve recently been invited to part company with Britain as well. But I’ve letters of reference to some of your most distinguished countrymen—Secretary Hamilton and President Washington. Perhaps they’ll find some use for an aging Frenchman out of work.”
“I know them both well,” his companion replied. “I served long in George Washington’s command. It was he who made me brigadier and major general, and gave me command of Philadelphia.”
“But I am astounded!” cried Talleyrand. If the fellow had held these posts, what on earth was he doing in obscurity, rebuilding wrecked ships in the Channel Isles and chandlering privateers? “Then perhaps you could see your way clear to write another letter in my behalf to your president? I hear he is difficult to see.…”
“I’m afraid I’m the one man whose reference would put you farther from his door,” said the other with a grim smile. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Benedict Arnold.”
The opera, the casinos, the gaming clubs, the salons … These were the places, thought Mireille, that Talleyrand would frequent. The places to which she must gain access in order to ferret him out in London.
But as she returned to her inn, she saw the leaflet pinned to the wall that revised all her decisions before they were made:
GREATER THAN MESMER!
An Astounding Feat of Memory!
Lauded by the French Philosophes!
Undefeated by Frederick the Great,
Phillip Stamma, or the Sire Legal!
Tonight!
BLINDFOLD EXHIBITION
by the Famous Chess Master
ANDRÉ PHILIDOR
Parsloe’s Coffee House
St. James Street
Parsloe’s on St. James Street was a coffee house and pub where chess was the principal activity. Within these walls one found the cream not only of the London chess world, but of European society. And the biggest attraction was André Philidor, the French chess player whose fame had spread through all of Europe.
As Mireille entered the heavy doors of Parsloe’s that evening, she stepped into another world—a silent world of wealth. Before her spread an array of richly polished wood, dark green watered silk, and thick Indian carpets, lit by mellow oil lamps in smoky glass bowls.
The room was still nearly empty except for a few porters setting out the bar glasses and a solitary man, perhaps in his late fifties, who sat on an upholstered chair near the door. He was well upholstered himself, with broad midriff, heavy jowls, and a second chin that covered half his gold lace cravat. He was dressed in a velvet coat of such deep red that it nearly matched the broken veins of his nose. His beady eyes, from the depths of puffy folds, regarded Mireille with interest—and with even more interest the strange blue-faced giant who entered in purple silk robes behind her, bearing in his arms a tiny red-haired child!
Tossing down the last of his liquor, he set the glass on the table with a bang, calling to the barkeep for more. Then he fumbled to his feet and lurched toward Mireille as if crossing the unsteady deck of a ship.
“A red-haired wench, and prettier I’ve never seen,” he said, slurring his words. “The red-gold tresses that break a man’s heart, the kind t
hat wars are started over—like Deirdre of the Sorrows.” He pulled off his own foolish-looking peruke, sweeping it below his midriff in a mock bow and reviewing her figure on the way down and up. Then, in his drunken stupor, he shoved the powdered wig in his pocket, seized Mireille’s hand, and kissed it gallantly.
“A woman of mystery, complete with exotic factotum! I introduce myself: I am James Boswell of Affleck, lawyer by vocation, historian by avocation, and descendant of the bonny Stuart kings.” He nodded to her, suppressing a hiccup, and crooked out his arm. Mireille glanced at Shahin, whose face, as he understood no English, remained an impartial mask.
“Not the Monsieur Boswell who wrote the famous History of Corsica?” said Mireille in her charmingly accented English. This seemed too great a coincidence. First Philidor, then Boswell, of whom Letizia Buonaparte had had so much to say—both here at the same club. Perhaps not a coincidence after all.
“The same,” said the swaying drunk, leaning against Mireille’s arm as if she were to support him. “I suppose by your accent that you are French, and do not approve of the liberal views that I, as a young man, expressed against your government?”
“To the contrary, monsieur,” Mireille assured him, “I find your views fascinating. And we in France have a new government now—more along the lines that you and Monsieur Rousseau proposed so long ago. You were acquainted with the gentleman, were you not?”
“I knew them all,” he said carelessly. “Rousseau, Paoli, Garrick, Sheridan, Johnson—all the great ones, in whatever walk of life. Like a camp follower, I make my bed in the mud of history.…” He chucked her beneath the chin. “And other places as well,” he said with a ribald laugh.
They’d reached his table, where a fresh drink was already waiting. Picking up the glass, he took another healthy swig. Mireille sized him up boldly. Though drunk, he was no fool. And it was surely no accident that two men connected with the Montglane Service were here tonight. She should be on her guard, for there might be others.
“And Monsieur Philidor, who is performing here tonight—do you know him as well?” she asked with careful innocence. But beneath the calm, her heart was pounding.
“Everyone interested in chess is interested in your famous countryman,” replied Boswell, the glass halfway to his lips. “This is his first public appearance in some time. He’s not been well. But perhaps you know that? As you’re here tonight—shall I take it you play the game?” His beady eyes were now alert despite his intoxication, the double entendre too apparent.
“That is what I’ve come for, monsieur,” said Mireille, dropping her schoolgirl charm and fixing him with an obtuse smile. “As you seem to know the gentleman, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to introduce us when he arrives?”
“Only too charmed, I’m sure,” said Boswell, though he didn’t sound it. “In fact, he’s here already. They’re setting things up in the back room.” Offering his arm, he led her to the wood-paneled chamber with brass chandeliers. Shahin followed silently.
There, several men had gathered. A tall, gangly man not much older than Mireille, with pale skin and a beaklike nose, was setting forth pieces on one of the chessboards at the center of the room. Beside these tables stood a short, sturdy fellow in his late thirties, with a luxurious head of sand-colored hair falling in loose curls about his face. He was speaking to an older man whose stooped back was turned to her.
She and Boswell approached the tables.
“My dear Philidor,” he cried, slapping the older man on the shoulder with strength, “I interrupt only to introduce this ravishing young beauty from your homeland.” He ignored Shahin, who watched with the black eyes of a falcon while remaining beside the door.
The older man turned and looked into Mireille’s eyes. Clothed in the old-fashioned style of Louis XV—though his velvets and stockings seemed rather the worse for wear—Philidor was a man of dignity and aristocratic bearing. Though tall, he seemed as fragile as a dried flower petal, his translucent skin nearly as white as his powdered wig. He bowed slightly, pressing his lips to Mireille’s hand. Then he addressed her with great sincerity.
“It’s rare to find such radiant beauty beside a chessboard, madame.”
“Rarer yet to find it dangling on the arm of an old degenerate like Boswell here,” interjected the sandy-haired man, turning his dark, intense eyes upon Mireille. As he too bowed to kiss her hand, the tall young fellow with the hawklike nose pressed closer to be next in line.
“I have never had the pleasure of meeting Monsieur Boswell before entering this club,” Mireille told her entourage. “It is Monsieur Philidor I’ve come to see. I am a great admirer of his.”
“No more than we!” agreed the first young man. “My name is William Blake, and this young goat pawing at the earth beside me is William Wordsworth. Two Williams for the price of one.”
“A houseful of writers,” added Philidor. “That is to say, a houseful of paupers—for these Williams both profess to be poets.”
Mireille’s mind was racing, trying to remember what she could of these two poets. The younger one, Wordsworth, had been at the Jacobin Club and met David and Robespierre, who both knew Philidor as well. David had told her as much. She also recalled that Blake, whose name was already famous in France, had written works of great mysticism, some about the French Revolution. How did it all fit together?
“You’ve come to see the blindfold exhibition?” Blake was saying. “This feat is so remarkable that Diderot immortalized it in the Encyclopédie. It begins shortly. In the meanwhile, we scrape together our resources to offer you a cognac.…”
“I’d prefer some information,” said Mireille, determined to take the upper hand. She might never again have these men together in a room, and there was surely a reason they were all here.
“You see, it’s another chess game I am interested in, as Monsieur Boswell might have guessed. I know what he tried to discover in Corsica so many years ago, what Jean-Jacques Rousseau was seeking. I know what Monsieur Philidor learned from the great mathematician Euler while in Prussia, and what you, Monsieur Wordsworth, learned from David and Robespierre.”
“We’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Boswell interjected, though Philidor had grown pale and was groping for a seat.
“Yes, gentlemen, you know quite well what I am talking about,” said Mireille, pressing her advantage as the four men stared at her. “I’m speaking of the Montglane Service, which you have met to discuss tonight.… You needn’t look at me in such horror. Do you think I would be here if I didn’t know your plans?”
“She knows nothing,” Boswell said. “There are people arriving for the exhibition. I suggest we postpone this conversation.…”
Wordsworth had poured a glass of water, which he handed to Philidor, who looked as if he were about to faint. “Who are you?” the chess master asked Mireille, staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
Mireille took a deep breath. “My name is Mireille, and I come from Montglane,” she said. “I know the Montglane Service exists, for I have held its pieces in my hands.”
“You are David’s ward!” exclaimed Philidor with a gasp.
“The one who disappeared!” said Wordsworth. “The one they were seeking.…”
“There is someone we must confer with,” said Boswell hastily. “Before we go further—”
“There is no time,” interrupted Mireille. “If you tell me what you know, I will confide in you as well. But now—not later.”
“A bargain, I should say,” mused Blake, pacing about as if lost in reverie. “I confess I’m interested in this service for reasons of my own. Whatever your cohorts’ wishes, my dear Boswell, they are of no concern to me. I learned of the service in another fashion, by a voice crying in the wilderness.…”
“You’re a fool!” cried Boswell, banging his fist drunkenly on the table. “You think the ghost of your dead brother gives you a unique patent upon this service. But there are others who understand its value—who are not dro
wning in mysticism.”
“If you regard my motives as too pure,” snapped Blake, “you should not have invited me to join your cabal tonight.” With a cold smile, he turned to Mireille. “My brother Robert died some years ago,” he explained. “He was all I loved on this green earth. As his spirit left his body, it spoke to me with a sigh—and told me to seek the Montglane Service, the wellspring and source of all mysteries since time began. Mademoiselle, if you know something of this object, I shall be glad to share the little I know. And Wordsworth, too, if I’m not misled.”
In horror, Boswell turned and hurried from the room. Philidor glanced sharply at Blake, putting his hand on the younger man’s arm as if to caution him.
“Perhaps at last,” said Blake, “I shall lay my brother’s bones to rest.”
He took Mireille to a seat near the back and went off to get her cognac as Wordsworth settled Philidor at the table at center. Guests were filtering into the room as Shahin, with Chariot in his arms, came to sit behind Mireille.
“The drunken one left the building,” Shahin said quietly. “I smell danger. Al-Kalim feels it, too. We must leave this place at once.”
“Not yet,” said Mireille. “There is something I must learn first.”
Blake returned with Mireille’s drink and sat beside her. The last of the guests were taking their seats when Wordsworth came back to join them. A man in front was explaining the rules of play as Philidor sat blindfolded at the board. The two poets leaned toward Mireille as Blake began in low voice.
“There’s a well-known tale in England,” he said, “regarding the famous French philosopher François-Marie Arouet, known as Voltaire. Around Christmas of 1725—over thirty years before I was born—Voltaire one night escorted the actress Adrienne Lecouvreur to the Comédie-Française in Paris. During the entr’acte, Voltaire was publicly insulted by the Chevalier de Rohan Chabot, who shouted across the lobby, ‘Monsieur de Voltaire, Monsieur Arouet—why don’t you decide what your name is?’ Voltaire, never at a loss for retorts, called back, ‘My name begins with me—yours ends with you.’ Not long after, the chevalier had Voltaire beaten by six rogues for this retort.