Chapter Two: The Many Providences of a Nunnery Veil
by Lady Alexis Cassadine
Realizing their helplessness in the Place de la Greve, Lady
Hastings quickly
led her quarry into a ramshackle building just around the corner.
The facade
looked to be the remnants of a large storage building of some
sort, but now
the empty doorway and broken window panes revealed, as though in
testimony,
the charred identification of a ravaging fire.
It was black as pitch inside, and the air hung rank with the scent
of rotted
wood. Isabella wrinkled her nose in disgust as Lady Hastings,
with the aid of
the moonlight spilling from a hole in the thatched roof, drew a
tinderbox from
a rickety shelf and lit a candle.
Isabella noted that Lady Hastings' face, now entirely illuminated
as she held
the candle before her, looked fiercely drawn and upset; no doubt
the news from
the alley spy had come as quite a bitter shock.
Turning, the Guild leader beckoned her two young friends into an
even darker
room at the rear of the narrow building, a room where no moonlight
found
quarter to penetrate. The candlelight revealed, as the trio
passed into the
maw of the chamber, a room much more intact than that in the
building's fore;
the fire had not consumed as much here. Enormous barrels and
broken crates
cluttered the floor about the legs of a lopsided wooden table
sporting a
lantern and a folded map. It was to this table that Lady Hastings
directed
her guests.
Phillipe closed the back room door, or, what was left of it,
behind him and
took a seat on one of four barrels encircling the table, motioning
for
Isabella to do the same.
"I must say that your news provides an unexpected twist to our
plans," said
Lady Hastings, seating herself and shakily lighting the lantern in
the center
of the table. "It's time for a bit of reformation, I'm afraid."
"So you brought us to Paris to help the Scarlet Pimpernel with his
jailbreak
in the morning," Phillipe thought aloud, keeping his voice barely
above a
whisper. "What are we to do now that they expect it?"
Lady Hastings glanced at Phillipe, arched one fine eyebrow, and
grimaced.
"That's precisely what I'd like to know!"
Isabella looked dejectedly at the floor as Lady Hastings turned
and closed one
cold hand over hers.
"Don't you fret, my dear. Without knowing what you've learned, we
could all
have fallen into a very, very well-laid trap. It's only your
encounter in
that alley that is going to save us all."
Isabella jolted her head up in shock...it almost sounded as though
Lady
Hastings was grateful to her for toppling into that man's trap!
She opened to mouth to protest, but one burning glance from
Phillipe silenced
the words in her throat.
"Won't you tell us, Lady Hastings," Phillipe began, "what exactly
the
Pimpernel plans to do this morning? There must be a way to get
around it."
Lady Hastings took a deep breath and cast a furtive glance into
the shadows
over both shoulders. Then, nodding in satisfaciton, she leaned
forward a bit
to tell her story.
"Very well. The Scarlet Pimpernel and his
League have
made plans to watch the Temple Prison just after dawn, in
disguise, of course,
and rescue the Marquis de Vauche and his two young sons as they
are brought
out to be executed. His exact method is unknown to me. All I
know is that,
if what that man in the alley said holds true, there will be a
detailed snare
laid for the Pimpernel and, as he does not expect it, I daresay
there is the
likelihood that he will be caught. At all costs, it is our duty
in the Violet
Guild to prevent this from happening."
"But how?" Isabella whispered, terrified by the prospect that it
was up to the
three of them to save the entire League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
from
discovery.
Lady Hastings looked her companions over carefully.
"That's just
what we have
three hours to decide."
Then, spreading the map of the Temple Prison and surrounding
streets before
them, Lady Hastings set to constructing a plan.
*~
An hour later, the working trio had thrown out the vague trappings
of a few
separate ideas. It was already clear that there was no way to
discourage the
Pimpernel's rescue plan unless the Guilders themselves moved to
rescue the
Marquis and his sons...but that would require entry into the
Temple Prison!
The risks seemed to outnumber the stars, as did the complications!
"We could use disguises, then," Phillipe was saying, stifling a
tremendous
yawn. "We could disguise ourselves as soldiers, or---"
"Yes, but there's only three of us!" Isabella broke in, still a
bit
incredulous.
Lady Hastings scratched a vague trail on the map with one
fingernail.
"Yes,
there are three of us, but only two of us will be able to get into
the Prison.
The last will have to remain outside to escort the Marquis and his
sons to
Percy's lodgings at Rue St. Anne."
Phillipe's head snapped up suddenly. "Then you know where he is?
Well, why
don't you just send a messenger there immediately, and tell Sir
Percy to call
the whole thing off?!"
"I'm afraid you don't understand," said Lady Hastings, shaking her
head sadly.
"Sir Percy doesn't know we exist. As the Violet Guild, I mean.
He musn't
know we exist. Do you really think he would trust, or even
accept, a note
from anyone but a dear friend in Paris?"
Phillipe opened his
mouth to argue,
only to be cut off by Lady Hastings' persistent rebuke.
"Besides,
hiring a
courier risks everything. We musn't trust anyone. And you
yourself said that
the streets are carefully watched! That's why ourselves we must
hide here
until sunrise."
Sunrise. Probably only two hours away by now...Phillipe noted in
silence.
"Well, let's go back to the idea of disguises," Isabella motioned,
absently
twisting a dark lock of her hair about two fingers. A long pause
as everyone
pondered. At last, she shrugged emphatically and shook her head,
saying, "Oh,
right. We haven't any disguises!"
Phillipe was a little surprised to see Lady Hastings smile a
little, take the
candle in her hand, and rise from the table in silence. Four eyes
followed
her slight frame as she moved towards the darkest corner of the
chamber,
picking her delicate way over the broken wood and like debris that
littered
the floor, until at last the candlelight unhid the shape of a
large plank
door, hitherto concealed by the night. Lady Hastings paused for a
moment and
seemed to search the walls for something. Then, apparently
finding what she
sought (a small item that looked like a key), she turned and
opened the door,
drawing twin gasps from the lips of her two companions. There, in
the
darkness, was a closet stocked full of wigs, costumes, and
disguises of all
sorts, hung in layers on a row of pegs in the wall.
Smiling faintly, Lady Hastings replaced the key to its hook on the
wall and
set to explaining.
"This back room was once used by Sir Percy and the League
themselves, until the fire. It was in this room that they plotted a
good many
of their last-minute schemes. We have all the disguises we need right
here."
Isabella smiled and nodded slowly in understanding.
"And the fire? How
did
it happen?"
"My husband, Lord Timothy Hastings, of course, told me that the Bounders
staged the fire themselves, to avoid suspicion by the French authorites.
They
were afraid that, since they were using the deserted building so
frequently at
that time, the authorites would notice and begin watching them. So they
burnt
it and found a new rendez-vous point, on the Rue St. Anne. This supply
room
here," and she indicated the closet, "was kept locked here for
emergencies."
"Like this one," Phillipe added.
Rising from the table and discarding her heavy cloak, Isabella moved
forward.
"Well, I suppose we should all have a look."
The sun crested in a daze of splendour far more glorious than ought to
have
been allotted to a day like this, where the Place de la Greve grovelled
low in
the morning cold and waited for the executions to commence.
Paris was waking; slow, sluggish, and weary at the close of a restless
evening, for evenings in Paris were always restless...these were the
days of
the Terror, after all.
At the sideyard entry of the Temple Prison, a guard tore his wistful
gaze away
from the sunrise and saw three figures approaching. Blinking, he raised
his
musket and tried to look formidable.
Squinting into the breaking sunlight, his eyes noted the foremost
character
first. It looked to be clad in the robes of a prioress, or senior nun,
of the
Catholic or Benedictine church, and seemed to wobble rather than walk,
hands
stationed easily on the stomach. Then, the soldier's eyes bulged as he
noted
the figure's stoutness; it seemed to him that he had seen houses with
less
volume! Pardieu, the woman was huge! Even more so when compared to the
two
slight figures flanking her, nuns of lesser station, perhaps, both of
them
small and fragile in build. All three wore their faces veiled, as all
ladies
of the cloister, at that time, were required to do when seen out in the
open.
Out of perfunctory respect, the soldier bowed his head a little as the
three
ladies drew near; he was even more shocked by the central woman's size
up
close.
"We've come to pray with the prisoners this morning," said the central
nun,
the apparent prioress, speaking in a voice that was quite nasal and far
from
charming.
"I'm sorry, mesdames," the soldier answered, contorting his mouth to
keep from
laughing. Beneath the gauze veil, the woman's face was as unbelievable
as her
size; her nose was large enough to be indecent. Thank the Lord, the
guard
thought to himself, that such women become nuns and have to wear veils.
"No
one is allowed into the Temple Prison at this hour."
The prioress stomped her feet and looked abhorred. "But...but...we've
been
sent all the way from the convent of Rue Petit-Picpus! Shall we go all
the
way back without our morning penitence?"
The soldier jerked upright in attention. Petit-Picpus! Although he was
a
simple soldier and knew very little of religion, he knew that the
Benedictine
nuns of Petit-Picpus were among the most holy in the nation. They were
so
religious that they were all, with the exception of the central nun, now
undoubtedly a high-stationed prioress, sentenced to a lifetime vow of
silence,
never ate meat, slept on straw mats at all times of the year, and never
even
took baths. He gulped as he realized that his soul could be damned to
hell---or worse---if he didn't let them in.
Still, out of sense of duty, he attempted a brief protest. "But my
orders,
mesdames---"
The soldier nearly leapt three feet backwards as the prioress spread her
arms
in a wild arc and brought them down again clasped in prayer. Seeing her
actions, the two lesser sisters bowed their heads and likewise folded
their
hands.
"Oh, Lord!" the great prioress sang out to the sky, her voice throbbing
with a
dramatic and grand vibrato, "please take pity on this foolish, simple
man and
spare him from the flames! Help him, rather, to see the folly of his
ways
and, by Your majestic hand, turn from them!"
"Let him turn from them," the two smaller nuns chanted in unison.
The soldier felt a bitter chill run along his spine as each of his
accumulated
superstitions aroused themselves.
"Lord, I pray You will not condemn this pitiful man's soul merely
because he
stands in our noble way of of pleasing You, Lord of the Universe! I beg
you
direct his step from the way of Evil as he stands now, preventing our
holy
ventures with his thanklessly-granted authority!"
"Forgive his thanklessly-granted authority," the nuns chanted.
One of the lesser nuns caught the soldier casting frantic glances about
the
sideyard, as though he expected to be struck down by lightning at any
moment.
"I pray Thee, Heavenly Father, save him and let not the clutches of
Hellfire
fall upon him and his ignorance of You and reluctance to---"
"Pardon, mesdames," the soldier interjected, his brow beaded with cold
sweat,
"but I just remembered that the rules have been changed. You may enter
the
prison freely, and with my escort."
The prioress, seemingly satisfied, silenced her wailings and stared at
him.
Then a brief smile crept serenely over her homely face. She looked to
heaven
once more and cried, very loudly, "Thank you, Lord!"
The soldier grimaced shyly. "Come then, I'll lead you to the
prisoners."
Bustling past him, and barely squeezing herself through the door as she
did
so, the largest nun made the sign of the cross wildly in the air and
said,
"Bless you, my son."
The soldier blushed a bit and followed her down
the dark
hallway, signalling to another sentry up ahead to take his place at the
doorway. He didn't notice Lady Hastings, in disguise, of course,
detaching
herself from the trio of nuns and making her silent way back to the
sideyard,
to wait eagerly for the return of her victorious quarry.
~*
Once the guard had led them to the main area of the prison, he left
their
company prompty, apparently still embarassed by his odd encounter in the
sideyard. The remaining two nuns were glad of his departure, and set to
work
immediately.
Phillipe, disguised immaculately as the huge prioress, moved quickly to
one of
the nearest prisoners and asked where the Marquis de Vauche could be
found.
Absently, the man pointed to the furthermost corner of the room, where
indeed
sat a very handsome, if very sad-looking, man, probably in his early
thirties,
and two young boys, one asleep in his knee, the other on his shoulder.
They
looked to be very close in age.
Isabella felt a tremendous lump forming in her throat. There were
children
everywhere, with wide eyes, torn clothes and dirty faces, some crying,
but
most asleep on their parents' laps. And the poor parents...to have to sit
helplessly and wait for themselves and their children to be lead to
their
deaths...everywhere, through the mask of her nunnery veil, she saw
tarnished
silks and shredded laces where once had been divine finery, dishveled
wigs and
filthy, distorted faces where once had been grace and beauty, and
haunted eyes
and lips where smiles had once danced and laughter had rippled the air.
Here
and now, she saw only condemnation and profound misery. Misery, and the
prevailing, warning presence of death...
Phillipe motioned to her, and staggered, gathering his weight in his
hands
once more, to the corner harboring the shattered-looking Marquis de
Vauche and
his children.
The Marquis gazed forlornly up at them as they approached; not a trace
of
mirth touched his expression, unlike the soldier at the sideyard door.
He
waited patiently for the faux prioress to speak.
"We've come to pray with you, sir," said Phillipe in a low, soothing
voice
that woke one of the boys from his faint sleep. "If you would come with
us to
the back of the prison..?"
and he gestured to a dark room in the rear of the main chamber, where
the
prisoners were, once every two weeks, allowed to go to confession, at
the holy
insistence of the Catholic church.
The Marquis followed the direction of the hand wordlessly, then returned
his
gaze to that of the prioress.
"I'm afraid there would be little object to that, madame," he said, in a
broken voice that plunged deep into Isabella's already-softened heart.
"My
boys and I are to be led from here today."
Phillipe sadly noted that the Marquis directly avoided using any words
more
articulate than "led from here" for the benefit of the two young
children
stirring about him.
"Perhaps, but if you will keep faith and come with us to the
confessionary,
you shall be saved."
The Marquis took a moment to tousle the dark hair of the boy on his
knee, and
then rose slowly, wearily, and moved to the rear of the chamber.
Phillipe and Isabella, casting stray glances over their shoulders,
followed
closely behind.
*~
The confessionary door closed with a discreet "click" and Phillipe
turned to
address the Marquis seriously.
"Come," he said, lifting his robes, much to the utter shock of the
Marquis,
and detaching from his belt the bundle of straw and additional nun
costume
that had made him so enormous in the first place. "Put this on."
The Marquis accepted the nun costume in incredulous shock. "What---what
is
the meaning of this?" he asked quietly.
Isabella laid a gentle hand on his arm.
"Don't be afraid. We've been
sent to
get you out of here today."
"And...and my boys?" the Marquis asked desperately, his voice suddenly
raw
with amazement.
"Come here, children," Phillipe said, bending down with ease now that
his
cumbersome belly had been removed. "We're going to take you away from
this
place."
The Marquis, at last deciding that these two visitors knew what they
were
doing, turned to clad himself in the nun's costume as Isabella moved
forward
to help the boys. The latter thought she heard the older man murmur a
series
of tearfully beautiful prayers to heaven.
Ever so gently, she lifted the first child, who looked to be no more
than two
or three, and secured his hands into two loops on Phillipe's belt, until
he
could hang there quite easily, with his knees drawn up to his chest and
his
feet settled in a pair of stirrups attached to the special belt,
procured that
very morning from stable accessories by Phillipe himself. Next, his
slightly
older brother was attached in the same manner, giggling a bit at the odd
position in which they both found themselves.
The giggles increased when the Marquis turned round; Isabella was just
helping
him drape the veil over his face as the boys recognized their father in
women's clothing. The Marquis shushed them promptly.
Isabella knelt then and placed a trembling hand on each of the boys'
faces.
"Now then, children, there is only one way for us to get out you of
here, and
that is for you to be competely silent until we tell you that it is
safe. Do
you understand?"
The boys nodded absently and giggled a little.
Isabella cast an uncertain glance at the veiled Marquis.
Nodding, the man knelt in the hay and turned to his children, his face
unsmiling. Isabella removed the veil to produce a more serious effect.
"Boys, you listen to me. Not a word until our friends here tell you
that is
is safe. Not a single sound. You want to get out of here, don't you?"
The boys nodded feverishly.
"Very well then. Not a sound."
The boys were silent as Phillipe dropped the folds of his padded black
robe
over the boys' heads and shifted his weight. Isabella helped him to
adjust
the shape of his belly as the Marquis looked on with wondering eyes.
"Let's get out of here then," Isabella said, and, replacing the Marquis'
veil
over his still-awed face, she turned the handle of the confessionary
door and
prepared to go back into the fire.
*~
Only a few heads turned as the trio abandonned the confessionary, and
those
only turned back again in the next instant. The only guards to be found
in
the spreading chamber were cluttered near the main entryway, chatting
and
paying less than no attention to the movements of the three
harmless-looking
ladies in black.
As the three of them drew up close to the doorway, the soldier from the
beginning of the venture looked them over with curiousity.
"Finished so soon, mesdames? Haven't you any more prayers for the day?"
"There is little praying to be done here, sir," said Phillipe the
prioress,
once more assuming that same cranky, nasal tone. "These people are all
doomed, are they not?"
"Well...yes, of course," said the soldier, throwing his shoulders back
with
pride at recalling the misguided import of his occupation. "They're all
wretched aristocrats. We all know the city will be better off without
them."
Phillipe held back a viscious urge to attack the guard for such
words...then,
remembering the silent children clinging to his waist, fully dependent
on the
discretion of his actions, he restrained himself and departed down the
tunnel
with a forced and pretentious "harumph!"
A couple of the soldiers snickered a little as Phillipe attempted to
squeeze
himself and his generous padding once more through the prison door.
The sentry from the sideyard hushed them frantically, and attempted to
quickly
explain the consequences of teasing a lady of God so, only receiving a
volley
of riotous laughter for his efforts. Indignant, he turned to escort the
nuns
from the prison in silence.
~*
Isabella, Phillipe, and the Marquis crossed the sideyard with the weight
of
the soldier's gaze upon them. They felt him thinking...three had gone
in, and
three had gone out again. Perfect. With any luck, there would be no
suspicion, until later that morning when the Marquis de Vauche and his
children were found missing...
The carriage hired by Lady Hastings, now replaced in her usual garments,
waited just ahead, placed at the corner just out of the sight of the
guards at
the Temple. Isabella, her heart heavy as lead with the memory of all she had
seen in the grim prison, found herself falling a step behind her
companions. Pensive, she couldn't seem tear her thoughts away from the
sorrow, the infinite humiliation and--- Only the rattle of an
approaching carriage brought her back to reality. A black carriage,
drawn by two equally black horses, was headed straight for her. She
dodged the wheels effortlessly, turning to watch the carriage reel to
the side, and, as she did, something there in the darkness of the
vehicle made her blood run like winter rain. The man from the alley! He
sat there, in the carriage, with the bearing of a king, looking out at
her...their eyes met for only a second... Isabella recognized him in a
heartbeat; the little she had seen of him in the alley seemed forever
engraved into her mind, and she felt that she could have identified his
lean features anywhere. Fortunately, by the providence of the veil, he
didn't seem to recognize her. Or did he..? Then, the face was gone, but
she watched in horror as the carriage slowed to a halt in the sideyard
of the Temple Prison. She took a furtive glance over her
shoulder...Phillipe, by this time, was on his way a few dozen paces
ahead; he had quickened his step with the appearance of the speeding
carriage.
A sudden urge drove her to act against her every conviction; instead of
following Phillipe, as she knew she should have done, she hid herself
behind a vacant cart in the sideyard to watch the antics of the men in
the carriage, removing her nun's robes, habit, and veil and concealing
them beneath the very handy cart. She knew not why she removed them,
now standing clad in the new lavendar gown she had purchased before her
journey to France...she only assumed that it would be easier to make a
hasty escape without the cumbersome outer garments... Just in case, of
course, a very hasty escape was called for...
*~
The first to step forth
was a soldier, clad in
the same intimidating red, white, and blue of the new Republic. The
next was a lackey of some sort, clad in very simple black-and-white
lower-class garb, who stepped down from the carriage to hold the door
open for the next to disembark. The soldier at the Temple door
approached the carriage and opened his mouth to speak...Isabella leaned
forth, ears attentive.
"The Temple does not open for another half-hour,
Citizen Chauvelin."
The next man to emerge from the carriage, clad head
to foot in solid black broadcloth but for the Republic ribbon pinned to
his lapel, the man from the alley, answered at the sound of his name.
"The governor of the Prison expects me."
That voice! Chauvelin. That
most wretched of names... Isabella turned to flee in terror...the air
flew from her lungs in a rush as her body collided with those of two
French soldiers, the both of them far taller, stronger, meaner, and more
fluently armed than she. Thus, she didn't even attempt to fight as they
took her arms and marched her, scarcely holding off a fit of hysteria,
into the darkness of Citizen Chauvelin's black shadow on the cobblestone
pavement.
The End
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