Ibrahim stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, J-F, I was beginning to fear that you were losing your touch. That’s not bad reasoning for a vagabond.’
J-F bowed, his old playfulness returning. He waved his hand as if embarrassed. ‘Compliments, compliments, Ibrahim: you’ll turn my pretty little head if you go on in this manner. Time is short. Cat must write a note to her friends, pledging their support on her behalf, and we must do our part and get her away. But how to do this? I suppose the mayor’s men are waiting outside?’
The bishop nodded. ‘I regret to say that they are.’
‘Hmm, tricky, very tricky.’
Realizing that J-F was throwing me a lifeline with this deal, my thoughts were employed on thinking of a way out of this dressing room without being seen.
‘Should I distract them perhaps?’ suggested the bishop, approaching the door to listen to what was going on outside.
‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ I said.
They both looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Shakespeare, Falstaff – surely you know it?’ J-F shrugged; the bishop looked blank. Clearly French education was deficient. ‘Falstaff escapes from the house in a buck basket – a wash basket.’ I opened the lid and emptied out the contents. ‘Put me in here – cover me with something. Ibrahim distracts the guard while J-F and Renard carry me out.’
‘Excellent,’ chuckled J-F. ‘I’ll fetch Grandfather.’
‘And I’ll make sure she writes that letter. She’s not going without giving her word of honour that we’ll see a reward for this,’ said Ibrahim.
‘We’d better hurry – the performance will be over soon. We want to get her clear of here before everyone comes backstage.’ J-F thrust a bill for tonight’s performance in my hand. ‘Here – use this. I’ve no ink so use the charcoal in the make-up case. Washing basket, indeed!’ he laughed. ‘I could make her my queen for that.’
Ibrahim propelled me to a seat at the dressing table and put the eyebrow pencil into my hand.
‘Mademoiselle, it looks as if you will be la fille mal gardée* tonight, if this works,’ quipped the bishop.
Interlude – A Ballet-Pastoral
L’OPéRA DE PARIS
Donnera aujourd’hui samedi 25 juin 1791
La première Représentation de
La Fille Mal Gardée
Avec un ballet-pastoral
Dear Frank
Forgive my scrawl – I write this in haste. It appears I have to make a rapid exit from Paris thanks to a bishop and a king. I have promised them that you will advance the expenses incurred in my removal – a sum which I will repay as soon as I can. I hope your parents will pardon my presumption but I have little choice.
Tell Johnny and Lizzie that I regret missing their wedding. I send them both my love.
Your friend,
Cat.
P.S. Bid Pedro farewell for me and say that I’ll see him back in London.
* Badly guarded girl
ACT V
SCENE 1 – SLOW BOAT
It was not perhaps the glorious departure from the Opera that I had imagined after my performance, but it was certainly better than the reception that otherwise would have greeted me outside. As I was carried aloft in my wash basket, I could hear the bishop chatting to the guardsmen, telling jokes as he bought them a round.
‘To France!’ The bishop gave the toast, which was followed by some satisfied glugging.
‘Don’t worry, monsieur, we’ll soon have that little English spy where she can do no more sneaking,’ chuckled one man. ‘Mayor Bailly is determined to get a result.’
‘Can’t have any more foreigners sticking their noses into our business,’ said the other. ‘Here, citizen, where are you going with that?’
‘To Le Vestris’s personal washerwoman,’ said Renard in a wheezing tone, completing his performance with a hacking cough.
‘The master’s things, eh? Better not get in the way then.’ The guard waved us through and turned back to his companions. ‘Clever, though, to use a girl. None of us suspected her until you alerted us to her double life.’
Thanks, Ibrahim, I thought sourly as I was jolted past.
‘Yes, she certainly is full of surprises,’ agreed the bishop.
Once out of sight, I was released from my wicker prison.
‘Where to now?’ I asked J-F. It struck me that I hadn’t given any thought past escaping the mayor’s men, and now I was standing in Paris dressed in a ballerina’s peasant costume with no money and no idea how to get home. ‘Do we have time to fetch my things?’
J-F shook his head. ‘Not unless you want them to catch you. Here!’ He threw his cloak round my shoulders. ‘Now let’s get you your ride.’
‘This is where I leave you, mademoiselle,’ said Renard. ‘I must return to check our friend from Notre Dame does not double-cross us.’ He kissed me on the cheeks. ‘Farewell, little dancer. I’m sure we’ll meet again one day.’ He walked swiftly towards the Opera, waving away my thanks.
J-F started off in the opposite direction. ‘We’d better hurry. It won’t take them long to work out they’ve missed you.’
We threaded our way through the quiet backstreets to the river.
‘I think it best that we take passage on a barge,’ J-F explained as he jumped down the steps to the riverside. ‘It’s slow but all roads are bound to be watched and it’s far less likely we’ll run into trouble this way.’
‘We?’ What did this mean?
J-F smiled at my surprise and linked my arm in his. ‘I was thinking it was time I took my summer holiday. It’s terribly unfashionable to stay in town out of season,’ he said, aping the languid tones of the aristocracy. Then he added, in his usual practical manner: ‘Besides, though I trust you, I don’t trust you to be able to talk your way out of trouble. Your accent’s pretty good, but no one would mistake you for a native. No, from now on, you are my silent sister, travelling with her brother to see a sick grandmother in Rouen.’
‘J-F, I don’t know how to thank you . . .’