Sebastian said, “What about Marie-Thérèse?”
The woman shook her head. “I did not hear most of what was said—my attention was all for Cécile. But I believe they were discussing a meeting between Damion Pelletan and the Princess. A meeting that worried Alexandrie Sauvage.”
Chapter 9
“How much do you know about Marie-Thérèse?” Sebastian asked Gibson as they walked up St. Katharine’s Lane toward the looming bulk of the parish’s decrepit medieval church.
Gibson frowned. “Not much. I know she was thrown into the Temple Prison with her parents during the Revolution and kept there even after the King and Marie Antoinette were sent to the guillotine. But that’s about it. Her brother died there, didn’t he?”
“So they say. But for some reason I’ve never entirely understood, the revolutionaries allowed Marie-Thérèse to live. When she was seventeen, they released her to the Austrians in exchange for some French prisoner of war.”
“And now she’s here in England?”
Sebastian nodded. “Most of the French royal family is here—or at any rate, what’s left of it. Louis XVI’s youngest brother, Artois, has a house on South Audley Street. But the rest live on a small estate out in Buckinghamshire.”
“What’s the older brother’s name—the one who’s so heavy he can hardly walk?”
“That’s Provence.”
Although princes of the blood, the two surviving brothers of Louis XVI were both generally known by the titles given them at birth, the Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois. Both had fled France early in the Revolution, but whether one saw their flights as cowardly or wise tended to reflect one’s politics.
As a female, Marie-Thérèse was barred by French law from inheriting her father’s crown. But after her release from prison, she had married her first cousin, the Duc d’Angoulême, third in line to the French throne behind his childless uncle and his own father. Thus, as Angoulême’s wife, Marie-Thérèse would someday become Queen of France—if there was a restoration.
Earnest and plodding, Angoulême was said to be not nearly as bright as his wife. The last Sebastian had heard, the young French prince was off with Wellington in Spain, while Artois was with his latest mistress up in Edinburgh. But there were more than enough Bourbons and their hangers-on around London to cause mischief.
“So what’s she like, this princess?” Gibson asked.
“Very devout, like her father, Louis XVI. Arrogant and proud, like her mother, Marie Antoinette. And slightly mad, thanks to her experiences during the Revolution. She has devoted her life to the restoration of the Bourbons and the punishment of those she holds responsible for the deaths of her family. I’ve heard it said she’s convinced it is God’s will that the Bourbons will someday be restored to France.”
“And the Revolution and Napoléon are—what? Just an unpleasant interlude?”
“Something like that.”
They paused before the church of St. Katharine’s, Sebastian tipping back his head to let his gaze drift over the west end’s soaring buttresses and delicately hued stained glass windows. Time and shifting politics had not been kind to the graceful old structure. The roof beams sagged; tufts of moss and grass grew from the crumbling stone facade, and black holes showed where visages of saints had in better days smiled down upon the common people. Once, this had been the chapel of a religious community founded and patronized by the queens of England. Then had come Reformation, civil war, revolution, and neglect.
“What?” asked Gibson, watching him.
“I was thinking about revolutions and queens.”
Gibson shook his head, not understanding.
“If England were to make peace with France now, then Napoléon would remain Emperor. I can’t see that going down well with Louis XVI’s daughter. She wants revenge on the men who murdered her mother and father, and she has ambitions of someday becoming Queen of France herself.”
“So what the bloody hell was she doing meeting with a man who formed part of a French peace delegation?”
“It is curious, is it not?” Sebastian turned away from the ancient, soot-stained church. “I think I’d like to have a chat with Madame Sauvage’s servant. Where did you say she lives? Golden Square?”
Gibson nodded. “You can tell her that her mistress is doing as well as can be expected.”
“When will she be out of danger?”
Gibson stared out over the rows of mossy tombstones in the swollen churchyard beside them. “I wish I knew,” he said, his face looking bleak and drawn. “I wish I knew.”