�You�ve got to hate the Pont Neuf,� Percy said to Hastings as they approached the church. �Lines of beggars assaulting every carriage and the driver has no choice but to stop with the traffic holdin� him back. Paris is more crowded every year!�

Clump, clump, clump. He felt each footstep in his immaculately polished boots as he strode the street mired in mud and manure. Wisps of straw. A broken branch. A wizened potato. As Percy watched a hand reached toward the potato. Dirty broken nails, an expanse of naked arm � thin, so thin! A whirl of ragged skirts as the starving wretch nabbed the prize and tore down the road as if demons followed, intending to wrest the potato from her.

There was a buzzing in Percy�s brain, an awareness of the smallest sound, the faintest smell. The air felt heavy as it riffled the hair wisping against his shoulders. "Keep your head about you, Hastings. I expect to rely on you heavily today.�

Percy felt more fully alive than he had in days � brimming with essential, masculine vitality. �I can't say how strong Ffoulkes is; he may not be fully recovered from his shoulder wound.� Hastings faced him eye to eye, and Percy had to hold back the urge to clasp the lad�s shoulder protectively. Hastings was a man full-grown for all that he was young and his manhood fully proved. That he had the tender eyes of a collie or a shepherdess was disconcerting.

�Dewhurst,� Percy said, his eyes glittering with intent, �we'll let him keep his own feet and not rely on his strength for anyone beyond himself.� Hastings nodded and Percy grinned, his teeth animal white in the bright sun. �Bathurst, with his strong back, can be of assistance, as can Armand � for all that he's young, he's a strong sapling."

Hastings, grinned, proud to be needed. Percy clapped him on the shoulder. There was a taint of wildness in Hastings� eye that Percy responded to. "There." He motioned to the thin steeple rising above a series of sloping roofs. "You go first and I'll follow in a few minutes. If you recognize anyone, don't speak until you're safely inside. We don't want to draw attention to the fact that a meeting his taking place in the church."

Percy scanned the three streets from his position � one the Pont Neuf bridge cross the Seine , clogged with traffic. Crossing any bridge in a hurry was impossible. To the left it seemed that most of the traffic was not moving. A food seller had set up a barrow next to a puppet show and he was doing a brisk trade among the audience. As he watched, Percy saw a bedraggled nymph slide a bony hand into a young man�s pocket. He felt nothing with eyes rivetted to the stage.

Scanning to the right there was a coach blocking the narrow street, forcing everyone else to hug the walls of the buildings on either side as it roared by, the driver indiscriminately lashing at his horses and the pedestrians with his whip. Sunlight on silver-blonde hair made him stop. Look again. Tall enough to be Ffoulkes. Not close enough to make out the features. Odd that Ffoulkes would be without a hat. Then the scene shifted and Percy realized he was looking at a blonde woman disentangling herself from an embrace. Percy grinned, pulled the brim of his hat down lower and walked toward the church.

At first it appeared that no one was inside the church, then Percy recognised a familiar tricorne hat � Bathurst! lounging in the front pew facing the vestibule. Percy hurried up the centre aisle. Bathurst got to his feet and two shaggy heads raised from pews near the front � one the remarkable silver head of Ffoulkes and the other Armand�s flop of auburn curls.

"Sink me; I�m not the last to arrive, am I?" Percy asked.

Percy glanced at the face of each lieutenant in turn; Hastings , and Dewhurst, each one leaning against opposite sides of the doorframe leading into the vestible. Armand�s controlled excitement hovered beneath the surface as he got to his feet and shadowed Blakeney. Bathurst , moved slowly to stand next to the others where he towered over Dewhurst.

"Let�s pool whatever information we have, then start on a plan of action." Percy caught Armand�s glance and with a brusque nod invited him to begin.

Percy had blanched over Armand�s words. "Good lord! Didn�t Marguerite tell you to behave yourself? I can�t imagine how you�ve managed to . . . well, no doubt it�s a simple matter to fall into bad company." Percy clapped Armand on the shoulder. "Look you at my young friend, Armand Saint-Just. A fine scout! What an excellent job you�ve done at ferreting out the information we need. Because of you, the Count du Tournai and his family will be relocated safely in England."

A discreet cheer of "Here! Here!" and a great deal of back-slapping were Armand�s reward. Percy picked Hastings out from the crowd and said, "Milord of Hastings is right when he says you will have to be especially discreet, Armand. Best to see you in London as soon as possible!"

"So," Percy continued, "the count is being held in La Force. Not so difficult that � Dewhurst and I know something of La Force. And Ffoulkes, providing your shoulder doesn�t pain you too much. Bathurst � you have a talent for chatting with the ladies! I think I should send you to take tea with the countess. Do I recall correctly, Tony, you saying that the Count du Tournai was not so long ago Ambassador to England ? Surely his lady-wife will take a dish of tea with an elegant young gentleman. Bathurst , I want to you see the nephew and the daughter. Rue Plumet. . . . is there a mews at the rear of the garden, or do they accept deliveries from a door beneath the front entry? And � I know it will be difficult � can you try to discover whether either of these ladies can ride a horse?"

�Heavens no! Never has God created a woman who could keep a secret.� Percy shook his head in amazement. �I don�t care what ruse you use to gain entry to the house, but take a look at the entries, front and rear, as I said. Mews, if they have one. Surely an expert such as yourself can steer a conversation to their riding capabilities and the mews will tell you if they own horses or not.�

He was still shaking his head. Bathurst, dear soul, with his one-track mind. �Try to remember this is a serious undertaking, a misplaced word to the wrong person and that weasel Chauvelin will be on to us.�

�Yes, a conveyance. What are the chances either woman can ride? City-dwellers.� Percy shook his head. �Unbelievable how different people are. In London any woman of quality learns to ride, but in Paris � no! Most of the Parisians only keep carriage horses.�

Percy was still shaking his head over this shocking difference in customs when he added, �Oh, MacKensie � do consider findin� an unmarked coach. If it turns out that Bathurst discovers a barouche on the premises with du Tournai�s crest on the doors, that doesn�t make your job easier � quite the reverse. No one escapes in a coach with their family crest on the door.�

An appreciative titter ran through his friends at Percy�s wit. �Silly women � I can just picture the countess indignantly refusing to ride in any but her own carriage. She�d demand her little lap dog, too. Travelling secretary, smelling salts, embroidery hoop and five pounds of coloured string.� Tony began to guffaw at the picture � it was his aunt, the Duchess of Buckingham, that Percy was describing; a woman they�d both hated all their lives.

Percy brightened at once. "Ah, sorry to have neglected that bit! I had already decided that Armand must ride out of Paris today. In fact, I have the perfect conveyance for him � a farmer�s cart. And a perfectly disreputable coat that smells of having held onions for a week. I�m sendin� you alone � unless Ffoulkes would prefer to accompany you." Percy turned toward Andrew and caught him massaging his shoulder. Andrew dropped his hand quickly.

"You go with Armand then. I�ll find something for you to wear. I�m sure you wouldn�t have anything stinking enough to resemble a peasant�s jerkin..."

Looking confused, Percy gazed up from his huddle with Ffoulkes and Armand to ask, �Meet? Meet who? When?� Bathurst, standing across the vestibule where the curtains shielded the alcove from view hovered expectantly.

�I�m sorry, my dear fellow,� Percy said. �I imagine you will notify me when you have the information I have requested. You know how to reach me . . . give an unsigned message to Martiny the letter-writer who has a stall on the left bank side of the Pont Neuf. He will get the message to me so that I might meet with you the next day.� Percy eyed Bathurst critically. �Wherever you choose. Uh, perhaps not rue Richelieu. Anywhere else.�

�Despite the answer Bathurst returns with as to whether or not the ladies can ride, we�ll need fresh horses for the rest of us � nearly a dozen in all. Lord save us, we�ll look like a travelling circus!� The obvious answer was that they mustn�t travel together. � Hastings ; you can see to these du Tournai ladies,� Percy said automatically. �Discreet carriage. Get them away at daylight so it appears they�re off for a drive in the country. Keep them hard on the road until nightfall � well, unless the women complain so you can�t bear to hear it.� Percy had a lifetime of distressed women to draw on.

�Lord, I hope not!� He looked aghast. �Bathurst has already left to meet the du Tournais. We�ll get the women away tomorrow morning if all goes well. As for myself, I intend to pay a little visit to La Force and see to the count.� The supreme confidence in his voice was meant to belay any suspicion that he was the slightest bit afraid of taking on the most difficult task himself. What were the odds that he�d meet up with someone who recognized him? And how recognizable might he be in his disguise?

�Dewhurst, you and I will rendezvous here this evening at sunset. If my luck holds, I won�t be alone.�

Percy left the church and walked across the bridge. At the left bank he paused at Martiny's bench and left the man a couple of silver coins without any directions, then he proceeded to a building on rue Bac where the grimy single door had once been painted green. Very few slivers of green remained. Percy entered, climbed the stairs, paused at the first level to share a whispered conversation with the concierge. Shaking his head grimly, he paid the man a gold coin, then trudged up to a small second floor apartment where he let himself in. The furniture was old, a sagging sofa and a battered table, but clean.

He was alone. He thrust open the shutters to let in the air and the light showed a circus of dust motes twirling in the room. Okay, the apartment was not so clean as he'd assumed. He'd been away for over a week and dust had accumulated. He tossed his coat on the sofa, and unbuttoning his waistcoat, he went into the bedchamber, throwing open the wardrobe doors. He knew exactly what to wear . . . an occurrence so rare he wished his valet, Frank, was there so he might tell him, "Frank. I know exactly what the occasion requires." Poor Frank would have a heart attack. Well, at the very least he would require a tall glass of water with a spoon of laudanum stirred into it.

Percy was still chuckling as, stripped to the essentials, he began to dress in red breeches and black stockings. The waistcoat was black embroidered with gold thread and the coat was a masterpiece of vulgar ostentation. The uniform was that of an equerry to one of the arrogant Italian princes currently visiting Paris , arguing with the committees in honour of Christian charity to spare a Bourbon king's life. The fit was tolerable - the coat snug across the shoulders and showing a bit too much filmy lace at the cuffs, but at least he could sit down in the breeches.

A pillow tucked inside his belt filled the waist to the previous wearer's girth, disguising some of P's height. Black boots polished to an impossible brightness boasted gold tassels that actually rustled when he walked.

To conceal his identity, he had a tin of polish he intended to rub on his face which would give his complexion a shiny olive tint, but first he set about combing boot black into his hair. He worked to augment his eyebrows with false hair and added a dashing moustache - so typical of the Italian delegates seen in Paris . Ah, seen on a stage these props would complete the picture; seen at close range they *did* look artificial. He would need to be the untidiest envoy ever encountered!

He went to the table next to the window, opened the drawer and removed a sand shaker, sprinkled sand across a fresh sheet of paper, then dipped both his palms into it and patted it onto his face. A quick dash to the mirror showed him a filthy, unkempt soul who was now wearing half the dust of a Paris street on face, shoulders and down the front of a shirt with limp ruffles. Perfect! Sir Percy Blakeney had disappeared. The black hair was slick as if it hadn't been washed in a month - just as the Italian envoy's had been. Percy tried not to breathe too deeply; he had taken the shirt off the man's back and it was rich with his odour. Sweat stains in the armpits had dried, but as they warmed with Percy's body heat the odour came alive once more.

Percy opened the wardrobe door once more and shuffled through several narrow drawers until he found a pot of rouge. It was a required part of court ritual to wear rouge; fortunately he was not much seen at that level of fastidiousness!

The addition of coin-sized circles over the polish and sand was perfect. Now the complexion was obviously painted, but acceptably so. All that was required now was for Percy to wash his hands and don the most immaculate white gloves ever seen � such a contrast to the condition of his other clothes.

On his way back downstairs he paused once more to speak with the concierge who, grinning amiably, presented him with a nearly threadbare frock coat in black serge and a disreputable looking wig. Two pie-crust curls framed the bottom - it was the standard wig a servant would wear. While Percy examined these items, the concierge examined Percy's transformation with eyebrows raised in alarm.

"Un masque," Percy said curtly. "a l'Opera Italienne." The concierge nodded, beaming with understanding. As Percy folded the coat he added, "for my friend," and then left the building at a quick walk.

At the corner, Percy stepped into the envoy�s coach, where the Italian waited to collect his payment. "I will be back at midnight and this carriage had better be here!" He rolled his eyes threateningly and Percy nodded reassurance.

"To the Palais de Justice!" Percy called to the driver, then he rehearsed what he intended to say to Chauvelin when presented to him, paying especial attention to his accent. It was the supreme test that he face his nemesis and go unrecognised. Everything hinged on Chauvelin believing he was facing a stranger.

At the Palais, Percy alighted and strode up the broad stairway where he presented the envoy�s identity papers with a flourish and demanded, "Your premier intendent must see me. At once. A matter of life and death!"

The guard, supposedly unimpressed by royalist protocol, gaped at the gold braid on the envoy�s coat before submissively showing Percy inside and pointing him to a chair. Louis XV. Gilt-edged. A relic of the old regime. Percy watched the guard scurry away, then worked to convince himself he was Giovanni Feria de Lucia. It didn�t matter that his Italian was dreadful, so long as he covered his fluent French with enough oily accent to convince Chauvelin he was the envoy and not someone he was sure he�d met somewhere before.

Percy had recalled a libretto and was humming it as the guard returned, pulling up sharply before him and hesitating.

"A meeting of all high-level staff � or something like that," he said, trying to look self-important.

Percy got to his feet and towered over the guard. He fingered his mustachio and rumbled, "Eeez impossible that I must wait. Iya showed you the permissions I have. Verrrry important! You may lose your head if I am delayed � si?"

The guard took a step back and considered. Percy watched him bite his lip and try to dream up some way of not having to make the decision. The envoy�s passport with its ribbons and seals was just so wonderfully impressive and the list, written in Italian with all manner of flourishes on the capitals looked deucedly important. (It was a love letter � hah! � but the only slip of paper Percy had been able to copy in Italian in which in might insert the Count du Tournai�s name in several places.)

"Most of these monkeys can hardly read French," Tony had said derisively. "Write anything you wish � copy this!" Percy wished he knew more Italian. The few words had made shocking reading � oh my, the things Tony got into when Percy�s back was turned!

Percy bowed insultingly low � how would Robespierre know such a thing was an insult? � and then flourished the envoy�s identity papers. While Robespierre tried to read, Percy spoke quickly in the greasiest accent he could muster. "Eeet eez said, hee-hee, that you have arrrrested the Counti du Tournai-a, and of course eet is well known-a that only one result is resulting from such a thing. Zeet!" He sawed at his neck and grinned stupidly.

"Before the man eez to lose-a his head, my-a government has need of information he has. He was working with my prince � Giapolito di Manoso! Money is involved. A great deal of money! This counti, he must sign off on the letters of credit before he is dead, si? I will not take up a great deal of his time, or hinder his so desirable execution in any way, seignior. But I must have access to his person. His so personable person hee-hee, if you are understanding me and my urgency."

Percy had expected this. He raised his shoulders, spread his arms in supplication and tried the standard "baffle him with bullshit" attitude so prevalent in government proceedings. "Ah � hee-hee! A man so important as yourself most assuredly is, must comprendiez, com-prend-iez, si? I need to witness for myself-a and speak to the counti personally. In person. And alone. For it is a most sensitive nature this money-laden adventure. You will understand, si? The need for confidence. Confidentially. In secret. His Highness Giapolito would come hurtling into this building and blister your so subtle self were he to suspect I was receiving hinderances and road blockings from your so infantile government. Your so tenuous authority, si? I will be ever so swift. Swiftly! And not be wasting your so valuable energies on minor, miniscule importances." Percy clapped his hands twice, quickly as if dismissing a servant, then stood militarily at ease to see what diminutive Robespierre would do.

Looking genuinely confused, the envoy stared down at the unflappable Robespierre. "Miniscule. Is mighty miniscule, si? Is of towering Pisa-like and leaning incorrigibly in unison this request that I have. Your loftiness should not have been so conveniently inconvenienced for I have frequent dealings with some other underlings of yours who are temporarily incognito, I hear. But they cause me endless uselessness where as you � you ask unanswerable queries!" Percy continued to babble, waving his hands and dancing around Robespierre in dizzying fashion as if only through movement might he get his point across. Occasionally, Robespierre would wrinkle his nose as Percy flapped his arms at close range and the pungent aroma of the fat envoy wafted over him.

"I bestow on your Reverence every honour," Percy effused, bowing again, "for having a liberal government that has no need of grasping, grafting royalty. That is why the signing off of this document is so extremely and radically important. Seignior the Counti du Tournai was to take the most monstrous, venal kick-back ever paid by a foreign government and � hee-hee, dead as he will be, headless assuredly, he will not need this money. This grafting money. Why, I would be free to hand it over to you�oh no!"

Percy slapped his forehead dramatically as Robespierre�s jaw dropped open. "I would not be dreaming of insulting so august a hero as yourself. I understand-a that your sublime, subversive government disapproves of such handlings of money and transactions that are tainted with graft, greed and ungraciousness." Then Percy paused and tapped his chin as if the idea had just occurred to him. "But, between us, mono e mono as it were, I could make it as a donation to your Republic. Greasing the palm of he who opens the door to du Tournai the vain, venal count. Lire are good in Paris! Very good. I have paid for many a fine supper and more than a few hot women." He winked knowingly, using his hands to demonstrate luscious curves and watched Robespierre wince.

As he had suspected, the reputation of the man spoke for him. Sea-green incorruptible indeed! But, the attempt had been worth it � in case it had worked! �*I*? Bribe you? Incorrigibly not! I am of so lowly an opinion that I am incapable of such! No, this bribe for the Counti comes straight from my prince � His Serene Highness, Prince Giapolito di Manoso who is simply leaking money. You and I-ya are the worker bees of economy, si? How I bled and signed away my fortune to be posted to this country! Si, magnifique, the French! You most fortunate fool to have been born to all this.�

Percy stepped closer, resting a heavy palm on Robespierre�s shoulder, feeling the man shudder with distaste, and leaned heavier. �Between you and I-ya, si? I am all for this back-slapping business method of your new republic . . . uh, no. I have that wrong. No-no-no! It is palm-greasing! Si! I pull yours and you pull mine, si? That is it.� He gave Robespierre another broad wink.

�There is no bribery involved when favours and friends are involved and you-a and I-ya � we are men of the same blanket . . . no, men of the same cloth! Same. Ee-den-ti-calla! We are men of the world. World-wide and knowing of superior things. We shall out-smart this whining counti and take his filthy money for your glorious republic where workers such as ourselves are available to the hottest women and the sweetest cream. Hee-hee!� Finally, Percy lifted the heavy hand from Robespierre�s shoulder so that he could wave it about with Italian zest.

�Perhaps as he climbs to his death God will forgive the count his filthy, acquisitive habits.� Gazing down at Robespierre, Percy�s mouth was insolent and self-indulgent.

"I have been studying voraciously! Exhaustingly. But, I do find some of the adverbs of your so-taxing language challenging. And the fashions are so distracting! Did you know, until I arrived in Paris I was wearing one of those confounded, old-fashioned wigs. . . ." Robespierre was not attending to the conversation. He was already far down the corridor, flanked by flunkies. Percy was left with two guards, sturdy-looking fellows. He eyed the pair.

"Counti du Tournai, s�il vous pla�t," he ordered and fell in behind them as they led him out the door, down the steps and toward his waiting coach � resplendent with the Italian prince�s coat of arms. As the driver opened the door, one of the guards leapt inside. Percy sighed. Suddenly he recalled a particularly virulent curse he�d heard frequently in Florence (where a certain sous chef had a hair-trigger temper), but the words meant nothing to him, so their medicinal quality was diluted. Cursing in French would be out of character. The tune of the libretto returned, and impulsively he began to sing. The French guards glanced at each other. Percy pulled his brandy flask from his pocket and passed it to them.

"Bon appetit, mes amis," he urged. It was doubtful either of them was familiar with the fire of fine French brandy. "Our destina - zione is La Force, si?" Percy asked. With the mid-day traffic blocking the road, how drunk might the guards be by the time they reached the prison?

"This libretto goes like this." Percy sang a few bars. "You should try it," he instructed the guard sitting across from him. The brandy made the man malleable and he croaked a little imitation of the Italian lyric. "Non! C'est pour moi," - it's for me, his partner cried and sang lustily. Percy applauded him and gave him the next few bars to sing as well.

"You," he told the first guard, "would do better carrying the melody." He showed the man how to hum the tune. "I will sing the aria." Percy did his finest imitation of a great opera singer, which seemed to pass muster with the two inebriated guards. "And now we are a fortissimo singing group!"

The three were very merry as the carriage drove into the courtyard at La Force. At La Force, Percy left one of the guards chatting with the records clerk at the front wicket while he and the remaining guard walked the length of Grand Force seeking the correctly numbered door. "Ah, si! A private suite for the good counti."

The guard found this comment humorous and giggled, growing more hysterical by the minute. Percy took him by the shoulders, leaned him against the wall where a knee like a hammer struck him hard in the kidneys. He dropped to the floor, his skull hitting the dusty floor with a solid thunk.

The door was not locked. Few were. Inside, Percy found the count lying on his cot, looking forlorn. "You sir, must remove your coat, quickly." Percy undid his own coat, slipped the pillow out of his trousers and freed the threadbare servant's coat from the pillowslip. "And this.� Percy tossed the wig at the count. "Put it on." The count removed his coat quickly, then paused as he took in the appearance of the severe, plain coat.

"You will be my footman. The Italians always hire French footmen so they can get away with paying them almost nothing. For some reason they feel it's all right to cheat a fellow Catholic," Percy explained as he watched the count squirm into the threadbare coat. Du Tournai lifted his nose at the sight of the wig, however. "Sorry dear chap, but that's a necessity."

In the hall, they stepped around the supine form of the guard, hurrying toward the door. "Don't stop. Hopefully the records clerk won't see us pass."

They successfully made it down the stairs to the carriage. The count was inside and Percy on the step when the guard appeared. "Wait" he cried, but the driver whipped the horses and the coach lurched forward. Percy clinging to the door, struggled to get it closed while the coach veered over on two wheels in a wide-arced turn out of La Force's central courtyard and into the street.

"Don�t get comfortable," Percy warned the count, "because we�re not going far. There is a house two streets up with the green paint peeling off its door where we are going to lurk for an hour. After that I�m taking you to the church by the Pont Neuf where we will meet my friends. From there we are leaving France. . . ." Percy held his hand up, as the count opened his mouth to speak.

"Your family? I have made arrangements to see them out of France by a different route and if all went well, they are already preparing to leave at first light tomorrow."

Percy and the count exited the coach at rue Bac, and walked with studied nonchalance along the street toward the grimy, formerly green door, where Percy paused to allow his footman to open the door for him.

At that moment they both paused, for the racket of two heavy carriages tearing along the main thoroughfare echoed through the narrow street. Percy winked at the count as he slammed the door behind them, then they both trudged up the stairs to the small, second floor apartment.

Du Tournai collapsed on the sagging sofa, breathing heavily. Percy realized the man was exhausted. It made sense that, although he�d had no activity for several days, he was too terrified to sleep. Percy turned away from him, shucking out of the equerry�s grand coat, and poured some water into the basin. A good scrubbing with cold water cleaned the colour and polish from his face, but even after two washings the boot black clung to his hair. He faced this latest difficulty in the mirror, squinting with annoyance. No one could be seen with striped hair � it would provoke all manner of comment. His hat wouldn�t cover it...

"I say," Percy turned back to the count, "you wouldn't be willin' to sacrifice that disreputable wig, would you?"

The man grinned as he tossed the wig to Percy.

"The next leg of this journey is a walk across the Pont Neuf to the church. My friend will have horses waiting and we�ll be away. I trust you can ride till nightfall?"

Back down the stairs went du Tournai following Percy, now dressed in his own clothes, plus a full periwig beneath his hat. The concierge was not at his place � which was all to the good in Percy�s opinion. He opened the door slowly, peered out, then the two of them made their way along the narrow street to the main thoroughfare and on toward the Pont Neuf. They were easily lost among the crowd of people thronging the bridge. It was late in the afternoon and many of the shop people were finished for the day, on their way home for supper. The bridge was filled with carriages, stalled in the traffic as the wealthy made their way into the centre of the city for a fashionable supper or a visit to one of the theatres. Not a revolutionary guard was in sight.

�There!� The end of the bridge was in sight, the steeple of the church marking the corner of the road. �The church.� No sign of the horses . . . not that there should be. Tony understood discretion. Percy gazed at the level of the sun in the sky. �If all is well, your lady wife and daughter should be packing up and preparing to leave. We�ll start out tonight.�

At the end of the bridge, Percy paused to speak to Martiny, present at this hour of the day and assisting an elderly woman who spoke quickly in subdued tones. Percy had to wait while she explained her case, absorbing the name of a ci-devant marquis whose situation had become desperate. �A good man,� she said, �with two young sons.� Another perilous situation unfolding before his eyes. How long would it take to get du Tournai out of France? How quickly might he return to intervene in this disaster?

At last Martiny was able to scrabble through his pockets and produce the messages he held. Percy dropped a few coins into the old man�s palm, then he and du Tournai walked toward the church on the left bank. Churches were silent buildings in this year of the revolution. Juring priests were few and non-juring priests did not hold services in churches. This was one of those buildings shunned by Catholic Parisians in an effort to do the bidding of their revolutionary government, therefore it was less shocking a sight when Percy opened the door to find Tony had stabled four horses inside the church.

At his side du Tournai sucked in his breath, letting it free in a rumbling laugh. �That�s right,� Percy said. �As you can see, you are well on road to freedom."

�Give me a minute to digest these messages, and then we�ll be away,� Percy said as Tony began eagerly to describe his latest exploits . . . which, typically, included a lovely young woman who�d been more than eager to help a handsome English rogue.