Sepulchre by Kate Mosse Read Free Book Online Page B

their success or failure. Already Léonie was suspicious and since her support would be critical to the success of the endeavour, he cursed the sequence of events that had delayed his arrival at the opera house, then the extraordinary ill fortune that had decreed that the abonnes should have chosen that very night to stage their most bloody and violent protest to date.
He took a deep breath, feeling the crisp September dawn seeping into his lungs, mixed with the steam and smoke and soot of the city. The guilt he had felt at having failed Léonie had been forgotten in the blessed moments while he held his lover in his arms. Now it returned, like a sharp pain in his chest.
He determined he would make it up to her.
    The hand of time was on his back, pushing him homewards. He walked faster, wrapped in thought, delight at the night just past, the memory of his lover imprinted upon his mind and body, the fragrance of skin on his fingers, the texture of her hair. He was weary with the endless secrecy and obfuscation. As soon as they were away from Paris, there would be no more need for intrigue, to invent imaginary visits to the rouge et noir tables or opium dens or houses of ill repute to cover his true whereabouts.
    That he had been under attack from the newspapers and unable to defend his own reputation, was a state of affairs that sat uneasily with him. He suspected Constant to have had a hand in it. The blackening of his name affected the situation of both his mother and his sister. All he could hope was that when the matter was out in the open, there would be time enough to repair his standing.
    As he turned the corner, a spiteful gust of autumn wind blew at his heels. He pulled his jacket tight around him and regretted the lack of a neck scarf. He crossed the rue Saint-Marc, still wrapped in his thoughts - thinking of the days, the weeks to come, not the present within which he walked.
    At first he did not hear the sound of footsteps behind him. Two sets of feet, walking fast, getting closer. His mind sharpened. He glanced down at his evening clothes, realising he looked an easy target. Unarmed, unaccompanied and possibly with winnings from a night at the tables in his pockets.
    Anatole walked faster. The footsteps, too, quickened. Certain now he was being marked, he darted right into the Passage des Panoramas, thinking that if he could cut through to the Boulevard Montmartre, where the cafes would be opening their doors and there was likely to be early morning traffic, milk deliveries, carts, he would be safe. The few remaining gas lamps burned with a cold blue light as he passed along the narrow row of glass-fronted shops selling stamps and ex-voto trinkets, the furniture-maker displaying an ancient cabinet with dilapidated gilding, the various antiques dealers and sellers of objets d'art. The men followed.
Anatole felt a spike of fear. His hand went to his pocket, looking for something with which to defend himself, but finding nothing that would serve as a weapon.
    He walked faster, resisting the impulse to start running. Better to keep his head up. Pretend all was well. Trust that he would make it through to the other side where there were witnesses before they had the chance to strike.
    But behind him now, the sound of running. A flash of movement reflected in the window of Stern's the engraver, a refracting of the light, and Anatole spun round, in time to ward off a fist coming down upon his head. He took a hit above his left eye, but deflected the worst of it, and managed to land a punch. His attacker wore a flat woollen cap with a black handkerchief obscuring most of his face. He grunted, but at the same time Anatole felt his arms pinned from behind, leaving him exposed. The first blow, to his stomach, knocked the wind out of him, then a fist smashed into his face, left, right, like a boxer in the ring, in a volley of blows that sent his head cracking from side to side and pain ricocheting through him. Anatole could