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thoughtfully. Perhaps he would own that golden mane after all.
    “Kindness is an act which is too little seen in these difficult times,” commented Citizen Julien as he collected his papers and put them into his leather case.
    “Careful, Citizen,” warned Gagnon. “Lest your words come back to haunt you.”
    “If they do, I will know who felt they were worthy of repeating, won’t I?” said the old man. “Come, Dénis,” he called, motioning to the boy. “We have four more clients to see before the night is out.”
    Dénis handed Citizen Julien his cane, accepted his leather case, and then stood close beside him so he could lean heavily on his shoulder. “I fear I am getting too old for this,” Citizen Julien muttered irritably as they slowly shuffled out of the cell.
    Gagnon looked at the candle on the table, which had burned down to almost nothing. Citizeness Doucette was sleeping and therefore unaware that the light of her precious candle was being wasted. Gagnon decided to wait until it had burned itself out before coming back to waken her. Then they could make a trade, he thought with satisfaction.
    It was not to be. Barely ten minutes later Inspector Bourdon returned and demanded to be let into Citizeness Doucette’s cell.
    “She had a fainting spell and took to her bed,” Gagnon told him as he unlocked the door.
    Nicolas peered through the darkness at the sleeping form of Jacqueline, whose glorious hair was down and flowing like a river of honey across her back. He had never seen her with her hair down. The sight of her sleeping peacefully, unsuspecting and vulnerable, made him hard with desire. The candle on the table sputtered and went out.
    “Shall I bring you another candle?” offered Gagnon.
    “No,” replied Nicolas abruptly. “Get out.”
    The cell was plunged into total darkness as the door eclipsed the faint light of the torch Gagnon held.
    Nicolas held his breath as he removed his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket. He slowly unfastened his waistcoat and loosened his trousers, savoring the anticipation of finally having what had been denied to him for so long.
    “Jacqueline,” he called softly as he moved toward the bed. He stood towering over her, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I have returned to finish what we began,” he whispered, bracing himself for the pleasure of the struggle that was about to begin. He reached out and touched the silky hair that adorned the thin, coarse blanket covering her. She did not stir. “I am glad you did not cut your hair,” he told her as he held her hair in his fist. “It would have marred your beauty, and when I remember you begging me to stop, I want you to be just as perfect as always.”
    He yanked down hard on her hair, intending to waken her with pain.
    “What the—”
    He stared in confusion at the golden skein dangling lifelessly in his hand, tied at one end with a length of ribbon.
    “What in the name of God—”
    He tore away the blanket and wrenched her up from the bed. A terrible roar of rage echoed through the halls as Nicolas realized he held nothing but a tattered silk gown, stuffed with fetid straw and a shapely puff of fine linen petticoats.

The streets of Paris were unfamiliar to Jacqueline.
    Until her father’s arrest she had only been in the great city once before, years ago when the Duc de Lambert had taken her and Antoine to see a play at the Comédie-Française. They had arrived in their magnificent carriage, all scarlet and ebony and gold, with the lavish De Lambert crest proudly gracing its doors. Although Jacqueline was only fourteen at the time, her father had permitted her to have her hair elaborately dressed and powdered for the occasion, and she had to be extremely careful as she got in and out of the carriage not to knock the stiff curls that rose in a rigid bouquet somewhere above the top of her head. Her gown was a cumbersome affair of the snowiest silk, richly embroidered with threads of silver and gold.