it. And if I hadn't ended up in the French ranks, I'd never have met Charlotte.'
'You have a lovely wife,' said Daniel, enviously. 'I'm grateful that she made us feel so welcome last night. But we don't wish to be a burden on her while we're here. Beatrix will help around the house and Kees will take his turn in the kitchen. I'm told he's a wonderful cook. Amalia says that he makes all the meals at home.'
'What about her? How will Amalia pass the time?'
'When she sees that daughter of yours, I'm sure she'll want to hold her. Anyone would dote on Louise. She's a delight, Ronan.'
'That's because she takes after her mother. She's got Charlotte's beauty and my brains. That should stand her in good stead.' He gave a sigh. 'To be sure, I'd rather bring my child up in Ireland but she'll have a much better life here. I have to accept that. If I went home, I'd have no earthly notion of what to do. Here in Paris, I have a trade.'
'You had one when you were in the army, Ronan.'
Flynn guffawed. 'Yes,' he said, 'I was paid to kill people then. Nowadays, my bread tries to keep them alive.'
Daniel was fascinated to see the bakery in operation. He had watched army bakers preparing bread in vast quantities and dispensing with any subtleties as they did so. At the Rousset bakery, a large, low building with a number of ovens, far more attention was given to each individual loaf. They arrived to find the place already warmed up. A servant was bringing the ingredients in while Flynn's two assistants were making a start.
'Does your father-in-law still work here?' asked Daniel.
'Emile has more or less retired, Dan. He pretends that he's still in charge by looking in each day but I run the bakery. We'll probably be gone before he even gets here.'
'He obviously trusts you, Ronan.'
'With good reason,' said Flynn. 'I look after his daughter, his grandchild and his bakery. What more can a man ask?'
While he was talking, Flynn was already putting on a white apron and moving to one of the tables. Daniel stood back out of the way. Watching from a corner, he admired the speed and precision with which the Irishman shaped a loaf, albeit in a snowstorm of flour. Though the assistants were industrious, they had nothing like the skill of their employer. Nor did they take such an obvious delight in their work. Having got him into trouble as a soldier, Flynn's enormous hands were now put to more delicate use than knocking people unconscious. Two of the large ovens were set aside for him and they'd been the first to be lit. As a result, it was Flynn's bread that was first to be baked. Bringing it proudly out of an oven, the Irishman set it out on a tray. The aroma was enticing.
'There you are, Dan,' he said, inserting a new batch into the oven. 'When it's cooled down a little, you can have a taste.'
'Thank you. It smells wonderful.'
'Tempt the nose and fill the belly — that's my motto.'
As the hours rolled by, Paris came slowly awake and the noise from the street steadily increased in volume. Traders went past on their way to market, followed by housewives in search of the best bargains and the freshest meat. Some of the bread was destined for a stall there. It would still be warm when it was handed over. There was a shop at the front of the bakery and many of the loaves were stacked on the shelves in there. The old woman who ran the shop was a distant relative of Emile Rousset. She lumbered in well before the place was due to open. Candles burnt in the bakery but much of the light came from the ovens. Every time one of them was opened, a bright glow illumined the whole room and filled it with a gust of warm air. The assistants chatted amiably to each other. Flynn liked to sing Irish songs out of tune as he worked.
When the sky began to lighten outside, Daniel turned to glance through the window. The first thing he saw was his own reflection and he was jolted. Having dressed in the dark earlier on, he'd not been able to inspect the coat that had been torn and scuffed during the death grapple with Jacques Serval. Now that he did so, he saw to his amazement that the tear had been expertly mended and the dirt had been brushed off. The repair could only have happened while he was asleep with the coat over the chair beside him. Daniel couldn't believe that someone could remove the garment without disturbing him.
Though he'd washed his hands before they left, Flynn's face and hair were still flecked with white flour. The cart was now loaded with bread and loaves were delivered to various customers.
Dozens were dropped off at the market. Flynn didn't only deal in large deliveries. Daniel was touched to see him hand over two loaves to an elderly couple, too infirm to walk all the way to the shop. It was towards the end of the round that Daniel finally caught sight of the Bastille. While Flynn was delivering bread to a tavern in an adjacent boulevard, Daniel slipped around the corner into the Rue Saint-Antoine.
He stared up at the forbidding exterior of the Bastille. It was an enormous structure. Built as a gate during the Hundred Years' War, it had been considerably extended to create a looming fortress. The irregular rectangle had eight towers that seemed to climb up into the sky. What made it particularly daunting was that the walls and the towers were the same height and connected by a broad terrace. It meant that soldiers inside the stronghold could move quickly to the point of attack without having to go up and down the circular staircases in the towers. A wide moat completed its defences.
Somewhere inside the prison was Emanuel Janssen. Finding a means of rescuing him seemed an impossible task. Yet it had to be attempted. On the ride back to the bakery, Daniel heard very little of Flynn's hearty monologue because his mind was fettered to the Bastille.
Charlotte Flynn had been uneasy at the threat of having her home invaded by strangers. Now that they were actually there, however, she found them less intrusive than she feared. Dopff helped to make and serve breakfast while Beatrix seized a broom and started to clean the house. All of Amalia's maternal instincts were aroused when she set eyes on Louise and she couldn't stop smiling as she cuddled the baby. When she was alone with Charlotte in the parlour, she was reluctant to yield up the child to its mother.
As Daniel had advised, Amalia did not reveal how much of the French language she'd mastered. Instead, she spoke haltingly and deliberately groped for words so that conversation with Charlotte was laboured. There was one thing that she wished to make clear.
'While we here,' she said, 'we help, yes?'
'Thank you,' replied Charlotte, gratefully. 'Until last week, we had a servant but Ronan caught her stealing and got rid of her. We are looking for someone else.'
'With baby, the help you need.'
'We know that.'
Sensing that Amalia was in some kind of trouble, Charlotte warmed to her. The two of them went off to market together. While Charlotte chose the food, Amalia insisted on paying for it. As a reward for her generosity, she was allowed to carry the baby on the journey home. When they got back to the house, it was visibly tidier. Beatrix felt much happier in her role as a servant and knew how to keep out of the way. Seeing the food bought at the market, Dopff's face became more expressive than ever. It was clear that he was volunteering to prepare the next meal.
Daniel and Flynn eventually returned and walked in on a quiet domestic scene. Amalia was rocking the baby in its wooden crib while Charlotte was mending a dress. At the sight of needle and thread, Daniel recalled the repair made to his coat and wondered if Charlotte had been responsible. Since he'd been away from his wife and child for so long, it was evident that Flynn would appreciate some time alone with them. Daniel therefore invited Amalia to join him in a walk. They stepped out into the sunshine.
'What have you been doing?' she asked.
'I watched Ronan make bread then helped to deliver it.'
'Why did you do that, Captain Rawson?'
'His delivery round took him close to the prison where your lather is being held,' explained Daniel. 'I wanted to take a look at it.'
Amalia came to a halt. 'Where is it?'
He'd deliberately not told her before because he knew that she'd be distressed. Amalia had been in Paris for several months. In that time, she'd surely have heard of the Bastille and been aware of its reputation. It was a place where political prisoners were kept in chains and where those who'd offended the King in some way were
