One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  Another man gave a bitter laugh, but no one answered. It was the truth and there was nothing to say.

  ‘What about Danton?’ one of the group asked, looking at each of the others in turn. ‘He’s been up to the battle front in Belgium. He knows what it’s like. None of the rest has any idea.’ He sniffed hard. ‘Couldn’t we prevail on him to do something?’

  ‘Battle front!’ The first speaker almost spat the words. ‘He went to Brussels to loot the palaces and churches. There are bloody great wagonloads of plate and tapestries and linen coming back to Paris! There’s nothing to loot on the Austrian or Prussian battlefields. We’re losing. It’ll be the Emperor Francis’s soldiers and ministers coming to take France’s gold and silver back to Vienna soon.’

  They fell into an abrupt silence as a couple of deputies appeared at the far end of the corridor.

  Célie approached the group who had been talking.

  ‘Excuse me, Citizens,’ she said tentatively.

  They all turned to look at her, their faces wiped clean from the anger of a few moments since.

  ‘Are you lost, Citizeness?’ one of them enquired.

  ‘In a way.’ She forced herself to smile, hoping she did not look as nervous as she felt. ‘I am looking for Citizen Renoir, from Compiègne. I have a message to give him.’

  ‘Don’t you know him?’

  ‘No. It is a message from someone else ... who is ill and cannot come themselves. Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘What does he look like?’ the fair man asked.

  She had no idea. She made a guess, more prompted by hope than knowledge. If he were indeed the one Bernave intended to take the King’s place, then that description would fit.’

  ‘He is about fifty or so, not very tall, a little ... heavy ...’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know who you mean.’ The man held his hand up. ‘Obviously not Charles Renoir, he is very tall. You mean the other Renoir.’

  ‘Yes, Henri Renoir,’ Célie agreed. ‘Do you know where he is, please?’

  He directed her round the corner and up a steep flight of stairs. In the dark-panelled room at the top she found a group of men in close conversation.

  ‘Excuse me, Citizen Renoir?’ she asked.

  One of them turned. ‘Are you looking for me?’

  ‘Citizen Henri Renoir?’ Her heart plunged into disappointment. He looked very little like the pictures of the King she had seen. His heaviness was a breadth of shoulder and chest, not corpulence, and his features were blunt and powerful. No one would have mistaken him for the long-nosed, flabby Louis Capet.

  ‘Yes.’ He turned and came towards her. ‘What can I do for you, Citizeness?’

  ‘May I speak with you privately? It is a delicate matter I have been asked to tell you.’ She saw the look of alarm in his face. ‘It is not personal, Citizen!’ she assured him. ‘It is an issue of business, but I expect you would rather speak in private. I work in Citizen Bernave’s house, on the Boulevard St-Germain.’

  His anxiety cleared.

  ‘Oh! Yes, I see. Of course. I am sure we can find a more discreet place.’ He excused himself to the other men and led her out of the room and along the corridor to a stretch where there was no one else. ‘Now, what is it, Citizeness?’

  She searched his face as well as she could in the wavering light from the torches on the wall. She saw no sign of grief, or of fear, but he was guarded. There was no trust in him. She did not imagine his patience was long. There was a scar down his left cheek which looked as if it had been made by a blade. A soldier or a street fighter?

  ‘Citizen Bernave is dead,’ she said simply.

  His eyes widened in surprise. ‘Bernave dead? I didn’t know. The last I heard he was quite well. I’m sorry.’

  It was not the reaction she had expected. Why was he not shocked, distressed, even alarmed?

  ‘He was murdered,’ she said abruptly.

  Now he was startled. ‘Poor Bernave,’ he said, his voice dropping. He bit his lip. ‘I should have seen that coming.’

  ‘Why?’ Then as soon as she had said it she realised it was too forward. She had told him she was Bernave’s servant. That gave her no right to ask such questions. Perhaps he would assume that she spoke from shock or fear. She should try to look a little more distressed and vulnerable.

  He shook his head. ‘Dangerous times,’ he replied.

  That answer was of no help. She blinked, as if to control tears.

  ‘Then we could all be murdered!’ she exclaimed. ‘Citizen Bernave was stabbed in his own house! By someone living there.’ That should shake him out of his philosophical mood!

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Was he?’ But still he did not seem amazed. ‘Poor Bernave,’ he repeated.

  She stared at him, trying to understand.

  ‘I’m sorry to bring you such news, Citizen.’ She must go on, give him the excuse she had worked out. ‘Madame Lacoste has the business papers. I don’t know what you may need, but until they have arrested someone, the National Guard are in the house and will not let any of us out, except Amandine, the cook, sometimes, or me, to do the shopping.’

  This time he looked at her more closely. There still seemed little dismay in him, but there was something which might have been sadness. He shook his head. ‘What an ironic way to end.’

  She went back to the only thread she could think of that could justify her. ‘Madame Lacoste is sorting through the business papers,’ she said again. ‘His part of the business belongs to Marie-Jeanne now.’

  ‘Of course—his daughter! Naturally.’ He nodded, the light flickering on his blunt, powerful face. ‘But it is all of the business, not part of it. I ceased to have any share over a year ago.’

  Now it was she who was startled. ‘Did you? I ... I didn’t know.’ Her mind raced. ‘Is there someone else I should tell?’

  He seemed amused. ‘No. No one but a lunatic would take up with Bernave. A madman, but clever. Knew the trade inside out by then.’

  ‘And you ... don’t mind?’ It was an impertinent question, but she tried to make it sound like concern, and to keep the bitter disappointment out of her face. She realised how much she had hoped from him, and it seemed none of it could be true. Certainly he could not replace the King for an instant, and it appeared he had broken with Bernave and would not even know anything to help. But why had he said Bernave was a madman? What did he know of him?

  Now Renoir was amused. ‘Me? Not at all. We were good partners for years—ever since he got out of prison. He had the brains and the imagination, I had the money and the contacts.’

  She must have misheard him. ‘I thought you said “prison”!’

  He looked at her with a funny, twisted smile. Perhaps there was pity in it. ‘You didn’t know? Why should you? You are not the cook, what are you? Laundress? Well, it hardly matters now. Someone has been asking. I thought it was all out.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, when I first met him he had only been free a few days. Had nothing but the clothes he stood up in, and his brains and his nerve. Any amount of nerve.’

  Célie swallowed the choking lump in her throat, her heart beating so she felt that he must see her shaking from it.

  ‘What was he in prison for?’ She heard the catch in her own voice.

  ‘Rape. Twelve years, roughly. He was out on licence.’

  She did not believe it. Not Bernave. It was nothing like the man she knew. She could not even imagine it.

  He must have seen the disbelief in her face.

  ‘He was guilty.’ He lifted his shoulder in a slight shrug and there was an expression of repugnance in his lips. ‘He never denied it. A twelve-year-old girl. Beautiful, so I heard. A rich man’s daughter.’ His voice dropped as if pity for her still moved him. ‘She had a child. It ruined her life. No decent marriage was possible after that. Family were bitterly ashamed, as if she were soiled and it was somehow a mark on all of them. I don’t know what they did with her. I think one of the convents took her in.’

 
; Célie could not take her eyes from his face. For a few moments the passage around her ceased to exist. Everything dwindled to what she could see in the light from the torch on the wall, and Renoir telling her of a tragedy and guilt so terrible she could not even think of Bernave’s name without fury. Everything she had thought she knew of him was false, a mask behind which there was only horror.

  ‘Bernave went to prison,’ he continued. ‘Twelve years, roughly. I think he lost count himself. A fearful place. He was about twenty when it happened. It would have broken most men.’

  She wanted to say something, but there were no words for the confusion of emotions she felt. And she was vulnerable in front of Renoir. How could Bernave, the subtle, clever, passionate man she had known—and he had been passionate about saving the King, and preventing war and the chaos and hunger it would bring; and about other things, his books, the whole world of thought and beauty—how could such a man have descended to the bestiality, the utter, consuming selfishness of despoiling a twelve-year-old child?

  Renoir was staring at her. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ There was pity for her in his face now. ‘I’m sorry. But it doesn’t matter any more. Bernave’s dead too. It’s all history.’

  Didn’t matter? It mattered hideously. Perhaps everything turned on it. If Bernave would do that, he could surely do anything at all. Betraying those plotting to save the King’s life to the Commune would be nothing in comparison. That might conceivably be justified by political belief. Nothing justified raping a child.

  And there was another thing. Renoir had said someone else was asking about Bernave. Who? The sudden and awful fear was that it had been St Felix. They had known each other in the past. Was this how?

  ‘Who ... who else was looking for him about this?’ Her voice was a little husky.

  Renoir pushed his lip out in a gesture of disdain. ‘I don’t know. I only heard. People were talking. It’s all past, years ago.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to you?’ she said immediately.

  He smiled, his face crooked, ugly and humorous. ‘I accepted the man I knew when I knew him. That was twenty-three years ago, before he married or Marie-Jeanne was born. He had intelligence and wit. I had money and no idea how to use it to make more. We were a good partnership, and—I’ll be honest—I liked him. What he had been was none of my business. He was fair with me.’

  ‘But you broke the partnership!’ Célie challenged him.

  ‘Only when he started taking up political causes. That’s no part of trade or making money. A wise man listens and learns everything he can, and says as little as possible.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ she accused. ‘Just to listen?’

  ‘Yes ... and to say nothing at all, except agree with the right people.’ His eyes were mild, laughing at her.

  ‘Then you’d better agree with Citizen Robespierre!’ she retaliated.

  ‘Oh, I have, Citizeness,’ he said quietly, his voice suddenly bitter. ‘And you would be wiser to go home and tend to your laundry, or whatever it is you do, and not ask questions about the dead.’

  The heat washed up her face. Now she wanted to escape. The Jacobin Club had become suffocating. Even the wind and rain of the street outside would be better. She must see Georges, tell him what had happened. This threw everything into turmoil again. No one could be trusted.

  ‘Thank you ... Citizen,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You have been very kind. I beg your pardon if I was rude.’

  He shrugged, dismissing it, and turned away just as a group of earnest young men came around the corner from the stairs, all talking at once.

  Outside in the street again the icy air was like a slap across the face, tingling the skin and making her gasp. She pulled her shawl more tightly round her neck and shoulders and started to walk as quickly as she dared, trying not to slip on the wet cobbles in the fitful light from windows and the occasional torch as people passed by. She could smell the smoke in the air, and the tar.

  There were shouts. Now and again a musket fired as National Guardsmen faced sporadic violence over in the distance to the east.

  She reached the river, a void of impenetrable darkness beneath her as she went over the Pont Neuf. She could hear its freezing waters sucking and swirling around the stone piers, and a hundred yards away to the east the red reflections of more torches dancing like fire on the ripples.

  It was three-quarters of an hour later when Célie felt her way in the bitter darkness up the steps to Georges’ attic and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer. Could he be asleep? It was early for that, but then in the cold and the dark, virtually imprisoned as he was, why not? She should have brought him some candles from the house as well as the food she had bought, but she had not dared. They were too easily counted. Madame Lacoste almost certainly knew how many there were. Apart from that, any search, even half competent, would have found them hidden in Célie’s clothes.

  She knocked again, more urgently.

  There was still no answer.

  This could not be right. She beat on the door, using the flat of her hand to make more noise.

  Silence. Nothing moved anywhere.

  Her heart was thumping so wildly she could barely control herself. Her thoughts leaped ahead, far too close to panic already. Was Georges ill? Injured? If he had gone away, then why? Where was he?

  Without realising it she was banging on the door again. She snatched her hand away. She was making far too much noise. She shrank back against the wall, feeling sick.

  Georges! Where was he?

  Had Bernave betrayed him after all? Had they come and arrested him? How would she ever know? He could be anywhere! In one of the Commune prisons already ... facing the guillotine tomorrow. He could be dead, and she would never know, never be able to help!

  Where could she go? Who could she ask?

  No one.

  She felt the hot tears sting her eyes. It was too big a hurt to bear. He could be killed—all that life and courage, the smile, the memories, the belief ... all destroyed. How could she tell Amandine? On top of her fear for St Felix it would be more than she could bear. She had loved Georges all her life. He was her only link with everything in the past that had been sweet and good.

  How could Célie herself bear it? It was as if the darkness and the cold had settled inside her, bone deep. She had never in her life been so alone. Who else could she tell about Bernave? Who else would understand, would be as shattered and wounded as she was? Who else was there for a hundred other things, if Georges was gone?

  She did not know how long she sat there crumpled up on the stairs, growing stiffer, losing the sensation in her hands and feet, and not caring. All she could feel was the void inside and the terrible ache of loss. She was afraid for Amandine; she dare not ever imagine her fear for herself.

  The sound of steps coming closer, the creak of wood, were almost on her before she was aware of them. Then it was too late to escape. Whoever it was must be on the same flight as she was. The National Guard, or whoever had arrested Georges, were coming back! They were coming to see what else they could find, or who else.

  If they took her wherever he was, she might be able to do something!

  No, that was idiotic. There was nothing anyone could do, not against the Commune. Georges was a wanted man, because she had made him so.

  That was it! She would have to tell them she had lied, and why. It was the only way she could rescue him, and redress the wrong she had done. Then they would execute her instead. Maybe she deserved that.

  She stood up cautiously. Her legs were tingling. She had been sitting on her feet and they had become numb in the cold and the cramped position. It was all she could do not to cry out. It was hard to remain upright.

  Why was there no light? Why did they not have torches?

  The wood was creaking, only a yard or two away. She could sense someone very close to her.

  Were they as aware of her?

  Then he was there, almost f
alling over her. He grasped her, holding her hard, drawing his breath in sharply with surprise. She could smell his skin, the warmth of him, the feel of his sleeve against her face, the roughness of his cheek.

  ‘Célie!’

  ‘Georges?’ She gasped and found herself choking in relief, joy, tears streaming down her face. ‘Georges!’ Now it was fury as well. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, swallowing hard and having to sniff.

  He was still holding her tightly, as if she might fall over were he to let her go, and she was clinging on to him to hold herself up. Had he noticed the tears on her skin? He must not know how she had felt. That would be mortifying. It could change everything.

  ‘Come inside,’ he whispered back, his lips close to her ear.

  She regained control of herself with difficulty. Thank goodness it would be dark enough inside and he would not be able to see her expression, or how she was shaking. ‘There is something I must tell you!’ she gasped, swallowing again.

  ‘What’s happened?’ He hesitated, his voice sharp with anxiety. He must have heard the tears in her voice. ‘Did you find Renoir?’ He kept his tone very level, but the rough edge was there, the knowledge of the danger. He pushed the door open and guided her in, then closed it behind them and fumbled his way over to the stub of the candle and lit it. The room was icy.

  ‘What is it?’ he repeated, staring at her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I saw Renoir.’ She tried to steady her voice but her throat was still thick with tears. The relief of finding Georges, of hearing his voice, knowing he was here so close she could have taken a step and touched him, was almost dizzying. The words poured out with all the pain, the anger and the need to understand. ‘He isn’t a partner any more. He met Bernave years ago. He had the money and Bernave had the brains. But he broke the agreement when Bernave started getting too involved in politics ...’

  ‘Just a minute!’ A flame flared up, catching the wick and burning more brightly. Georges’ face was haggard. There were shadows under his eyes and stubble on his chin. He looked exhausted—beaten. ‘You’re going too quickly. It doesn’t matter about the past, what about Renoir now? Can he help us?’