by Anne Perry
Georges caught up with him. ‘Keep going west,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t let them drive us into the open.’
‘We can’t help it,’ St Felix replied with desperation. ‘We can’t go round and round these roofs for ever! This is only one block. We’ll have to cross a street, and then they’ll catch us.’ His eyes were wide, his face blotched where wind and exertion had whipped the blood into his cheeks. Georges could almost smell his fear, and he understood it. He had fled just as wildly with the National Guard baying at his heels like dogs, and in less open places than this—places he knew, and where he had friends among other fugitives. He felt a surge of pity for St Felix, a scholar and dreamer caught up in events that were little of his choosing—especially if he were not the one who had killed Bernave.
‘Which way?’ St Felix repeated. ‘They won’t take long to work out what we did.’ His voice shook. He gulped air.
Georges pointed ahead. ‘That way, until we get the chance to go down towards the west. We’ve got to get closer to St-Sulpice. There are warrens around there where they’d never find us.’
‘Why? Why are you doing this?’ St Felix demanded with disbelief. ‘For all you know I could have killed Bernave. I didn’t, but I can’t prove it.’
‘I don’t care whether you did or not,’ Georges answered honestly. ‘But this is not the place to debate it.’ He pushed him, feeling the rigid resistance of his body. ‘We’ll argue the issues of justice later, if there is a later. Just move!’ Now his voice too was rising, panic close beneath the surface.
St Felix obeyed. He seemed to have caught his breath. He clambered along the valley with considerable alacrity, Georges close behind him.
About twenty yards along they found a window Georges was able to lever open. They scrambled in and shut it after them just as there was a clatter on the roofs behind, and more shouting. A shot ricocheted against the slates with a sharp whine.
St Felix let out a gasp of terror.
Georges could feel his own heart pounding. He had joined St Felix spontaneously, without weighing what the cost to himself would be if they failed to give the Guards the slip. He was just beginning to realise it now, when it was too late.
He went across the bare floor of the room at the far side, hesitated a moment, wondering what would be beyond it. St Felix was at his back, breathing hard. Whatever was before them, there was no retreating. The roof was impossible now, and any minute the Guard might look through the window and see them.
He opened the door with a creak. There was a small room leading into another slightly larger one. He went in and St Felix came on his heels.
‘Close it!’ Georges whispered sharply.
St Felix obeyed, his hands fumbling on the door latch.
‘Down!’ Georges hissed. ‘We don’t want to hurt anybody, but if we have to give them a swift blow to keep them silent, it’s better than the guillotine.’
St Felix swore under his breath.
But no one disturbed them as they tiptoed rapidly down the stairs and out of a first-floor window on to a ledge. Then they dropped rather awkwardly on to the yard below. It was filled with piles of wood, some of it sawn, some not. It afforded excellent concealment as the two men moved towards the entrance to see if the street were clear.
Georges went first, looking around carefully. He felt a cold thread of fear when he saw the white and blue of Guards’ uniforms at the far end. He withdrew quickly, turning to St Felix.
St Felix was ashen.
‘Change coats!’ Georges ordered.
‘What?’
‘Change coats!’ he started to take his own off. ‘Hurry up!’
St Felix understood. He almost tore his sleeve in his haste. He started to say something, then changed his mind. He did not take his eyes from Georges’ face.
Georges took the brown coat and put it on, passing over his own blue one.
‘Thank you ...’ St Felix began.
Georges smiled briefly. ‘Hide behind the wood here, then when they’ve gone after me, cross the street and head towards St-Sulpice,’ he commanded. ‘You’ll be safer there than anywhere else this side of the river. Good luck.’ Then before he could lose his nerve, he sidled out into the street and began walking rapidly away from the Guards at the end. He hoped to cross the Rue Mazarine, then the Rue de Seine and disappear into the maze of buildings around the Church of St-Germain-des-Prés. If he threw them off there, he could eventually get to St-Sulpice himself.
He was almost to the end and around the corner into Rue Dauphine when he heard the yell. He started to run. There was a shot fired, and an answering shot somewhere to the north, near the river. Footsteps sounded behind him as if there were a whole detachment of men thundering down the street.
He swung round the corner, almost colliding with a fat woman holding a mug of coffee. It spilled all down his jacket, soaking him through. She screamed and cursed him as she overbalanced against the wall.
He shouted an apology over his shoulder and kept on running. The Rue Dauphine was full of traffic: wagons, coaches, a public diligence so overloaded someone was leaning half out of the door. It was beginning to rain again and everyone was hurrying, their heads down, collars up. The cobbles were slippery.
Georges dodged between a wagonload of firewood and a miller’s cart half full of grain. He almost banged into a standing horse at the far side and stumbled up on to the pavement. There was an alley opening ahead. He ran into it, praying it was not a dead end.
There were shouts in the street behind him. Someone let off another shot.
At the far end of the alley was a wall with a gate in it. Georges threw himself against it, and it held fast, locked.
His first intention to help St Felix had been to draw the Guard off. When they caught up with him they would know he was not St Felix.
Now he realised how stupid that idea was. They would be furious with him, and take him in anyway, simply out of revenge. Someone would know who he really was and just as wanted as St Felix, if not more so! He was an idiot!
Now the gate ahead was locked and the Guard were behind him. He could hear their angry shouts on the Rue Dauphine, and people’s responses, indignant and sharp with their own fear.
He must find a way out, any way. He looked upward. Was there anything to climb?
Nothing.
What about down? Cellars? One might lead to another. The shouting was closer. He had no alternative. He went through the nearest gateway into a kitchen yard, in through the back door and across the stone-flagged floor. There was no one there. It was mid-afternoon; too late for luncheon, too early for dinner. He looked around him frantically. There was the cellar door. He opened it, closed it behind him and fumbled down the steps, feeling the wall for the way. He felt along the ledge and his fingers closed over candle and flint. He struck the light, hand shaking. It was a cellar stocked with wine, root vegetables, a sack of grain and several bales of firewood. There was no other way out. If they found him here he was cornered.
He was shivering. They would be in the kitchen any moment. They might think he had gone up on to the roof again, but one of them would be bound to try the cellar as well. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. Better to be caught trying, than run down like an animal.
He bent and with an apology to the householder, he set the candle on the ledge and picked up one of the bales of firewood. He went back up the steps, bent double, and pushed open the door. His heart lurched. There was a Guardsman standing in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the firewood had not been on his back he would have dropped it. As it was it slithered precariously and he had to grab at it to prevent it falling.
‘Yes, Captain?’ he said helpfully, his voice hoarse.
‘Have you seen any strangers around here?’ the Guard asked. ‘We’re looking for a fugitive who murdered a good citizen, a good revolutionary. He came this way, then disappeared.’
‘What does he look like?’ Georges asked, keeping his back bent and his he
ad down. The wood helped, it gave him an excuse not to meet the man’s eyes.
‘Quite tall, taller than you, I’d say,’ the Guard replied. ‘On the lean side, about fiftyish, with brown hair.’
‘Not lately,’ Georges answered thoughtfully. ‘I’ve just been down in the cellar to fetch up wood. Going to sell a bundle to my neighbour.’ He hesitated. How far should he take it? Too far and he could raise the man’s suspicion, not far enough and he would not escape.
‘But when I was down there I heard noises.’ He took the plunge. ‘Thought it might have been someone at the door, but maybe it wasn’t.’
‘In the kitchen?’ the Guard said quickly.
‘Maybe ...’
The Guard swivelled around and went back to the door. ‘In here!’ he shouted. ‘Went up on to the roof again, by the looks of it. Watch the street! You two, go and watch in the Rue Mazarine! You take the Rue Guenegaud! Quickly!’ He looked back at Georges. ‘We’re going up to your roof.’ That was a statement not a request. ‘Thank you, Citizen.’ And he went over to the further door and into the next room.
‘Good luck, Citizen!’ Georges called after him, then with shaking legs, went out of the back door as half a dozen National Guards made their way past him.
He walked as quickly as he could, bent under the wood, then as soon as he was out of sight of the house he dropped it and ran up the Rue de Tours, across the Boulevard St-Germain and into the first of the alleys on the further side. He stopped, leaning against the wall, breathless. His heart was in his throat, beating so violently his whole body shook and his knees would hardly bear him up.
He was still there when he saw St Felix come out of the Rue de Seine a few yards along. He recognised his own blue coat before he knew the face. There were two national Guards on the corner, standing idly, muskets slung casually, and not at the ready. They were not hunting anyone, simply bored.
Georges stiffened, his hands clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. ‘For God’s sake, just walk!’ he said under his breath as St Felix hesitated. ‘Don’t stop! Don’t give them any reason to notice you!’
One of the Guards had a copy of L’Ami du Peuple stuffed in his breeches pocket. His shoes did not match. He looked at St Felix expectantly, a sneer on his face.
St Felix stopped.
‘Go on!’ Georges said between his teeth.
St Felix seemed rooted to the spot, as if terror had paralysed him.
‘You a stranger round here, Citizen?’ the other Guard asked him.
‘No!’ St Felix said quickly. ‘No, I live here.’
Georges shut his eyes in anguish. If only he’d said ‘yes,’ it would have explained his behaviour and they would not have suspected him!
‘You sure?’ The Guard peered forward. ‘I don’t know you! You look lost to me!’
‘Lie!’ Georges said desperately. ‘Tell them you’re ill! Anything to explain dithering!’
‘Don’t I know you?’ the other Guard asked. ‘What’s your name?’
‘St ... St Just,’ St Felix stammered.
As if he could smell fear, the first Guard was suspicious now.
‘Oh, yes? Where are your papers, Citizen? Where do you live?’
St Felix swung his arm wildly. ‘That way ... number forty-eight!’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For ... for a cup of coffee,’ St Felix replied.
Half a dozen National Guards came out of the Rue de Tours.
St Felix spun round, saw them, and started to run.
Georges watched in agony of foreknowledge, as if in his mind he had already seen it happen. The Guards at the Rue de Tours saw the movement and shouted. The Guard who had been talking to St Felix spun around.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘You! Stop!’
St Felix dived into the alley, almost colliding with Georges, stumbled and ran on.
Shots rang out.
St Felix was fleeing in panic, his arms and legs swinging wildly, foundering, feet sliding on the wet stones.
The Guards filled the entrance. Another one yelled for St Felix to stop.
He kept running, straight ahead, not weaving or breaking his stride.
A volley of shots ricocheted all around.
St Felix lurched forward, slipped and fell face down. He moved a little, once, then lay still.
The Guards crowded round him, not even having noticed Georges. One of them bent and turned the body over.
‘Dead,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Is that him?’ He looked up at the man nearest him.
The man peered down. ‘Yes. Funny though, I could have sworn he was wearing a brown coat. But that’s him all right. I know his face.’
‘Better take him, then. Citizen Menou’ll be pleased. This is the one who murdered Bernave, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s him. Saved the guillotine a job.’
Georges backed further into the shadows and waited until they were gone, carrying St Felix’s body with them. Then when the street was silent, shivering with cold and heartsick, Georges went across the Boulevard St-Germain and walked, head down in the rain, towards Bernave’s house.
Once he put his hand into his pocket, St Felix’s pocket, and pulled out a wad of sodden paper, dark-stained with coffee. Four passes, illegible now, and a picture, only partly damaged, of a beautiful woman with a cloud of dark hair and a gentle mouth. With a murmured word of apology he let them fall into a heap of refuse. They were no use, and too dangerous to keep.
Georges had to wait half an hour in the cold before he saw the last of Menou’s men leave, then it was simply a matter of going through the courtyard to the kitchen door.
Except, of course, nothing about it was simple at all. He had to tell Amandine that St Felix was dead. Her grief would be unbearable, except that one had to bear it. Thank God Célie would be there—she would be able to help. She understood grief. That would be no comfort—nothing would be—but at least Amandine would not be alone.
He knocked on the door, then without waiting, pushed it open. At first glance he thought the kitchen was empty, then he saw the light on Célie’s hair as she stood in the corner by the stove, a flat iron in her hand. She had her back to him. She was changing one iron for the other, replacing the cold one on the hob.
‘Célie ...’ he said quietly.
She turned round, then saw him. Her eyes widened in horror and she almost threw the iron down, running over to him. ‘Get out of here!’ she said wildly. ‘You’ll have to go over the roof! Are you mad?’
He caught her by the arms, holding her hand. ‘No! Menou’s men have gone.’
She stared at him, then saw the shock and misery in his eyes.
‘What’s happened?’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘St Felix ...’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. They got him ...’
Her face was white. ‘Which prison?’ As if it mattered.
‘None,’ he answered. ‘He was running. They shot him. I’m sorry ...’ There was no need to tell the details, that St Felix had panicked. ‘I did what I could, but there were Guards all over the place.’ Why tell her even that? She would not blame him. He blamed himself. He should have been able to do better, somehow to keep St Felix out of their hands. He had managed to save himself for over five months!
‘He’s ... dead?’ She breathed the words painfully, searching his face, longing for him to deny it.
‘Yes. It was quick.’
Tears filled her eyes.
He pulled her close to him and held her in his arms, feeling the misery rack her. It was as if he were holding Amandine as well, and all the hurt and fear that was in him also. For a terrible and urgent moment they were as one body, one wound.
They were still clinging to each other when Amandine came in. He saw her immediately, the shock in her face, the fear for him, then the understanding that he brought dreadful news.
She tried to speak but her voice refused to come.
Georges let go of Célie and, feeling him move away, she
realised what had happened and turned to Amandine. She went to her without hesitating, holding Amandine as Georges had held her.
‘They shot him,’ she said simply. ‘It’s all over. He probably didn’t even know it.’ She could not know if that was true but she said it with total conviction.
Amandine looked at Georges.
He nodded.
Amandine was so white it was as if she herself were dead. She said nothing. It was a bereavement so complete she could not even weep. There was no anger, no questioning, just despair.
Georges and Célie stood by helplessly, there was no comfort to offer, and no explanation mattered.
Chapter Twelve
THEY WERE STILL IN the kitchen when they heard the tramp of heavy feet outside in the courtyard. Célie spun round, her heart pounding. It could only be the National Guard again. They must have followed Georges! There was no time to wait or think.
Amandine looked as if she were going to faint any minute, but she was the only one who could help. Célie would like to have hidden Georges herself, but Amandine was too shattered to stop Menou or his men.
‘Take Georges!’ she commanded. ‘Get him upstairs somewhere—anywhere! Hide him!’
Amandine stood still.
Célie pushed her. ‘Go on! I’ll hold Menou! Hurry!’
As if she were wading through water, Amandine started across the room, Georges beside her. Just as they closed the door into the main house Célie went to the back door and opened it.
Menou was standing outside.
Célie’s heart was beating so hard she felt he would see her shaking. She must prevent him from reading anything in her face or her voice. He had spoken to her often enough to notice even a small difference.
‘Yes ...?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Citizen Menou?’ She tried to meet his gaze and could not quite. All she could think of was Georges somewhere upstairs and St Felix dead in the street. She must do nothing whatever to make him suspect she knew anything. She must think of something intelligent to say—quickly. ‘Did you wish to speak to us again? I don’t think I know anything more, but please come in.’ She forced herself to stand back and allow him to pass. She knew her whole body was shaking.