One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  The carriage door opened and a man climbed down, his legs steady, his face forward. It was not Briard. Célie knew it the moment she saw him move. This was the King. He had been offered freedom, even if only to run, but at the cost of another man’s life. And he must have declined it, whether from nobility, or only weariness, or the lack of belief that it could work, they would never know.

  Sanson and two assistants approached him, their feet unheard on the sandy gravel. They attempted to begin removing his clothes, but he shook them off with a gesture, and undid the buttons of his coat himself. Louis unfastened his collar and opened his shirt, fixing it so that his neck was exposed. He had barely finished when they pinioned his arms.

  He drew his hands back. ‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed, his voice clear and close in the damp air.

  ‘Binding your hands,’ one of them answered.

  ‘Binding me?’ The King turned to his priest, indignation in his voice.

  Edgeworth shook his head. ‘Sire,’ he said gently, ‘I see in this last outrage only one more resemblance between Your Majesty and our Saviour who is about to be your recompense.’

  Célie glanced at Madame Lacoste and saw the pity in her eyes, and the knowledge of the end of things good and bad which could never be recovered.

  The King’s arms were tied behind his back, after which Sanson cut his hair, leaving his neck bare and pale.

  There was a murmur from the throng. Someone yelled.

  The King went forward, and climbed the steps of the scaffold, awkwardly, leaning on the priest for balance, but when he was up he walked across it with a steady step.

  There was a vast, whispering, breathing silence, every face turned towards him.

  He spoke in a loud voice, very clearly.

  ‘I die innocent of all the crimes of which I have been charged. I pardon those who have brought about my death and I pray that the blood you are about to shed may never be required of France.’

  Whatever he would have said next was drowned as an officer on horseback shouted a command, and fifteen drummers immediately resumed a frantic beating.

  Sanson and one of his assistants guided the King to the bascule of the guillotine where so many others had been bound and lowered before, and obediently Louis XVI of France laid his neck in the lunette.

  Sanson pulled the rope. The blade hissed down between the posts. It slammed into the King’s neck, and stopped, the flesh too thick for it to do its work in one blow. It was unbelievably hideous. The King screamed.

  Célie was drowned with horror.

  The executioner’s assistants rushed forward and threw their combined weight on the blade, forcing it downwards.

  Célie gagged and looked away.

  The man to the other side of her wore the rust-coloured leather jerkin of an artisan, and his face was seamed with lines, but there were tears on his cheeks and his eyes were blind. His back was ramrod-stiff and his chin high.

  For a moment Célie felt a surge of grief, a pride, a wild emotion something like victory that the King had met his death with a courage no one could take from him, and an overwhelming relief that it was over and there was no more pain for him. Shorn of his crown and his power to do good or ill any more, parted from his family, even from his clothes and his hair, he was simply a human being whose neck was too fat for the mercy Dr Guillotin had intended. Her pity for him twisted inside like a knife.

  Then the silence erupted into noise. All around the square the cry went up, echoing and re-echoing ‘Long live the Republic! Long live the Nation!’ Hats were tossed in the air. The cavalry waved their helmets on the points of their sabres, and people began to shove and push forward to dip handkerchiefs, pieces of paper and their hands into the blood that spilled on to the scaffold.

  In front of Célie a large man in a brown coat put his blood-wet finger to his lips. He turned to his friend. ‘It is well salted!’ he said in a cheerful voice. They both laughed.

  Célie and Madame had seen all that was history. The rest was barbarism. They together turned and pushed through the crowds, trying to make their way towards the river.

  Célie’s legs ached and her feet were sore. The fog was still thick, clinging and wet. She had enough money for two cups of coffee, if they could find someone selling any. Actually they passed the first coffee seller without either of them noticing her. Physical discomfort was so small a part of the confusion and misery which descended over her. They had risked their lives to prevent the future that would now come, and they had failed.

  There had been no sense of a great new birth in the King’s execution, nothing ennobling, no sense of shackles falling and a people glorying in a new freedom. The only heroic thing at all had been the King’s own courage, the great dignity with which he had faced a baying mob. Reduced to a solitary little man, paunchy, pale-faced, standing in the mist with shorn hair, he had still managed to embody what was best in humanity. Those who had taken his place were less in spirit. They had destroyed false gods, and now seemed to have left no gods at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE WIND OFF THE river was raw but Célie was glad of every step that took her and Madame Lacoste closer to the Boulevard St-Germain, and found herself increasing her pace. Behind them she could hear shouting, howls of jubilation as the news spread. The King was dead. Long live the Republic! Long live freedom and brotherhood!

  What was freedom worth without safety from injustice, violence and hunger? Freedom to do what? The last restraint had been taken away. People could do anything that entered their imaginations. There was no King to govern the country, no aristocracy. The laws changed every day. And above all there was no God to reward those whom the world neglected, nor to punish those who were so powerful or so secret they escaped society. In their ignorance they had pitched all France into an unknown future.

  The Boulevard St-Germain was all but empty as Célie and Madame Lacoste turned into it. For once there were no National Guards hanging around and they were able to enter the courtyard without any explanations.

  Madame led the way into the kitchen. There was no one else there. Whether they too had gone to watch the execution or not Célie did not know, and Madame did not say.

  Madame closed the back door and went over to the stove, her wet boots squelching very slightly on the stone. She put another piece of wood on and fanned the embers, then poured water from the ewer into the pot and set it to boil.

  Suddenly Célie found her throat thick with tears again and she had to blink to stop them from spilling over. ‘I never saw the King before today,’ she said, ‘except in pictures. He was ... so small ... so terribly ordinary.’ She remembered it with fierce, painful clarity. ‘But he went up the steps with little help, even though they tied his hands and he couldn’t keep his balance. He didn’t shake or stumble.’

  ‘I know,’ Madame said softly. ‘He was a fool, but no one ever said he was a coward. He didn’t know how to rule ...’ There was a catch in her voice also, ‘but he knew how to die—better than they knew how to kill him.’

  Célie looked away. ‘We’ve done something to ourselves, something petty and vicious, and it frightens me.’

  ‘It should,’ Madame agreed. ‘Go and take your wet clothes off or you’ll catch your death.’

  Célie hesitated. She might not have another opportunity to speak alone with Madame. How much did she understand?

  ‘Thank you,’ she said awkwardly. All the way home they had not spoken. Célie’s mind had raced with desperate fears over Georges. Marat had gone after him, and after Briard. She had no way of knowing if he had caught them, or what he would do if he had. They had done nothing illegal, but did that matter? Did it even make any difference?

  Madame shrugged, still with her back to Célie. It was both an acknowledgement and a dismissal of the subject.

  Should Célie ask why Madame had been there? She wanted to, and was afraid.

  ‘Go and take off your wet clothes,’ Madame repeated.

  Rel
uctantly Célie turned to obey. She was cold and tired now it was all over. It was strange to have it in the past. Now there was a kind of emptiness with nothing to work for, nor to fear, any more. The plan had filled her life. Everything else had revolved around that. Until it was accomplished nothing else mattered. Now it was over, and had failed, she found there was nothing else anyway.

  She was standing in her room in her petticoat, looking for a dry blouse and shawl, when there was a knock on the door.

  She waited a moment. ‘Yes?’

  Amandine came in and closed it behind her. Her face was white, her eyes hollow.

  ‘Is Georges all right?’ she asked hoarsely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Célie answered. ‘The King is dead. He wouldn’t come. Marat was there.’

  Amandine gave the shadow of a smile, as if she had expected him to be.

  ‘No, I don’t mean in the crowd,’ Célie corrected her. ‘I mean right at the carriage. He actually touched me!’ She did not explain her attempt to distract him long enough for Georges and Briard to escape. ‘Then he went after Georges, but he was only a moment or two behind him. The crowd closed in, trying to press forward and see what was happening. He had to fight his way.’

  ‘And Georges?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Célie said again.

  Amandine looked down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Her voice was thick with tears also.

  Célie went to her quickly, putting her arms around her and holding her tightly. She shared the fear, the loss, the disillusion, and through it all the overwhelming tiredness.

  Amandine wept at last, her body shaking with sobs that racked through her with total heartbreak.

  Célie did not try to stop her. She stood in the cold, aware only of Amandine’s pain and her own fear that Georges too could be dead! And even if he were still alive, she might never see him again.

  Then finally she pulled away and reached for her dry blouse and shawl.

  Amandine straightened up and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I can’t bear to think St Felix killed Bernave, but if he did, he must have had a reason, one that overwhelmed everything else, or he wouldn’t have done it. He was a good man ... really good!’

  Célie was not going to argue, although she was less sure. Even if he had loved the girl in Vincennes, if she had been his sister, he could have waited until after the King’s execution to take his revenge on Bernave. But there was no need to say so now. Instead she told Amandine in a few sentences what Renoir had told her.

  ‘Twelve years old!’ Amandine was horrified, her face filled with grief. ‘Who was it? His sister?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if it had anything to do with St Felix at all! It’s just a possibility. Renoir didn’t know anything about the other person who had been asking.’

  Amandine’s lips tightened. ‘It must be St Felix. If he killed Bernave it was either that, or because he knew he’d betrayed the plan. Either one could have been a reason, never mind both!’

  Célie did not argue. None of it mattered now. She was shaking with cold.

  Amandine looked at her. ‘Come down and have some hot chocolate,’ she said gently. ‘I’ve got a little left. There’s probably nobody in the kitchen now. I’ll make it. Come on.’ And she turned and opened the door.

  Célie followed willingly. Anything hot would be good, chocolate best of all.

  Amandine was right, the kitchen was empty, but Célie was only partway through drinking the chocolate when there was a knock on the back door. When Amandine went to answer it, Menou came in. His cheeks were pink with the cold, and also perhaps with the excitement of the day, and his hair was plastered to his head.

  Célie’s heart lurched. Could he be here about something to do with Georges? She and Amandine were the only people he would leave any message for!

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded, her voice strangled and high-pitched.

  He frowned, looking slightly embarrassed, but there was apology in his face rather than tragedy. But then why would he care about Georges?

  She started to speak again but her voice would not come.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Menou said awkwardly. He stood stiffly, looking at Amandine, then at Célie. The colour stayed in his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, but I am not satisfied about Citizen Bernave’s death.’

  Amandine’s face was hard, anger blazing up in her eyes.

  ‘What does it matter now?’ she said furiously. ‘You shot Citizen St Felix. You can’t do anything more to him. He’s dead. What do you need to prove?’

  Menou looked profoundly unhappy, and Célie wondered for a wild moment if it were caused by the problem which troubled him, or by Amandine’s pain. She remembered his fingers touching the lace on her linens when he had been searching for the knife.

  ‘I need to prove that it was really St Felix who killed Bernave,’ he replied. ‘Even if only to myself.’

  Amandine’s eyes widened. Hope and fury fought within her.

  But it was Célie who spoke. ‘You mean you think maybe it wasn’t?’ She turned on him. ‘But you shot him anyway!’

  ‘I didn’t shoot him,’ Menou corrected her quietly. ‘One of the patrol in the street shot him because he ran. If he had stopped they wouldn’t have.’ His face was dark with awareness of tragedy and misgiving. ‘But I am wondering now if he may have run because he was afraid rather than because he was necessarily guilty. Perhaps he had no faith in our skill, or our justice, and thought we would blame him anyway.’

  Neither Amandine nor Célie answered. Nothing they could say was free from the danger of implying they were less than wholehearted revolutionaries.

  ‘I never found the knife,’ Menou went on. ‘I went up on to the roof. I took men with me and searched everywhere. And I asked all the neighbours, in case it was put in through someone else’s window. If they’d found it they would have told me. No one would dare hide it, not when they knew it had been used to murder a friend of Marat’s!’

  No one argued with him.

  ‘But I didn’t look under the slate Monsieur Lacoste repaired,’ Menou went on. ‘I’m going to do that now. It has to be somewhere, and I’d swear no one carried it out of the house.’ He looked at Amandine. ‘Have you got something I can prise the slate off with? Monsieur Lacoste is still out, and his shed is locked. I don’t want to break in, but I’d prefer to go up before he returns.’

  Amandine looked through the kitchen drawer. ‘I’ve got one of his old chisels,’ she offered. ‘It’s broken, but it might do.’ She held it out.

  ‘Thank you.’ Menou took it from her gently.

  ‘Bring it back,’ she said. ‘I use it to lift the stove lid.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Célie told him. ‘You’ll need help anyway, even if it’s only with the window. It sticks.’

  He drew in his breath to argue, then changed his mind and allowed her to lead the way upstairs.

  He held the attic window open while she climbed very carefully out on to the wet and slippery roof, clinging on with cold fingers. She crawled up precariously towards the ridge, her feet sliding beneath her weight. She had worked out where the slate should be corresponding to where the leak had been on the inside.

  Menou came behind her. She realised that if she slipped and fell she would almost certainly carry him down with her too. Had he thought of that?

  Foot by foot, she got as far as the ridge. The fog had lifted a little and it was beginning to rain again, turning to sleet. The sharp spire of the finial on the end of the dormer roof was like a black dagger against the grey sky. That was where the leak was, in the bedroom.

  ‘Here!’ she said aloud, searching for the repaired slate. ‘Somewhere near here.’

  Menou was beside her now, his face streaked with rain, his hair stuck to his head and across his brow.

  ‘I see it,’ he answered. ‘That one, paler than the others. But I don’t know how I can get it off wi
thout cracking it—and we haven’t got another to replace it with.’

  She was shaking with cold. ‘It has to be somewhere!’ she said stubbornly. ‘Somebody murdered Bernave—and I’m not sure it was St Felix either. Anyway, whoever did it, they still had to hide the knife somewhere! It was thick-bladed–almost square at the handle. I saw the wound.’

  ‘Like a sword bayonet,’ he agreed.

  She half swivelled around. ‘Yes!’ She was holding the broken chisel in her hand.

  ‘Or like that?’ he said softly, looking at it.

  She stared down, then up at him. ‘Yes ... only this one is broken! And you looked all through Monsieur Lacoste’s tool box ... and paints, and varnishes and everything else.’

  He did not answer, consumed in thought.

  It was growing colder by the second. Pellets of ice were rattling on the slates around them. Soon she would be too frozen to cling on. The wind was stronger and the clouds were scudding past the black point of the finial. It was a sheer drop to the alley below.

  Then she understood.

  ‘There!’ she said between chattering teeth, inclining her head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The finial!’ she answered. ‘It’s different from the others! Take the paint off—and it’s a chisel blade! Look at it! The knife was never under the slate—it was right there in plain view!’

  Menou remained frozen only for a moment, then very carefully he inched forward towards the dormer. She held her breath, body shuddering, while he worked his way to within a yard of the finial, then back again to where she was.

  She knew from his face before he spoke.

  ‘You’re right!’ he said, his teeth chattering with cold. ‘Now get down, before we both fall off!’

  He climbed in the attic window and helped her through. He looked at her steadily.

  She stared back. St Felix was dead: nothing could alter that, or make it hurt less. But surely Amandine had the right to know that he had been innocent? These thoughts passed wordlessly between them.