“When you think that Bonaparte owes the Revolution everything!” continued Old Miquel. “Without it, he’d still be a piddling lieutenant in some small-town garrison, and his greatest title to glory’d be to belong to a family of penniless Corsican nobles that no one—”
To Roch’s great relief, shouts drowned his father’s voice and the din of the room. All conversations stopped as two fellows in workmen’s caps rose from their benches, facing each other across the table.
“Don’t you ever say again that Eugénie’s a whore!” one of them cried, rising his fist. “Else I’ll kill you.”
“Oh, for sure, she’s a whore. She bedded you, and me, and Leriche too, and half of the people in here.”
The first man roared and caught the other by the lapel of his jacket. “Then I’ll kill you. And I’ll go kill her too after that.”
Old Miquel swore as he walked to the combatants. He grabbed both by their collars, pulled them from the table and threw them out onto the street.
“Enough!” he shouted in French. “Go kill each other outside, you drunkards. A big loss that’ll be.”
Old Miquel had large muscular arms and a broad chest. A heavy oak wood staff, fitted with an iron tip, hung by a leather thong from one of the buttons his jacket. Like Auvergne peasants, he also carried in his pocket a folding knife, ready to open with one flick of his thumb. Though past the age of fifty, he was more than a match for disorderly patrons.
“Scoundrels,” he said as he walked back to Roch. “Where do they think they are? I’ll have no foul language here, specially tonight. I invited Vidalenc, and Alexandrine of course, for the réveillon.” He wagged his forefinger at Roch. “Now here’s a girl who’d make a good wife, dutiful and hardworking. Though not as good as your dear mother, may her soul rest in peace.”
Roch was not surprised to hear of the choice of guests. Vidalenc was a wine merchant and his father’s oldest friend in Paris. As for Alexandrine, Roch did not dislike her at all. He had, when they were both children, treated her with the condescension owed a girl, a younger one at that. She had received some education and had pleasant, unaffected manners. He would not have minded spending the evening in her company but for his father’s repeated hints.
“But then,” continued Old Miquel, “you wouldn’t find a wife like your poor mother nowadays, specially in Paris. Still, Alexandrine’s a good girl. Pretty too, which can’t be too much of a hindrance. And she’s Vidalenc’s daughter, not any stranger whose parents you wouldn’t even know. As it is, she has a dowry of 50,000 francs, and she’s an only child. She’ll get all of Vidalenc’s money when—”
Old Miquel paused when Vidalenc, a stocky man with white hair and piercing blue eyes, entered the common room. Alexandrine was on her father’s arm. Roch had to admit that she looked pretty, even elegant, in a white taffeta dress, embroidered in blue around the hem and sleeves. A cashmere shawl, also blue, was modestly draped around her shoulders, but the swell of round breasts could be guessed underneath. She had expressive gray eyes and her honey-colored hair, with just a hint of red in it, fell in large curls on firm, broad shoulders. Predictably, she blushed when she saw Roch, which made him all the more uncomfortable.
Old Miquel showed his guests into the private dining parlor behind the tavern’s common room. The mongrel followed and settled stiffly in front of the hearth. Within moments he was whining in his sleep, his hind legs twitching. Perhaps he was dreaming of the faraway days when he would run away from the Mighty Barrel to pursue amorous adventures through the neighboring streets.
Alexandrine pulled from a basket on her arm a crown-shaped object wrapped in an immaculate towel, and presented it to Old Miquel. It was a fougace, a traditional Christmas cake from Auvergne. Roch breathed in its delicate aromas of orange blossom and dried fruit before they were overwhelmed by the smell of the goose, already golden brown, roasting on a spit in the fireplace. Old Miquel, beaming, removed his hat and kissed Alexandrine on both cheeks.
“Thank you, dear,” he said. “Still warm from the oven, I see. There’s no finer gift for the season. For any season, in fact.”
“I know you are so fond of it, Citizen Miquel,” said Alexandrine, smiling. “I baked it myself for you.”
“Then it’ll taste still sweeter. We’ll have it for dessert, with some fine Sauternes wine.”
Old Miquel placed the fougace at the center of the table, between two uncorked bottles of wine, one red, one white. They were coated with dust, not the gray dust of neglect, but the brown, sticky dust acquired during years of careful aging in a cellar. Roch surmised that, unlike the dubious beverage served to the tavern’s patrons, these bottles did not come from Vidalenc’s warehouse. On the walls of the dining parlor, copper basins reflected the light of the fire, next to a framed copy of the Declaration of Rights of Man and of the Citizen in gold letters against a black background. The table was set with plates painted with bright images of the storming of the Bastille, ten years earlier, and other patriotic motifs of the young Republic.
Old Miquel pulled a chair for Alexandrine to sit by his side, facing his son. Still standing, he poured red wine and raised his glass. “Some say that all things get worse with time. Not true. Like they say in Auvergne:
Good friends and good wine,
The older, the better.”
He raised his glass, looking at Vidalenc. “To old friendships!” Then he winked at Alexandrine and Roch. “And to new love!”
Roch glanced at Alexandrine. Her cheeks were flushed and she kept her eyes fixed on the tricolor flags that decorated her plate. Maybe she fancied him. He was generally reckoned handsome. Well, not quite so. His nose was too long and aquiline for that, but it did not seem to bother women. They seemed to like the direct gaze of his brown eyes. He was unusually tall, just under six feet, and well built without being heavyset, with a mass of dark curly hair, cropped short. He very much looked like his father twenty years earlier, except for the fact that Roch was now dressed as a gentleman, in an immaculate linen shirt, black velvet coat and waistcoat, bronze-colored breeches and fine leather boots.
But, for all the attention he paid to his own appearance, he was not conceited. On second thought, he was not sure at all that Alexandrine liked him. Perhaps she was simply embarrassed by the naïve scheming of their respective fathers. If so, that was all to her credit. For all Roch knew or cared, she might be madly in love with some other man.
Vidalenc, grinning, had now risen in turn. He cleared his throat, his glass in hand. Roch cringed at the idea of more talk of young love, but he never heard Vidalenc’s words, cut short by a tremendous blast. The entire room seemed to be lifted off its foundations and brutally dropped back down. A wine bottle toppled on the table. The framed Declaration of Rights crashed to the floor with a cling of broken glass.
Old Miquel, swearing, straightened the red wine bottle before much of its contents could spill. Alexandrine, silent, was very pale. Vidalenc was still standing, holding his glass aloft, words frozen on his lips. The dog rose and began barking furiously.
“Quiet, Crow!” shouted Old Miquel. “What the hell’s this? They disturb the peace of honest citizens, just to sound the cannon to celebrate some victory or other. All for your Bonaparte’s greater glory!”
Roch shook his head. “I doubt it, Father. This doesn’t sound like a cannon. And if this were a celebration of anything, there would have been a salvo of twenty-one blasts.” He put his napkin down on the table and rose. “You must excuse me.”
Roch took his leave, too preoccupied to respond to his father’s protests. All that was on his mind was Blanche’s safety.
3
Roch, on the doorstep of Mighty Barrel, wondered about the location of the blast. It had sounded so close. He could not keep his thoughts off Blanche Coudert, his mistress of several months, in whose company he had spent a few most enjoyable hours that afternoon. He knew that the première of The Creation of the World would begin shortly at the Opera, only a few hundred
yards away. All of fine society would attend. Blanche and her husband had their own box, and she loved music. She would be there, of course. He imagined her injured, bleeding, dying, far from any help.
He ran towards the Opera. Everywhere he had to force his way through anxious crowds, which became more and restless as he drew closer. But then, when he reached the entrance to the Palais-Egalité, he realized that the center of the uproar must be further to the south, towards Rue Nicaise. He felt relieved. Blanche was safe then. Her carriage, even if it had arrived fashionably late, would not have taken that route to go to the Opera.
Roch prepared to turn into Rue Nicaise, but paused for a minute. There was no street there anymore, only a sort of tunnel, a gaping hole, its edges softened by drifting smoke. All the lamps had been extinguished, and the scene was only lit by wobbly points of light in the distance. Roch entered the darkness. A gust of wind, carrying the stench of gunpowder and fire, hit him in the face. He tripped on an unseen obstacle and cursed under his breath. After a few dozen yards, he distinguished a dozen characters, male and female, in strange costumes, their faces caked with white powder and rouge, huddled together. A man shivering in a Roman toga, his bare feet in antique sandals, held a lantern. Roch remembered that the Théâtre du Vaudeville was nearby. A popular entertainment for those Parisians who could not afford the Opera. Roch approached the little group.
“Police!” he said. “If you don’t mind, Citizen, I will borrow your lantern.”
The actors gathered around him and proceeded to ask questions all at the same time.
Roch raised his hand. “No,” he said, “I have no idea of what happened. Go home now and report to the nearest police station in the morning to give your statements.”
He headed further down the street. Shards of glass briefly reflected the light of the lantern and crushed under the heel of his boot. Sometimes his foot sank with a wet noise into soft, spongy, indefinable things, which he preferred not to imagine.
There were more lanterns ahead. Those were not moving. They were fitted at the top of poles planted into the rubble that covered the ground. He saw a large gathering of men, but these were no actors. He recognized his colleague Sobry, the Police Commissioner for the district of the Tuileries. Sobry was a former attorney, a tall man with a handsome, thoughtful face. He was giving orders to blue-uniformed National Guards. Other men, in civilian clothes, were bent over prone bodies. All the physicians in the district must have rushed to the scene.
“A bomb, an infernal machine,” Sobry said in response to Roch’s question. “On a cart, apparently. Several witnesses noticed it, stopped in the middle of the street, not far from the Café d’Apollon. The bomb exploded just as the First Consul’s carriage drove by.”
Roch frowned. “So Bonaparte . . .”
“No, amazing as it sounds. Not a scratch, though I heard that the windows of his carriage were shattered. His lucky star again, I guess. Apparently none of his attendants were seriously injured either. His carriage simply drove on to the Opera.”
The image of Blanche returned to Roch’s mind with renewed urgency.
“What about the Opera? What’s going on there? Another bomb?”
“No, all is safe there, apparently. Bonaparte may be there already. They must have searched the place before they let him set foot inside.”
Roch pictured Blanche, by her husband’s side, seated in her red velvet box at the Opera. Her white skin must have turned paler than usual at the news of the attack. But at least she was unhurt.
He turned his attention to the crater, several yards across, that gouged the street. The fronts of the nearby houses had collapsed. Blackened paneling, shattered furniture, half-collapsed ceilings were exposed to his view. An hour earlier, those had been ordinary rooms, filled with ordinary people, in a well-to-do district. Now there was something oddly immodest about the sight of those private places, suddenly exposed to anyone’s view.
“I can’t imagine how Bonaparte escaped this,” muttered Roch.
He looked around at the bodies littering the street. Some were moaning, and a woman’s shrill cries pierced the air. Roch, trying to shut off all noises, squatted next to the remains of a horse, yards away from the crater. He examined the animal’s sole remaining hoof. The shoe was bright and shiny in the light of the lanterns.
“From the extent of the mutilation,” he said to Sobry, “it looks like the horse that drew the cart. See this? The shoe is new. This poor beast must be taken to the Prefecture. A blacksmith may be able to recognize it.” Roch looked around. “What about the cart itself ? Did you find the plate number?”
“No, only the two shafts, each on one side of the street. They seem quite ordinary. As for the plate, it may have been shattered or blown onto nearby roofs. We will search there as soon as day breaks.”
“Where is the Prefect?” asked Roch.
“On his way, I guess. I sent him word of the situation.”
“And what about the Minister?”
Sobry looked straight at Roch. “Like you, I report to the Prefect. He will inform the Minister as he deems appropriate.”
“How many dead?”
“Too early to tell. So far we discovered eight bodies. I had them taken to the police station on Rue Thomas. But there must be more buried in the rubble, and there are scores of wounded, many gravely so. A butchery.” Sobry nodded in the direction of an intact house down the street. “I had the stables in there turned into an infirmary.”
Roch was staring at a dark, elongated form a dozen yards away, in the midst of the rubble. “Sobry, have you seen this?”
The object had the color and texture of charcoal. It looked like a large log, blown off from a fireplace. Followed by Sobry, he walked cautiously towards it. He stopped when he saw tufts of reddish hair still sticking to the far end. A human skull. He turned away and took a deep breath, then willed himself to look again. Now he could see that both arms were missing.
Sobry shuddered. “Poor thing. He, or she, must have been very close to the infernal machine to be so badly burned. Some witnesses mentioned a child, poorly dressed, holding the bridle of the horse and playing with a whip. Most say a girl, but some swear that it was a boy.”
Roch nodded, still too nauseous to speak.
“You know how it goes,” continued Sobry. “You can never get two people to agree on anything. True, it was hard to tell, with this fog.”
Sobry ordered two National Guards to deposit the charred body onto a door that was found lying on the street, and Roch followed them to the police station. There was no end to the night’s horrors. On the floor lay eight corpses, some almost intact, some barely evoking a human form. Severed limbs had been piled in a corner. The physicians were all busy attending to the wounded, a guard told him, and no one had come to examine the bodies yet. The only information available was the names of the dead, at least those who had been identified thanks to their Cartes de Sûreté. Roch wrote them down in the booklet he always carried in his pocket. He was relieved to leave in search of a cart to take the carcass of the horse to the Prefecture.
He walked away in the direction of the Louvre Embankment. Once he left Rue Nicaise, the reassuring glow of streetlights reappeared. He breathed in deeply the cold air. He could smell the river now. He looked around and saw a familiar figure, slim and raggedy, among a band of street urchins. Perhaps they expected to scavenge something out of the wreckage, once the guards and policemen left.
Roch beckoned to one of the boys. He often used him as an informer, a mouchard, in Parisian slang, an interposed person, in the official language of police reports. Pépin was thirteen, small for his age and fleet of foot.
“Come here,” called Roch, “I have something for you.”
The boy approached, grinning. “Always at your command, Chief Inspector, Sir. Looks like you’ve your hands full tonight. So Bonaparte’s tripe’s blown all over the street? The King’ll come back, eh? Are they goin’ to guillotine you, Sir? Or maybe hang you,
like in the ole days? That’d be a pity.”
“Shut that damned trap of yours, little snot. The First Consul is unharmed and no one’s going to hang me.”
Roch pulled his booklet and scrawled a few sentences on a blank page. He tore it off, folded it and addressed it in pencil to Citizen Fouché, Minister of Police. He handed Pépin the note. The guards at the Ministry knew him by sight and would let him pass. As the boy took it, Roch seized him by the fraying collar of his jacket.
“You’re going to take this to the Minister. Right away. If for any reason it doesn’t reach him within ten minutes, I’m going to send you to jail. About Bicêtre? I’ll see to it that you’re thrown into the Pit, in the middle of fifty common criminals. A mouchard, especially a fresh young one like you, will be quite a treat for them.”
Pépin looked chastened. “My apologies, I’m sure, Sir.”
Roch let go of him. As soon as the boy’s feet rested on the ground again, he took his cap off. “Really, Sir. No offense meant.”
“None taken. Just remember that the Pit awaits you if you play any tricks.”
Roch threw him a copper coin. The boy caught it deftly and saluted before disappearing.
4
Roch, followed by a cart and its sullen driver, returned to Rue Nicaise, where he oversaw the removal of the horse’s remains. He agreed with Sobry that, after stopping at the Prefecture, he would go to L’Hôtel-Dieu, the hospital where most of the wounded had been taken.
Roch headed for the Isle of the Cité. He left the carcass of the horse in the care of the guards on duty at the Prefecture of Police, and continued in the direction of Notre-Dame. The massive square towers of the Cathedral stood darker than the night sky. Roch walked past the Enfants-Trouvés, the Foundlings Hospital. There were abandoned the orphans, the little bastards and the offspring of paupers who could not afford to feed them.
Catherine Delors Page 2