Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  But Father de Clorivière no longer heard the conversations around him. He watched as his elder brother, who had been waiting patiently, was tied last to the plank. It swung forward and the blade hit. It was all over. Blood, the blood of the martyrs, Father de Clorivière had told Joseph, was streaming on the cobblestones.

  In Joseph’s mind a patient, tenacious hate and the passage of time had given these images the vivid colors of memories. They now seemed more real than any of his true recollections of his father, gathered during the few weeks spent at the Château of Limoëlan every summer, when Joseph came home from the Oratorian Friars’ school in Rennes.

  And there was his father’s last letter to Marie-Thérèse and her sisters, written from his jail cell:

  I have loved you, dearest children, until the last moment of my life. I am not asking you to pray for me, for soon I will be happier than you. Comfort your mother, always obey her, and whenever you think of me, let it only be to rejoice in the grace God gave me to die for Him.

  Marie-Thérèse had shown this letter to Joseph, urging him to forgive, as their father himself had wanted them to do. But how was that possible? Joseph could not drive out of his mind the image of a man being led, helpless, his hands tied behind his back like those of a criminal, to the scaffold.

  The elder Limoëlan had been arrested during a meeting of Royalists at his sister’s château in Brittany. They had been betrayed, for the policemen knew the exact spot where to dig in the garden. There were found, buried in a jar, weapon inventories, lists of the King’s supporters in the region, leaflets calling for an insurrection against the Republic. More than enough evidence for the Revolutionary Tribunal to sentence the elder Limoëlan, his sister, brother-in-law and niece to death.

  Against those who had betrayed his father and kin, against all traitors, against the Revolution and its howling mobs, against the people of Paris, Joseph’s anger had simmered for those seven years.

  20

  Roch was pacing the dingy bedroom above the Five Diamonds. Just before the appointed time, he recognized Blanche’s step, light, hurried, on the stairs. He went to open the door, and she threw herself into his arms. He moaned as they kissed hungrily.

  She tossed her bonnet on a chair, undid the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, her fingers reaching down his chest toward his belly. For the first time, he felt more pain than pleasure at her touch.

  He had hoped Blanche’s hold on his mind was enough to dispel the darkness that engulfed him, to take him far away from a world where his father was in jail, awaiting deportation, and assassins were roaming the streets of Paris, ready to kill again. But even with Blanche so close to him, those things would not go away. What business had he to seek his own happiness at this time?

  Roch seized both of Blanche’s hands in his. He sat on the bed and pulled her next to him.

  “I may not be a very lively companion today,” he said.

  “But I know of a way to make you lively enough, my love.” She pouted. “If you will let me, that is.”

  “No, Blanche, no one, not even you, nothing can cheer me much now. My father was arrested.”

  Blanche covered her mouth with her hand. “Arrested? But what for?”

  “It’s that horrible Rue Nicaise business.”

  Blanche’s face had become very grave. “But your father had nothing to do with it.”

  “No, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  “You work at the Prefecture, after all. You will be able to clear up things and have him released very soon.”

  “So I thought, but I was wrong. Guilt and innocence don’t matter anymore. Think of all those poor people slaughtered on Rue Nicaise. Of what were they guilty? I saw them, Blanche, the dead, the dying. I saw them with my own eyes. They were innocent, and yet they died. It is the same with Father. How can his innocence protect him? And I can do nothing. Not only am I unable to secure his release, but now he faces deportation.”

  Blanche shuddered. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Roch, I had no idea . . .”

  He stroked her black hair, closed his eyes and breathed in her lily of the valley and carnation fragrance. She wrapped her arms around him. He could not think of any greater solace than this, having her so close. They remained silent for a long time, locked in a quiet embrace.

  Blanche was the first to speak. “Roch?”

  “What is it, dearest?”

  “If I asked you for something, would you give it to me?”

  “Of course, if it were in my power to give it to you.”

  “I would like a present from you.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt. True, he brought her tiny bouquets, ribbons, fans, trinkets she could wear without attracting her husband’s notice, but he knew that he could afford not anything approaching the beauty of the jewels Coudert had given her. That set of pearls she had worn on the night of the musical party at her home had to be worth more than 100,000 francs, many times his yearly salary. Still, he should have brought her small gifts of jewelry once in a while.

  “So, my Blanche, what would you like?”

  “A ring.”

  “What kind of ring? How about an emerald?” He caressed her fingers, long, white, thin. “A green stone would look so lovely on your hand.”

  She looked straight at him. “No. I want a plain gold ring.”

  He drew back, startled. “Like a nuptial ring?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. You already have a nuptial ring.”

  “But I want one from you.”

  He turned away and stared out the window. She had just spoiled that brief moment of respite. Why did she need to remind him of her marriage at this moment?

  “Is your husband’s ring not enough for you?”

  She frowned. “Are you jealous, Roch?”

  “I don’t like the thought of Coudert being your husband, that’s all. I know that it sounds ridiculous. So yes, I guess I am jealous.”

  “You shouldn’t be. There is nothing anymore between my husband and me. There hardly ever was, in fact.”

  Roch bit his upper lip. He realized that she had told him almost nothing of her life with Coudert, beyond cursory mentions of the shows and entertainments they attended together. Roch thought again of the musical party at her house, of his brief meeting with her husband.

  “Why did you marry that man, by the way?” he asked. “Were you in love with him?”

  “No, never.” She too stared straight ahead now. “I had fallen in love with another man, and given myself to him. Then he left me. Once Mama found out, she was very angry, and she said no respectable man would have me anymore. About that time Monsieur Coudert, who was a longtime friend of hers, proposed. So I accepted.”

  “Because you thought no one else would marry you? It was silly, Blanche. So this is why you agreed to marry Coudert?”

  “I was grateful to him. I liked him. I was too young to know any better. Now I regret it, but it is too late.”

  “Why do you say that? You are so young. It is not too late.”

  “Oh, yes, Roch, it is for me.”

  Blanche seemed lost in her thoughts. He wondered about what could have happened if she had not married Coudert. Would she have wed Roch? He chided himself. He was the son of a tavern keeper. He was not rich enough, not refined enough. He could never afford the luxuries to which she had been accustomed.

  He thought of her Paris mansion, her army of servants, her jewels, her horses, her country houses, her carriages, her parties. Now he tried to picture her in his lodgings on Rue de Jouy, with their dull yellow upholstery, and his maid for sole company. No fine society friends would ever call on her there. No, loath as he was to admit it, she was meant to be Coudert’s wife.

  Roch shook his head sadly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have no right to be jealous of your husband. It should be the reverse, in fact. But about that ring, what would you do with it, really? Wear it next to your other nuptial ring, on the sa
me finger?”

  “No, I will wear yours, only yours. It will be our secret, and no one but us will ever know the difference.” There was a tremor in her voice. “But if it upsets you, let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  “Poor Blanche,” he said. “No, of course it doesn’t upset me. I will buy you that ring.”

  He bought her hand to his lips. She meant so much to him, especially at this time.

  21

  Already two weeks had elapsed since the Rue Nicaise attack and winter was now entrenched in Paris. The current month of the Revolutionary calendar, Nivose, was named after the Latin word for snow, and snow it did. Not the dazzling snow of the mountains Roch remembered from his childhood, but dirty city snow that mixed with the filth of the streets, melted into a gray slop and then froze at night.

  He continued searching for any trace of Saint-Régent and François Carbon. He had all the usual haunts of the Chouans watched. Descriptions of Short Francis’s flattened mug and Saint-Régent’s weasel face were now posted all over Paris, and all policemen, all mouchards were on high alert. In vain. And only twenty days of the time allotted by Fouché remained to arrest them. How would one find two men who had crawled into a hole in a city of 700,000?

  Roch was leaving the Prefecture in the evening of the 18th of Nivose, the 7th of January in the old calendar, when he heard his name called. He turned around and saw a clerk ran after him. The man was out of breath, and from his look, something must be amiss.

  “The Prefect’s been asking for you, Citizen Chief Inspector.” The man, panting, shook his head. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

  Roch sighed. What scheme was Dubois hatching now? He steadied himself before knocking at his superior’s door. The clerk had been right about the Prefect’s mood. Dubois scowled at Roch. “So, Miquel, you are indeed a disgrace to the force. Harassing good citizens to pursue your ridiculous fancies.”

  Roch raised his eyebrows. He thought at first of Citizen Roger, the porter on Rue de Paradis. But no, they had parted good friends, her eyes aglow with the prospect of the reward.

  “Which good citizens am I accused of harassing, Citizen Prefect?”

  “Citizen Gillard, the proprietor of the Mayenne Inn.”

  Roch’s lips formed a silent whistle. That Gillard was certainly an impudent fellow to complain to Dubois.

  “Well, Citizen Prefect, I have had all of the Royalist haunts in Paris watched. That includes the Mayenne Inn. I have placed an Inspector nearby to watch it discreetly. What is Gillard’s complaint?”

  “Do you think law-abiding citizens like to be watched by the police? Your Inspector must be less discreet than you think. I know Citizen Gillard. He is a perfectly respectable man, a Captain in the National Guard. And what if the patrons of the Mayenne Inn were all former Chouans? Pray who told you to watch the Royalists in the first place?”

  “But, Citizen Prefect—”

  “Enough. You will pull all of your men from there. I do not want to hear another word of complaint from Citizen Gillard. Is it clear?”

  Roch simply nodded. He was wondering about the Prefect’s motives. He had long surmised that the Chouans had infiltrated the ranks of the police. Even Piis, for all his friendliness, was a ci-devant aristocrat. Now was the Prefect himself only displaying his usual imbecility, or deliberately hindering the investigation?

  “Be careful, Miquel,” added Dubois as Roch was turning around. “I will not tolerate any more insubordination.”

  Now Roch would have to follow the Prefect’s orders and pull his men from the vicinity of the Mayenne Inn. But, with less than three weeks left before Old Miquel faced the horrors of deportation, it was out of the question to leave the place without surveillance. Pépin, the little beggar, might again prove helpful.

  22

  Roch had settled on red velvet seats by the large iron stove at the Pinecone Café. He was watching his colleague Sobry, who was engaged in a game of dames, or “ladies,” with a thin, elderly man. Roch tried to watch a few moves of the black and white pawns on the checkerboard, but his mind kept drifting off the game.

  He seized a copy of the Journal des Débats lying on a nearby table and began to read. The men held for their participation in the Conspiracy of Daggers were going to stand trial. That indeed was news. It meant that the plot was no longer deemed a buffoonery concocted by the Prefect. Also the paper reported that, as predicted by Fouché, the Senate had given the First Consul the power to order the deportation without judgment of any individual deemed a threat to the safety of the Nation. And the newspaper printed the list of the first seventy Jacobins who were to be shipped to the Colonies.

  Roch read the list twice, his heart pounding, expecting the name Antonin Miquel to jump at him from the page. Fortunately, no, it was not there. But, as the newspaper pointed out, more deportations were to follow shortly. This was but a respite.

  Roch looked up when he heard a triumphant chuckle. Sobry’s adversary was rubbing his hands, where prominent blue veins pulsated under loose skin. The old man seized one of his “ladies” and flew over three of Sobry’s pieces.

  “Now what do you say to this, Citizen Commissioner?” he asked, beaming.

  “What can I say? I cannot move. You won, Citizen, as usual.”

  The elderly man pulled his watch. “Time to head home,” he said. He grasped his hat and umbrella and wished the company a good evening. Sobry pushed the board towards Roch.

  “Want to take your turn trouncing me, Miquel?” he asked, smiling ruefully. “You are more skillful than I with the ‘ladies.’ ”

  “No, thank you, Sobry. I am in no mood to play tonight.”

  Sobry became grave. “I can imagine.”

  “You heard about my father, then?”

  “The Prefect didn’t make a mystery of it. I am sorry, Miquel. What about you? Are you making any progress in the investigation?”

  “Not much. Do you know of the Mayenne Inn?”

  “Of course. No Chouan comes to town without setting foot there, or being connected to the place in some manner or other.” Sobry looked into Roch’s eye. “There you go again with your Chouans. This won’t help your father.”

  “On the contrary, the only way to help him is to find the assassins.”

  “In any case, leave the Mayenne Inn alone. The owner, Gillard, has friends in high places.”

  “You mean Dubois?”

  “Yes. And the Prefect has grown bolder in protecting his friends. He must think that it is only a matter of days before Fouché is dismissed. Dubois hopes to be appointed Minister of Police then.”

  Roch stared at Sobry. “Dubois? Minister of Police? You can’t be serious.” This would be the worst news of all. Dubois would then make sure that Old Miquel be deported immediately.

  Sobry nodded gravely. “Oh, I am quite serious, and so is Dubois. He never liked you and, mind you, he is not alone.”

  “I know.”

  “And you underestimate the Prefect’s determination. Once again, Miquel, leave the Mayenne Inn alone, for your own sake and that of your father.”

  “Yes, of course,” muttered Roch.

  There was no point in arguing with Sobry. Roch drained his glass of wine and bid his colleague a good night. He was more intrigued than ever by the Mayenne Inn and its proprietor. The place warranted further investigation. Instead of going home directly, Roch decided to drop by the Mighty Barrel to borrow a few things of his father’s.

  23

  At this time the common room of the tavern would be busy, though it was not the same crowd as during the day. Now the patrons would be the habitual drunkards, purple-faced and dull-eyed, who took large gulps from their mugs, and those, wide awake, whose business kept up at night.

  Going through the common room would require exchanging a few words with Alexandrine. Roch struggled to think of what he was going to say. It was always awkward to talk to her, and now, after having been so rude to her the other day, he had to thank her. This was not going to be e
asy. Even with the best of intentions, nothing he ever said to her sounded right.

  He decided to go through the back alley. Pulling a key from his pocket, he climbed the outside stairs that led directly to his father’s apartment. Once inside, he undressed to his shirt and underwear and threw his clothes on the bed. He opened the squeaky doors to an ancient oak wardrobe and pulled breeches and a jacket made of coarse cloth, along with a pair of hobnailed shoes. Roch buttoned leather gaiters around his legs and donned a round hat. Finally, he squatted by the fireplace, rubbed his hands inside the cold hearth and smeared soot on his face. On the top shelf of the wardrobe he found his father’s knife. Old Miquel must have been arrested early in the morning, before he had time to put it in his pocket. Roch looked around the room one last time and also seized his father’s staff. Instead of fastening the strap to one of his jacket buttons, he slipped his left wrist through it.

  Before leaving the apartment, Roch, from the corner of his eye, caught sight of the image reflected in the mirror above the fireplace mantel. He started. Of course this was not a ghost, and thankfully Old Miquel was still alive, but the image in the mirror was, down to every detail, the memory Roch kept of his father twenty years ago. Old Miquel was a rag-and-bone man then, and one of the lowest description, for society knows gradations of rank, even among those who survive on its refuse. He was a pelharot, as they say in the Roman language, a rabbit-skin man.

  Father and son would go door-to-door throughout Paris. In the poor districts, they climbed many flights of creaky stairs to ask housewives whether they had any rabbit skins to sell, and even the most destitute did. Roch and his father also knocked at the service entrances to the comfortable houses of the bourgeois and the mansions of the nobles. There, the maids would sell the pelts, for that minuscule benefit was traditionally deemed theirs. After each house, the load became heavier until the backs and heads of the man and child alike disappeared under an array of all colors of fur. The rancid smell of animal grease preceded them, and dogs barked at them long before their arrival. Once in a while, a mother would point at Old Miquel, who was not old then, and tell her child: “Be quiet now, or I’ll sell you to the rabbit-skin man.”