Roch had to close his eyes for a moment. He remembered his father’s advice. Don’t let your anger govern you. Bertrand was only trying to provoke him; he was looking for a pretext to file a complaint with the Prefect.
“Also,” continued Bertrand, “Metge, you know, the Jacobin pamphleteer, is going to be tried by a Military Commission tonight. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? With three other rascals of the same ilk. All had conspired to assassinate the First Consul.”
Indeed Roch had not heard of it yet. He had read some of Metge’s writings, though. They were inflammatory. His last pamphlet, The Turk and the Military Man, was nothing but a thinly veiled invitation to assassinate Bonaparte. These days expressing such opinions had become a capital crime.
“Those Military Commissions are just the thing,” added Bertrand. “Fast, efficient, clean, no appeals, no needless fuss. That’s what I was telling the Prefect this afternoon. The government needs to empty the prisons, starting with the Temple, of all that vermin crawling in there. Don’t you agree, Miquel?”
Roch struggled to control his breathing. The occasion did not call for rash action. He looked carefully at Bertrand. The beast must be fifty pounds heavier than himself, maybe more, and a good six inches taller. His hands were the size and color of the slabs of beef one saw hanging from hooks in butcher shops. But the left foot was stiffly turned outwards, and the left shoulder was shorter than the other. This was the weak side.
Roch took a step back for momentum, and also to trick the other man. Bertrand grinned more broadly. The fool, as expected, had interpreted the move as a retreat. All of a sudden, Roch plunged headlong into the left side of Bertrand’s chest, just below the breast. Bertrand, caught unaware, gave a retching cry, staggered and fell heavily onto his rump.
Roch watched with some pleasure his colleague struggle to get back to his feet. “My poor Bertrand,” he said after a minute, “these corridors, though not waxed very often, can be slippery. You should be more careful, especially with your deformity. There, let me help you.”
He offered a hand, but Bertrand, still on the floor, bellowed and pushed him away. Roch shrugged. “What’s this? Who’s not in the mood for a friendly chat now? Oh, fine with me. Have a good night.” He stepped over Bertrand’s splayed legs and left the Prefecture.
Outside, the crisp, cold night was soothing. Roch was pleased, very pleased with his encounter with Bertrand. It had been long overdue. The fine thing about it was that the man liked to boast of his strength, and would be too vain to bring the incident to the Prefect’s attention. Besides, Roch felt sure that the blow, though it must have broken a couple of ribs, had left no trace. It would still hurt for a few weeks.
Yet in one regard, Bertrand had succeeded. He had brought to the fore Roch’s anxiety about his father. What was the old man doing at this very moment, in the tower of the Temple? He must be done with dinner. Was he reading the papers, talking politics with the Royalists before being locked in his cell for the night? More importantly, had Fouché made a decision as to his fate?
49
Roch would have given anything for the comfort of a talk in the Roman language with his father. Of course, Alexandrine too could give him the pleasure of speaking their native tongue. She was probably at the Mighty Barrel now. And, in spite of his father’s admonition, he had never called on her to thank her properly.
Truth be told, he had never paid Alexandrine much attention. Yet his attitude was inexcusable now that she minded the Mighty Barrel. He realized that he had always been angry with her because of things for which, in all fairness, she could not be blamed. He remembered resenting her intensely after the death of his sister. The two girls were about the same age, and little Anna Miquel, whom Roch loved, had died, while Alexandrine had lived. And more recently he had disliked Alexandrine because of the trouble her father’s so-called wine had caused. That was not her fault either. Most of all, he had resented the fact that Old Miquel wanted them to marry, while he was enthralled by Blanche. So he had scowled at Alexandrine at almost every opportunity. If only as a friend of many years, she deserved better.
Before Roch realized it, his steps had taken him to the Mighty Barrel. Alexandrine smiled when she saw him push open the front door, but he detected a certain sadness in her greeting. The tavern was busy at this time of the night, but she told the headwaiter to mind the common room and led Roch to Old Miquel’s private dining parlor in the back. Steam and the smell of vegetable soup filled the room. In the hearth, flames licked the bottom of a copper kettle resting on a tripod.
“Have you any news of your father?” asked Alexandrine as soon as she closed the door behind them.
Roch sat wearily in a chair by the table and rubbed his eyes. “I was allowed to visit him once in the Temple. He is doing well, much better than I had thought. He has lost none of his spirit.”
Alexandrine put a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. She sat in a chair next to Roch. “I am not surprised. It would take more than jail to break him down.”
“There is something else,” he continued, “something that makes me very angry. The night before I had permission to visit him, he was told that he would be tried before a Military Commission. You know what that would have meant.”
Alexandrine gasped. “But your father cannot be tried for anything, Roch. He didn’t do anything wrong. He must have been very upset.”
Roch looked at the copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen that his father had proudly hung on the wall. What did those words mean now? He turned his eye to the low fire in the hearth. He remembered the goose roasting on a spit on the 3rd of Nivose, when he, Alexandrine and their respective fathers had been gathered in this room for the Christmas Eve réveillon, moments before the attack. Now Old Miquel might never return to the Mighty Barrel.
Roch sighed. “No, Alexandrine, Father was not even upset. He seemed resigned to the worst, without being despondent. The prospect of the firing squad only worried him because of the pain it would cause me. You are right, he is strong.” Roch shook his head. “I was hoping that the discovery of the true culprits would help Father and his friends. I was wrong, I was naïve. And some of the assassins are still at large. I have failed to arrest them all. Father is still threatened with deportation, or worse. Everything I have done, or tried to do so far, has been useless, worthless.”
Alexandrine put her hand on Roch’s arm. “But nothing, at least nothing that can’t be mended, has happened to him yet. There is hope. I think you are too harsh on yourself. You feel disheartened now because you are tired. You have been working so hard. Of course some good will come of your efforts, very soon. I am sure that your father will be released. Your superiors owe it to you. They have to appreciate your merits, and the results of your work too.”
Roch shrugged at the thought of the Prefect’s appreciation of his merits. What was still worse than the Prefect’s animosity, open or disguised, was Fouché’s duplicity.
“No, Alexandrine, things don’t work in this manner. My superiors don’t like me at all. Neither do many of my colleagues. Some have been jealous of my promotion, some dislike me because of Father and his opinions, and some . . . well, some simply don’t find me very likable.”
The sad smile returned to Alexandrine’s lips. “Perhaps you pay more attention to those who dislike you than to those who like you.”
He could not help smiling back. “How true.” He reached for her hand. “So what on earth do you find to like in me, Alexandrine?”
Now Alexandrine’s smile had turned mischievous. “A pointed question, isn’t it? But I will try my best to answer, since you seem to count me among those who like you.”
He bit his lip. “I am sorry. I must sound abominably conceited.”
“No, please don’t apologize. I take your candor as a token of friendship. And you are right, I do like you. For one thing, I have known you since I was four years old, which is almost as far back as I can remember. I have n
ever had any brother, and when I was a little girl I admired you because you were out in the streets all day long, in all weathers, helping your father. Like him, you never let your work or anyone’s scorn wear you down. And you are still the same. As proud, as brave as ever, in a different way, and I still admire you for it. Indeed I cannot think of a time in my life when I have not liked you.”
Her tone was that of lighthearted banter, but he knew that she meant all of it.
“Now, Alexandrine, I am truly humbled. I have been so often rude to you, and I don’t know how to make amends.”
“There is no need for amends.”
She kept her eyes down. He could not think of what to say, and maybe it was better this way. In spite of her embarrassment, and of his own too, he wanted this moment to linger. In a few words she had dispelled much of the gloom that had been weighing upon him for days. For the first time he was enjoying her company. He was still holding her hand, feeling its warmth. He laid it flat on the table and caressed it with the tip of his fingers. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he seized it and brought it to his lips. She took a sharp breath and withdrew her hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I startled you.”
“I guess I am not used to seeing you so affectionate.” She hesitated. “Roch . . .”
He cringed. He feared that something terribly serious was coming, and did not want to hear it, least of all at this time, when he felt so weak.
“This is not easy to say,” she continued, “so please listen and don’t interrupt me.” He opened his mouth. She put a finger on his lips. “No, please listen to me, Roch. I need to tell you of this. I know that your father and mine would like us to marry, and that most men in your position would be happy to have me, if only for the sake of my dowry. And I know that you won’t do it because . . . because it wouldn’t be right for you, or for me. I understand, and I respect you for it.”
She kept her eyes fixed on a few stray embers glowing red in the hearth. “So please do not feel uneasy for not wanting to marry me. Again, I think you are doing the right thing. It shouldn’t prevent you from calling here to spend some time with me if it can bring you any comfort. Even if it is to talk of another woman.”
She looked straight at him now. Her eyes were shinier than usual, and her nose a little pink. She smiled, and her smile no longer had any sadness in it. “There. I am happy to have said it, and it was not so difficult after all.”
Roch felt ashamed of the manner in which he had thought of her before, dismissively, as though she were nothing but a pretty face attached to a sack of gold.
“Your guess is right, Alexandrine. There is, or rather there was, another woman, a woman . . . well, a woman I would like to forget. I cannot tell you of what happened, but in a way I feel that she has deceived me. It doesn’t make any sense for me to feel this way, because she was only my mistress. She didn’t owe me anything, not even the truth. I shouldn’t have expected anything from her, but I did. I left her once I discovered what she had hidden from me. And I have no regrets over leaving her. But I have not forgotten her yet, and it still pains me to think of her. A part of me still yearns for her.”
He seized Alexandrine’s hand again and kept it in his. “I will be as candid as you,” he continued, “and tell you what I want tonight. I want to hold you tight, and I want to rest my head against your breast, like a child in need of comfort. But if I let myself do that, if you pressed me in your arms, before long I would be seeking your lips to kiss you, not as a child, but as a lover, and then I would want more. In fact, just speaking of it makes me want more already. I want all of you.”
Alexandrine half rose from her chair and leaned towards him. He held her firmly by the wrist to make her sit back. “I am very unhappy and confused now, dearest Alexandrine, and worried over Father’s troubles. But I feel better for coming here tonight, for seeing you, for talking to you. Thank you for saying what you said, and thank you for your friendship. I need it even more than you can imagine.”
He rose from his chair. “I should go now.”
He brushed his lips against her flushed cheek and fled before she could respond.
50
This was the day when Roch had to visit the businesses of the Palais-Egalité. Before he had broken with Blanche, meeting her mother was simply unpleasant, but now that prospect was excruciatingly painful. His face burned with shame when he remembered looking at a jewelry store window at the Palais-Egalité in quest of a wedding ring. Only a week had elapsed since that day. He resolved to do his rounds at a later time than usual, during the evening. Then Madame de Cléry would be too busy to pay him much attention, and that would limit any exchanges between the two of them to a minimum.
In the meantime, he wished to have another chat with Madame de Nallet. He could ill afford to neglect any clues that might lead to the conspirators, to Saint-Régent in particular, and he realized that he had not paid the little flower painter the attention she deserved.
When he entered David’s studio, he saw, standing on the dais, a young man of athletic stature, nude, his clothes neatly folded at his feet, his arm pointing at the ceiling. The position looked painful to hold. Roch could see neither Mulard nor Madame de Nallet. He asked one of a group of students at their easels.
“Mulard? No, I haven’t seen him in a few days,” answered the man without looking away from his canvas. “Not since the trial of the Conspiracy of Daggers opened. He’s a great friend of Topino, you know.”
“And where did Madame de Nallet go? She is not here today?” asked Roch.
“Oh, David doesn’t allow any female students when we do male nudes. And anyway, she doesn’t come to the studio anymore. When I last saw Mulard, he told me that she had decided to abandon her flower studies.”
Roch nodded. This was as he had suspected. The woman had remained close to David long enough to have her brother’s name removed from the list of the émigrés. So much for her much-vaunted dedication to her art. Whatever Piis’s assurances, this warranted further investigation, but for now Roch had no longer any reason to tarry in David’s studio.
That night he headed for the Palais-Egalité. The galleries were far busier than during the day. Now they were full of prostitutes, strolling around in pairs, arm in arm, in search of patrons. There did not seem to be any shortage of those either. He saw Rose and Fanny, his acquaintances from Citizen Renard’s establishment, shivering in their sheer gowns in spite of fur stoles thrown around their shoulders. They winked at Roch. They had found their quarry, a crimson-faced, paunchy fellow, whom they were steering in the direction of the brothel. Each of the young women had seized one of his elbows and both giggled in his ears. They huddled against him, to prevent any thoughts of escape and maybe also for warmth.
All of the brothels and gaming salons he visited had lost their daytime sleepiness. Roch called on Madame de Cléry last. He heard raised voices and shrill laughter before he pushed her door open. Groups of men and women were gathered around card tables. Some women were dressed like society ladies and kept their eyes fixed on the cards, while others, wearing the same sheer gowns as Rose and Fanny, were seated in the men’s laps or standing behind them, their arms draped around their clients’ necks. Piles of louis, like a gold tide, rolled towards the center of the tables.
In the middle of the crowd, Madame de Cléry cut a conspicuous figure. Roch had never seen her fully clothed. Now the gold fabric of her gown caught the light of the candles, and a scarlet shawl, embroidered in a darker shade of red, was artfully draped around her arms. Her breasts, full and round, were generously exposed. Very similar to Blanche’s, thought Roch with a pang, only larger. A gracious smile on her lips, Madame de Cléry was walking from table to table, stopping to address her guests. She looked very elegant, and behaved like a society hostess at a fashionable party.
She drew herself up, frowning, when she recognized Roch, and walked quickly to him. “Here you are, Chief Inspector,” she said under her breath. Her whisper was
almost a hiss. “I had almost given up any hope of a visit from you. As you can see, I am rather busy at this time. Perhaps it would be more convenient if we kept to our usual hours.”
“On the contrary, Citizen Cléry, this time suits me perfectly. It also allows me to watch the operation of your salon. A thriving business, if appearances are to be trusted.”
“You happened upon us on a particularly good night. Now if you would please follow me to my apartment . . .”
Roch paid more attention than ever before to Citizen Cléry’s bedroom, dimly lit by the fire in the hearth. At the far end, slender mahogany columns, trimmed with gold, formed an alcove around the bed. It was draped in blue silks, studded with little gold stars. The same fabric covered the walls and hung from the windows. Roch’s eye traveled upwards to the painted swans that decorated the ceiling. He then returned his attention to Madame de Cléry. She was kneeling in front of a strongbox. Its gold-trimmed mahogany, matching that of the bed, disguised its function. She deftly turned three keys in their locks, revealing a thick steel lining under the wooden veneer, and seized a large purse.
“Are you looking for anything in particular, Sir?” she asked as she rose.
Roch was struck by a sudden inspiration. This was the bedroom of a lady. Indeed Madame de Cléry was a lady, though he had never thought of her in that light. What if she were Saint-Régent’s lady? She was fifteen years older than the man, but she remained strikingly handsome. And was she also the lady who had taken Short Francis to the Convent?
He looked into her eyes. “No, Citizen, I was just thinking. Of a convent. The Convent of Saint-Michel. Do you know it?”
Madame de Cléry blanched, though her features remained unmoved.
“No, Sir, I have never heard of such a place,” she said after a minute.
She handed him the purse. “You may obtain a warrant to search these premises if you wish, but you will find nothing. As you probably know, I had spent half a year in prison during the Terror. I have not forgotten those months. I awoke every morning wondering whether it would be for the last time. That experience has taught me to stay clear of anything that could send me back to jail.”
Catherine Delors Page 25