“That’s not true, Father. No man in his right mind would be ashamed of Alexandrine.”
“Oh, you’d try to hide it, of course, but she’d know it. She understands things, Alexandrine. A girl like her deserves better. What’s sure is that you shouldn’t marry her just to make me happy, now that I’m going away. So choose a girl to your liking, and choose carefully. Think of your mother.”
“I will, Father, and of you too. And I will visit you in Lavigerie as soon as I can.”
“Keep your own situation in mind first. Things might stay a bit shaky for a while at the Prefecture. Don’t worry about me opening my big mouth down there in Lavigerie. I’ll be as quiet as can be. I won’t talk about Bonaparte, about Fouché, about politics, specially to my friends, if I still have any. They’d be the first to report me, I know that. I won’t even complain about the weather. I don’t want to cause trouble for you. Those things, the ideals of the Revolution, it’s all done now. People want Bonaparte, so let them have Bonaparte, and see all the good that comes out of it.”
Old Miquel shook his head. “It’s a sad thing to watch a great nation sink into idiocy. They’re all enamored of Bonaparte, of his victories, of his glory. Oh, someday they’ll realize he only cares about himself, not about the good of the country. But it’s too soon just yet.” Old Miquel poked Roch’s chest with his index finger. “So obey the government. Don’t create trouble for yourself, but try to remain a decent man. Serve the First Consul, as he calls himself, and serve his valets, but only as long as it suits you. I don’t think Bonaparte’ll outlast his first defeat. When that time comes, and it will, mind you, don’t waste your loyalty on a fellow like that. He isn’t worth it.”
Old Miquel stared straight ahead. “Anyway, I’ll have other things to do in Auvergne than talking politics. I’ll go to your mother’s tomb, or what’s left of it. I’m ashamed of myself. All these years’ve passed, and I’ve never gone back there to pay my respects and keep it in good repair. It’d have hurt too much. I’ll go visit, and I’ll have a proper cross put on it, with an inscription, like for rich people. It’ll say what a good wife she was, and how much I’ve missed her. Something about the poor little ones too. And I’ll put a few words about you. I know she’d have liked that. You always were her favorite child. But you already knew that, I guess. She’d be so proud of you if she could see you. In fact, I’m sure she can from where she is now.”
Roch felt that old sorrow gripping his throat, choking him.
“Now I’ve said all I needed to say,” added Old Miquel, patting Roch’s arm. “I should stop talking, because I’m only causing you pain.”
Both remained silent until the hackney arrived in Sceaux. There, in front of the Inn of the Silver Bell, they embraced a long time, like men who might not see each other again. At last Old Miquel gently pushed Roch away and walked in the direction of the waiting stagecoach. He turned around and waved one last time at his son.
64
Think of your mother. Those had been Old Miquel’s words. Indeed Roch often thought of his mother, of the last time he had seen her, of that September farewell. She had kept him huddled in her arms so long. How he regretted to have fought his tears then, out of mistaken pride and bravery.
He also remembered the last time he had gone to Auvergne, at the age of twelve, with his father, the following June. During the final days of their journey home, Old Miquel’s mood changed. He seemed absentminded, preoccupied, and barely answered any of Roch’s questions. Roch guessed that his father was thinking of his mother and of their reunion behind the bed curtains. Old Miquel quickened their pace as they approached the village of Lavigerie, and they ran and cried with joy at the sight of its first houses.
That year they realized that something had gone wrong. The Miquel cottage was still there, with its thatched roof and walls made of huge black stones, mortared in white, but the shutter of the only window was closed, in spite of the fine weather. So was the door. It was locked. Old Miquel banged on it with both fists.
“Augalio!” he shouted.
Daval, one of the neighbors, walked slowly out of the next cottage. “She isn’t home,” he said under his breath.
Old Miquel walked to the man in a menacing manner. “Where did she go? When’s she coming back?”
“She isn’t coming back, Antonin. The eicir took her.”
“The eicir . . .” said Old Miquel, as though in a trance.
The eicirs are the snowstorms of the high country, eddies of blinding whiteness.
“The priest wanted to write you,” continued Daval, “but no one knew where you lived in Paris.”
Old Miquel remained still, staring at the sunlit fields in the distance.
“It happened in April, the last eicir we had this year,” continued Daval. “We found her the next morning, frozen, poor thing, just yards from your cottage. She must have lost her way.”
“Why did she go out in the eicir? She knew better.”
“The door to your cottage must’ve slipped loose during the night, and two of your sheep were missing. She went out in search of them. I told her not to go, to wait another day. The air smelled of snow. But she wouldn’t listen. You owed seven sheep as rent to the Baron de Peyre, half of your flock, and she said she couldn’t survive with only five left.”
“And the children? Where are my children?” A vein was throbbing on Old Miquel’s forehead. His voice had become shrill.
“The little ones went out with her, to help her find those sheep. They died together, Antonin. We found them like that, her holding them tight in her arms. So tight that we couldn’t separate them, frozen as they were. So we buried them in the same grave, the three of them.”
Roch pictured his mother caught in the twirling white sheets of the eicir. She had gone deaf from the howls of the wind and become disoriented. She had walked in circles for hours, so close to home and so hopelessly lost. Finally, exhausted, she had stopped to make a nest in the snow. She had gathered her children close. Then the eicir had lulled them all to sleep.
They said in the high country that, after one stopped fighting, it was a slow yet painless, merciful agony. One even felt warm and comfortable in the snow and simply went to sleep. Roch had prayed that it was true. Who could tell really? No one had ever awakened from the embrace of the eicir.
Old Miquel pushed open the gate to the Lavigerie graveyard. It squeaked on its rusty hinges. They looked for the fresher, unfamiliar graves. In a far corner, they saw a swelling in the dirt, a mound adorned with two gray planks nailed together to form a cross. As they drew near, they saw that it bore an inscription in black paint, half erased:
Eulalie, wife of Antonin Miquel
Anna and Pierre Miquel, their children
Both man and boy took off their hats and knelt before the tomb. Someone had tied a ribbon, yellow and red, already faded, to the cross. The sharp mountain wind that pierced Roch to the bone played with it. He recognized the trinket. His mother had treasured it and worn it, shiny then and brightly colored, on her bonnet on all holidays and the few festive occasions of her life.
Old Miquel wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I gave it to her as a wedding present,” he said.
Roch reached for the ribbon, the last memento of his mother. It seemed alive, ready to fly away, fluttering in the wind like the wings of a butterfly. His father stopped him before he could touch it.
“Leave it,” he said. “It should stay here, with her, till nothing’s left of it.”
That night, they accepted the Davals’ hospitality for dinner. Old Miquel decided to sleep one last night in the dead cottage. Then they left for Paris before dawn, like thieves, without saying good-bye to anyone in Lavigerie. They had never returned to Auvergne.
65
Roch was startled when the hackney stopped in front of his lodgings. He realized all of a sudden that this was not home, it was not where he wanted to be. He shouted to the driver to whip his horse and drive as fast as he could to th
e Mighty Barrel, Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. He pulled his watch. It was eleven now, and the tavern had just closed. Though he barely knew how to pray, or to whom, he prayed ardently that Alexandrine had not left for her father’s house yet. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the Barrel. Light still filtered between the cracks of the closed shutters. He jumped off the hackney and threw the driver a silver coin.
He ran to the door. He pulled a key from his pocket and let himself into the common room. It was tidy, the benches and chairs pushed against the tables, the floor swept. Alexandrine was standing in the middle of the room, adjusting her kerchief around her neck, when she saw him. Neither of them uttered a word. He dropped onto the nearest chair. He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fists into the sockets of his eyes in an effort to stop the flow of tears. Fortunately he had been able to control himself in front of his father. But now sobs came from deep within his chest, suffocating him. The only way to breathe was to let out a long wail, a howl of pain over Old Miquel’s exile, over the loss of Blanche, over his mother’s death, so faraway and yet so fresh.
The next thing he remembered was breathing again, and a light scent of lavender. His face was buried in the folds of Alexandrine’s dress, and he felt her fingers running through the short curls of his hair. She uttered indistinct sounds of comfort, like a wordless lullaby. He clasped his arms tight around her waist. What was so comforting was that there was no need to explain. Old Miquel was right. She understood things.
How long they remained thus he could not tell, but they were startled by a knock at the door. At this time it could only be Vidalenc’s manservant coming to take Alexandrine home. Roch could not let the man see him weep. He let go of Alexandrine and ran up the stairs to his father’s apartment. He collapsed on the bed in the dark and tried to bring his breathing under control. She would go now. It was only proper, of course, yet he wanted to cry to her to stay. He would not even touch her, he only wanted to feel her close to him through the night. He heard a man’s voice coming from the common room, and then Alexandrine’s answer.
“No, Fraysse, I can’t come now,” she said in her clear, poised voice. “I have not finished the day’s accounts yet. You needn’t wait for me, I will sleep here tonight in Citizen Miquel’s apartment.”
The man spoke again.
“But yes, of course,” she added, “I will be fine here by myself. Please tell Father not to worry.”
Roch breathed in deeply. Alexandrine would spend the night there with him, out of love, out of pity, out of the kindness of her heart, because she knew he could not do without her. Her words stirred within him such need as he had never felt for anyone.
He heard the clang of the front door being closed and locked. A minute later she appeared, carrying a candle. He did not rise from the bed, nor she did she look in his direction. His eyes followed her as she knelt in front of the hearth. She lit kindling and stoked the fire until flames danced merrily between the logs and cast an orange glow on her delicate profile. He realized how cold the room had been.
She rose and walked to him. She seized his hands and made him sit up to remove his coat, then pushed him back gently until his head rested on the pillow again. Standing by the bed, she pulled his boots. He watched her as she deliberately stepped out of her shoes, then removed her bonnet and kerchief. She lay by his side, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though she were his wife. He did not want to move away from her, nor did he dare reach for her.
But now her fingers were caressing his cheek. He caught both of her hands in his. “Let us stay like this, Alexandrine. Please don’t move. You don’t understand how desperately I want you.”
“I do understand,” she whispered.
He pulled her to him. “It is all very simple now, dearest. I know what to do. I will go to your father in the morning and ask for your hand.”
She closed her eyes and drew him to her breast. The skin there felt warm and soft, and he could hear her heart beating fast, as fast, he imagined, as a heart could beat without breaking.
a cognizant original v5 release october 07 2010
Historical Note
Joseph-Pierre Picot de Limoëlan, Pierre Robinault de Saint-Régent and François Carbon are historical characters. They attempted to assassinate Bonaparte on Christmas Eve 1800 by detonating an infernal machine on a busy Paris street. Carbon did sleep with his sister and niece, Saint-Régent acquired a pug for his lady, whose identity was never discovered, and Limoëlan paid a little street vendor by the name of Marianne Peusol twelve sols to hold the bridle of their horse.
However, many accomplices are not mentioned in this novel. Their inclusion would have made for a cumbersome narrative. The code name Pour le Roy, “For the King,” was actually one of Limoëlan’s aliases, but I liked it so much that I decided to give it to my fictional heroine, and used it as the title of this novel.
My retelling of the search for the assassins, often considered the first modern police investigation, is based upon the archives of the Ministry and Prefecture of Police in Paris. Fouché was indeed in contact with Limoëlan and his mother in the months leading to the attack. In my opinion the Minister of Police was aware of the plot to assassinate Bonaparte, and did little to thwart it. I have no proof of direct contacts at the time between he and Cadoudal or the King’s government in exile, but they would have been consistent with the man’s character and the circumstances of the conspiracy.
The deportations of Jacobins who had nothing to do with the attack and the lamentable outcome of the alleged Conspiracy of Daggers are historical facts. Most of the characters in this story, including the painters David, Topino-Lebrun and Mulard, are real, though Roch, his father, Blanche and Alexandrine are fictional.
The trial of Carbon and Saint-Régent began in April of 1801. Among the other accused were Mother Duquesne, Mademoiselle de Cicé, Basile Collin, the medical student who had treated Saint-Régent on the night of the explosion, Catherine Vallon, the Guillou family, in whose lodgings Saint-Régent had been hidden, and many minor figures in the Rue Nicaise conspiracy. Limoëlan was tried in absentia. None of the accused acknowledged his or her guilt.
For days witnesses filed before the judges and jury, pointing accusatory fingers at Carbon and Saint-Régent. Captain Platel was not available to testify. Gangrene had settled in his thigh after the amputation of his leg, and he had now joined his landlady, pretty Widow Lystère, for all eternity. Then it was the turn of the victims, the blind, the maimed, the bereft. The audience cried during the testimony of Widow Peusol, whose little Marianne had been sacrificed in cold blood.
The final tally of the attack was twenty-two dead and fifty-six permanently maimed. Those would receive a lifetime pension from the Nation. Forty-six houses on Rue Nicaise had been destroyed, many more damaged. The entire street was condemned to make way for a wider, more handsome thoroughfare, with a new name, one that would not evoke the slaughter of innocents.
Carbon and Saint-Régent were found guilty of conspiracy to assassinate the First Consul and sentenced to death. So was Limoëlan, still missing. Saint-Régent, when advised by the presiding judge of his right to appeal, rose proudly, his hand to his breast, and demanded to be executed forthright. The other defendants were sentenced to various terms of imprisonment.
Yet Saint-Régent changed his mind, for both he and Carbon filed appeals, without success. On the 20th of April 1801, less than four months after the Rue Nicaise attack, the two men were led to the guillotine. The cart made its way through an unruly crowd that howled Assassins of the people! Carbon climbed the steps to the scaffold first and, before being strapped to the plank, cried For the King! Saint-Régent, waiting for his turn at the foot of the machine, lost his composure when the triangular blade, dripping with the blood of his companion, was raised again for him. His legs wobbled and the executioner’s aides had to assist him up the stairs.
The executions of Carbon and Saint-Régent did not help the deported Jacobi
ns falsely accused of the Rue Nicaise attack. They remained overseas, where most died of tropical fevers and exhaustion.
Georges Cadoudal returned to London after the arrest of his accomplices. In the ensuing years, he kept sailing back and forth between France and England, and conspiring to assassinate the First Consul. In 1804, he was arrested in Paris after killing two police officers. He too perished on the guillotine.
As for the course of the war that was tearing Europe apart, short-lived peace treaties were signed on more than one occasion, more glorious campaigns followed, victories were won and celebrated, millions died on battlefields. Napoléon Bonaparte, after crowning himself Emperor of the French and conquering most of the continent, was finally defeated and had to abdicate the throne. He would die an exile, in British custody, on the faraway island of St. Helena in 1821.
Fouché was twice dismissed by Bonaparte from his position of Minister of Police, each time to return, more powerful, more indispensable, more distrusted than ever. He was made Duc d’Otrante in recognition of his services.
In 1815 Fouché played a determining role in the final ouster of Napoléon and the restoration of Louis XVIII, which allowed him to remain Minister of Police under the new regime. For a while. A year later, the King exiled him from France as a régicide.
Dubois, Prefect of Police, kept his position until 1810, when he was dismissed. He still held various public positions and rallied to the restored Bourbons but, despite all of his hopes and efforts, despite the vagaries of Fouché’s fortunes, he was never appointed Minister of Police.
Father de Clorivière, Limoëlan’s uncle, remained in hiding following the Rue Nicaise trial. He was finally arrested in 1804 and jailed at the Temple without charges ever being brought against him. In 1808, he was released on account of his advanced years and the Latin verses he had written in honor of Napoléon. He died in 1820, at the age of eighty-five.
Catherine Delors Page 31