The One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  ‘I suppose the verdict is in?’ Madame asked, looking from one of them to another, then at the set table. Her lips tightened. ‘I don’t know what else you expected? They could hardly retreat now, could they? The very most would be to prevaricate, and then do it a week or a month later—as if that made any difference! It would not be a mercy, just the usual inability to make a decision. Is that chocolate ready yet, Amandine?’

  ‘They could have lost their nerve,’ Lacoste argued. ‘Settled for keeping him in prison.’

  Her face, dark-shadowed in the uncertain light, was full of scorn. ‘It would take far more nerve to tell the people they couldn’t go through with killing the King than it would to make the final gesture and condemn him,’ she said tersely. ‘They’ve gone much too far to turn back now’

  ‘You don’t understand politics.’ He moved away. ‘It has a force of its own.’

  ‘It’s people,’ she replied, as Amandine poured the chocolate into a jug and brought it to the table. ‘They don’t change on the inside just because they stand up in a pulpit or on a rostrum.’

  He swivelled back towards her. ‘Don’t talk of politics as if it were the Church! These men aren’t risking their lives to free the people in order to get themselves a safe living for the rest of their days, and then a soft seat in heaven!’

  ‘Even they aren’t daft enough for that,’ she said witheringly, picking up the jug and filling the cups. ‘When they’ve just murdered half the priests in France!’

  ‘Suzanne! Keep a still tongue in your head!’ he warned moving a little closer to her, and raising his arm in an odd little gesture that was half angry, half protective. It hovered over her shoulder for a minute as if he would touch her, then moved away. ‘Whatever you think, the revolution is a fact! Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.’

  ‘Are you afraid I’m going to praise the Church?’ she said with disgust. ‘Don’t worry, I thought they were just as corrupt as you did—maybe more.’

  He looked a trifle surprised, but relieved also.

  ‘You never said ...’

  ‘It’s not political,’ she answered with a smile, but inward, as if only she knew the joke. ‘Sit down and eat.’

  ‘It’s over!’ Lacoste pronounced with a sudden change to enthusiasm. His eyes lingered on the baby again for a moment. ‘This is the beginning of a new age,’ he said softly. ‘In a few days France will be a republic! The people will rule!’ He smiled across at Marie-Jeanne, his whole countenance startlingly different. ‘No more need to be afraid! Your children will grow up free, able to do whatever they want, be anything.’ He gestured expansively with his hands, still standing up. ‘No more closed professions that only the aristocracy can join, no more refusal of promotions in the army because your family hasn’t a coat of arms! As if that had anything to do with courage or the skill to fight!’ His eyes were bright and gentle. ‘Education for everyone! Justice in the courts! Freedom to say or believe anything you want! No more Church bleeding us dry. This is a great day!’

  He glanced at Amandine. ‘Fetch a bottle of the best wine we’ve got left, and we’ll have a drink to the future. Call Fernand. We’ll drink to the rule of the people.’

  Amandine moved to obey and they waited in silence around the table until she returned. Fernand came in close behind her.

  ‘Perhaps we should get my father?’ Marie-Jeanne suggested half reluctantly. ‘And Citizen St Felix?’

  ‘He’s gone to bed,’ Amandine replied, tight-lipped. ‘He was out all night, and came back hurt again—this time badly.’

  ‘Bernave!’ Lacoste said with disgust, sitting down at last, followed by the others. He glanced across at the window to the street. ‘It rained most of the night. Where on earth could he have gone that couldn’t have waited?’

  ‘Ask Bernave.’ Amandine spat the name. ‘I don’t know what for.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’ Madame asked, passing the bread round and cutting the cheese carefully.

  ‘It’ll heal,’ Célie answered, ‘if it gets the chance.’

  Lacoste took the bottle from her, and Madame opened the cupboard and placed six glasses on the table for him. He poured the wine and passed the glasses round. The hot chocolate could wait. ‘To the rule of the people ... at last!’ he said with a smile.

  ‘To the rule of the people,’ they all echoed, each one with a different inflexion, and assuredly with different thoughts. Madame’s face was unreadable. Monsieur held his glass high.

  Late in the morning Bernave sent for Célie again. As usual he was sitting at his desk. The polished wooden surface was littered with papers, wax, sand and two jars of ink. Three different quills lay about. The penknife was open and nib shavings were scattered on a sheet now marked with splatters of ink.

  In the grey daylight Bernave looked haggard. There was a pallor to his skin. The lines from his nose to mouth were deeply etched and there was grey stubble on his jaw. But in spite of exhaustion his eyes were clear and hard when they met hers, and there was no weakness in him, no indecision.

  ‘I have messages for you to take,’ he said, studying her carefully, weighing his judgement of her. ‘I can put little on paper, in case you are caught and searched. You must memorise most of it. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered immediately, but it was out of defiance rather than any inner certainty. There was nowhere to go but forward, and she would not let Bernave see any doubt in her.

  He was regarding her now with wry humour, as if he were conscious of the incongruity of the situation: the wealthy middle-aged merchant sharing a desperate secret with his laundress, which could save France, or get them both killed. Here in this room with its shelves of books containing the thoughts and dreams of men down the ages, success did not seem impossible. There was something within Bernave, a power of faith he seemed able to call on, which when she was with him, she could grasp as well. She thought of the books on religion in amongst the other philosophies. Were they so precious he could not part with them? Or had he simply forgotten they were there?

  ‘Find Citizen Bressard,’ he said so quietly she had to concentrate to hear him. ‘He is the manager of my office on the Quai Voltaire. Ask him to let you speak to Citizen Bombec, Citizen Chimay, and Citizen Virieu.’

  She started to protest, then the words died on her lips. She could not let him see she was afraid.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Célie?’ he said sharply. ‘Repeat the names!’

  ‘Citizen Bombec, Citizen Chimay and Citizen Virieu,’ she obeyed.

  Bernave nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Tell each of them that we will act as planned—no more than that. Trust no one, not Bressard. A word in the wrong place ...’ He did not bother to complete the sentence.

  ‘Are they coach drivers?’ she asked. ‘What about getting out of the city? They will need passes ... more than ever that day.’

  He looked at her curiously, aware of her intelligence and perhaps even more of her feelings. She had caught the vision of the disaster which threatened them all, and she cared. An appreciation of that flickered in his eyes. There was something which might even have been respect, and it mattered to her more than she wanted to admit. It was uncomfortable to care what he thought of her. It restricted the anger she wanted to let free.

  ‘Yes, they will need passes,’ he replied coolly. ‘St Felix will attend to them. It’s not your concern.’

  She accepted the paper but stood her ground. ‘Is it dangerous again ... getting the passes?’ she asked him. ‘He was hurt last night. He could have been killed!’

  Bernave’s expression was impossible to read. ‘Life is dangerous, Célie. We all take risks for what we want. Go and deliver my messages.’

  It was dismissal, and she dared not press him any further, but she was perfectly sure he was sending St Felix into another situation in which he might well be injured again, or worse. She did not understand why St Felix accepted the situation. Bernave could perfectly well have carried man
y of the messages himself, and yet St Felix never seemed to rebel, or even to question. Such meekness was beyond her understanding. She could not decide whether it was nobility or cowardice.

  ‘What is it?’ Bernave asked as she remained standing.

  ‘The man who will take the King’s place?’ she said quietly, thinking of someone prepared to be murdered by an enraged crowd when they discovered him. What passion of loyalty drove a man to sacrifice his life in such a way? Was it love of the King, the idea of monarchy, or a terrible vision of France as it could become? She had no idea. Bernave had told her nothing of him, except that he existed.

  The shadow of a smile touched Bernave’s mouth. He laced his fingers together in front of him. His hands were beautiful, in spite of the scars.

  ‘I told you, Célie, sometimes one has to pay a great price for what one wants. Sometimes what he will pay is a better measure of a man than what it is he is paying for.’

  ‘A royalist?’ She tried to imagine him, a man who could love a myth, a figurehead so intensely, even above life.

  Bernave’s eyes were gentle. There was a kind of love in him she had not seen before. It made him almost beautiful. ‘Yes ... but more than that, a Frenchman,’ he said softly.

  There was no answer she could give. It was complete and final. She had no right to intrude.

  ‘What else?’ he asked as still she did not move.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I need some money,’ she replied.

  His eyes narrowed, the fight dying from them. ‘What for?’

  ‘Food.’

  Understanding flooded his face, and a swift amusement which made her blush. ‘Ah ... for Coigny. Of course.’ He opened a drawer without the slightest disguise of what he was doing, and she noticed with surprise that it had not been locked. He took out a handful of coins and gave them to her, then closed the drawer again. He had never bothered with the paper assignats of the early revolution, which had proved worthless within a short space of time.

  ‘Thank you.’ She pocketed the money and turned to leave.

  ‘Be careful, Célie!’ he said again, but this time sharply. ‘Say nothing, however you may be provoked! Ask no questions and give no opinions. You are a laundress. You have no thoughts! Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Citizen,’ she answered sarcastically. ‘Liberty, Brotherhood and Equality!’ And she went out of the door and closed it without waiting for his response.

  Célie hurried through the grey, wind-scoured streets. It was not far—less than a mile—but time enough to get thoroughly cold, and to see other women with their heads down, carrying half-empty baskets after the morning’s struggle for food.

  A wagon trundled past with firewood, covered over, to keep it from getting wet. She passed a group of National Guards, their uniforms ragged, but the red, white and blue cockades in their hats still brave. Most of them had muskets, a few only swords or pikes. Her hand went automatically to her shoulder, to make sure her own cockade was safely pinned. It was illegal to be without it.

  ‘Run, Citizeness!’ one of the men yelled cheerfully after her. ‘Home to your fire!’

  The others laughed.

  She would like to have pointed out to them how few people had fires these days, but it was a stupid thing to draw attention, especially by arguing.

  ‘Thank you, Citizen,’ she called back. ‘Keep the streets safe for us!’ Hypocrite, she thought to herself afterwards.

  A copy of last week’s Père Duchesne blew across the pavement into the gutter. There was a crude drawing on the front, and the usual masthead silhouette of the comfortable old man with his big nose, and the pipe in his mouth.

  Further up the street there was a loud argument, two women in browns and greys fighting over a loaf of bread. Half a dozen others stood by, faces sullen and frightened. Célie knew why. She had felt the same frisson of panic run through her when she had arrived at the end of the baker’s queue too late and had had to return home empty-handed and hungry. It was happening more often. It was a long time till harvest. Where was all the grain?

  ‘You got bread!’ someone shouted, voice sharp and accusing.

  ‘Liar!’ came back the answer. ‘I got nothing ... jus’ like you! Jus’ like all of us!’

  ‘Not like all of us ... some got bread, an’ onions, an’ cheese!’ another said, her face twisted with hatred.

  ‘Yeah? Who? Tell the Commune! Hoarding’s a crime.’

  The woman gave her a filthy look. ‘If I knew who, I’d kill ’er meself! They’re murderers o’ the rest of us ... that’s what they are!’

  The woman with a loaf of bread was enraged. ‘Who are you calling murderer, yer ol’ bag? I got me loaf, same as you, an’ six kids ter feed! An’ my man’s up fighting the Austrians, God help him!’ She spat on the cobbles, completely unaware of having called on a deity who officially no longer existed. ‘Go an’ look at some o’ them rich bastards up St-Germain! They got plenty, I ’eard!’

  A few yards along the street a National Guardsman swung a musket round threateningly and loosed a shot off into the air.

  The women grumbled and started to move away.

  Célie turned towards the Quai Voltaire and increased her pace.

  Chapter Three

  JOSEPH BRIARD STOOD BY the window staring out at the rain. It blew in gusts against the glass, but here in his room it was warm. The candlelight glowed on polished wood. Most of the floor was covered by a red rug, worn and mellow with time and the passage of feet. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of books and mementos of his life.

  He had only three more days’ fuel left, but it was enough. He would burn it all. After that he would not need it, nor the wine in the glass he was holding, watching the light in its ruby depths, letting its flavour fill his head. It was a burgundy—one of the best years.

  He smiled as he thought of the past. In his mind he could see sunlight on rolling hills, smell the sweet grasses and the herbs of the south. Unconsciously he narrowed his eyes as if the reflection off blue water dazzled him, but it was only memory, the days of youth sharper and more real than this grey winter of the soul in Paris.

  Would it all be futile anyway, a grand gesture, but no more? Or was it possible they could succeed? He had done everything, precisely as Bernave had instructed. Still there was so much room for error, circumstance unseen, unprepared for.

  And if it worked ... that was something he would not think of. He had faced it once, imagined it, even the last few moments. Now it was best put from his mind. Sometimes your body could let you down, even when your heart had no doubt at all.

  He sipped the wine again. There was also enough meat left for two more days, and vegetables and a whole loaf of bread. There was a good claret, but he would leave that ... for Bernave, perhaps?

  There came a rap on the door, twice, sharply, and then silence. It would be Bernave. He had come to tell him what Briard already knew.

  He refused to hesitate. He went to the door and opened it.

  Bernave stepped in, shaking the water off his hat and shoulders. His boots left wet marks on the floor. There was no need for him to speak; all that lay between them was in his eyes and the set of his lips—the hope, the fear, and above all the pity.

  Briard swallowed. This was the moment.

  Bernave closed the door.

  ‘Have a glass of burgundy,’ Briard offered, keeping his voice light. ‘It’s the best year I’ve tasted.’ He turned and led the way back to the chairs beside the fire. Without waiting for the answer he poured a second glassful, a beautiful crystal glass engraved with lilies.

  Bernard took it. For a moment the candlelight flickered through its burning heart.

  ‘Long live the King!’ he said softly.

  Briard found his throat too tight to drink. ‘Long live the King!’ he answered, then filled his mouth with the clean, full taste of the wine.

  Bernave was looking at him. Was he still uncertain, weighing him in his mind, or did he know now that he would do
it? Which was worse, the decision committed and irrevocable, or not yet made?

  ‘The die is cast,’ Bernave said steadily. ‘All is in hand. Have you met with the drivers?’

  ‘Yes.’ Briard recalled it vividly, playing the part of the nervous trader so concerned with his goods he was determined to travel with the most important cargoes, regardless of the personal danger or inconvenience. It had caused some amusement, and a little contempt, but he had not been disbelieved. ‘Yes, I did,’ he repeated. ‘And I have the clothes.’ He swallowed a little more wine to moisten his dry lips. ‘Over there.’

  In three neat parcels were the three different jackets he had worn; a dark green woollen coat of excellent cut, high collared with brass buttons in which to meet the driver west to Calais and the sea; a blue coat with lighter facings to speak to the driver south towards the Pyrenees and Spain; a brown jacket with buff-coloured collar, cuffs and lapels to introduce himself to the driver south and east towards Italy. They were all expensive and memorable. When another man with similar white hair and long nose turned up in the same clothes, it would be assumed it was he, still determined to ride with his cargo. Each parcel was labelled with the direction for which it was intended. Each one would be left at a different safe house, according to which route of escape the King was going to take. That would be decided upon at the moment, according to which seemed best.

  Bernave glanced at them, and was satisfied. He said nothing else about it, no words of praise or debt, no questioning of his resolve, simply, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then silence.