The One Thing More
Page 20
She thought of half a dozen excuses, then decided not to say anything. It was what he was expecting. It would only lead her into the possibility of more mistakes. Silently, and without glancing at Amandine, she led him to the front room and pointed out the cupboard and the drawer.
He walked over and opened the cupboard. He moved the candles gently, licked his finger and ran it over the wood, then held it up. There was the brown stain of dried blood on it.
‘Thank you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think that may explain a great deal. No cut pockets, no having to disappear to find the blade. An opportunity perfectly seized—well, almost perfectly. It is just a matter of motive—’ he looked directly at her—‘isn’t it?’
She swallowed, her lips dry. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And I will find that, Citizeness, I promise you. Citizen Bernave will not go unavenged. I am very close now, very close indeed.’
There was only one thing she could possibly say. ‘Good.’
Célie remained in all afternoon. There was laundry to do, and she would have aroused suspicion if she had not attended to it. Monsieur Lacoste was still busying himself with chores around the house, small repairs that had been awaiting his attention for weeks, if not months. Fernand was occupied most of the time in his shed across the courtyard.
Madame sat in Bernave’s study and read old invoices and accounts to try to familiarise herself with the daily nature of his business. Someone had to keep it up if the family were to continue to prosper from it, and it seemed to be what she wished to do.
Marie-Jeanne was comforting and instructing her children, as usual, upstairs in their own rooms.
Only St Felix prowled the house, unable to relax, hands idle, mind racing from one possibility to another, one moment seeming to hope, the next to despair.
It was nearly five o’clock, just after dark, when Amandine, Célie and St Felix found the opportunity to speak together alone. They were in St Felix’s room where Célie had taken clean laundry as she usually did, and Amandine had managed to join them.
‘We know that all three of the houses are safe,’ St Felix said softly, indicating the chair for Célie to sit. Amandine sat on the bed, he stood. ‘What about the captain?’
Amandine repeated what she had told Célie.
‘Good,’ he nodded. In the candlelight he looked less tired, his body less knotted with fears. The glow of it put a little colour in his skin, and caught the lighter streaks in his brown hair. ‘We must check on all the drivers tomorrow.’ He looked at Célie. ‘What about the crowd? What did Coigny say?’
‘He will find them, that is no trouble ...’
‘But?’ he said quickly.
‘But we still do not know who will take the King’s place in the carriage,’ she replied. ‘He is the one person who will not come out of this alive, win or lose. And only Bernave knew who he is.’
‘So he said,’ Amandine spoke quietly, but there was a world of bitterness in her voice, of anger and disbelief. In that moment Célie realised with shock how deeply she had despised Bernave, and it hurt; it challenged memories of something that, in spite of herself, she had cherished.
St Felix looked at Amandine, gentleness softening his face. ‘Bernave would not betray us,’ he said to her, ‘He was a strange man, often cold in ways I could not understand. He had more self-discipline than any other man I have ever known.’ There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty at all. ‘But he was honest to his own cause. There was strength inside him that ... that was frightening.’ As he said it there was fear in his face, in his eyes, and pain he did not try to express. ‘But you could trust him with your life, and never regret it.’
Amandine stared at him. She could not hide her confusion or her disbelief. She drew in breath to speak, then let it out again silently.
Célie felt a momentary relief. If St Felix, of all people, could say that, and so obviously and passionately mean it, then perhaps it was true. And if it were not, then Bernave had not betrayed them and they still had a hope of success. Also it meant St Felix had not discovered any betrayal and killed him.
But if St Felix had not, then either Fernand or Monsieur Lacoste had. And surely that would only be because they had somehow learned of the plan. Célie leaned forward urgently.
‘If Bernave was truly with us, then one of the Lacostes killed him.’ She looked in the faint light from St Felix to Amandine. ‘Could there be any other reason except that they knew of the plan? They wouldn’t tell the Commune, or they’d lose the house, and maybe the business, but they’d kill him to prevent anyone saving the King. Either of them would! Maybe even Madame, or Marie-Jeanne, for all we know.’
‘That’s true,’ St Felix said, so quietly she could barely hear him. ‘We must be very careful indeed. It is not only Menou we should fear, but everyone else in the house. Never let your guard slip.’ He looked first at Amandine. ‘Watch everything you say. Maybe you don’t need to go out again.’ He turned to Célie. ‘How much more is there we must do?’
‘Georges told me that Bernave had a business partner,’ she answered. ‘Someone who helped him start up, a man called Renoir. I am going to see if I can find him. He might know more about Bernave and his loyalties. He might even be part of the plan.’
Amandine swung round to look at her. ‘Where? Where can you even look for him? And why? What can he tell us that we have to know? You can’t go out alone!’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety, and there was fear for Célie in her eyes.
‘At the Jacobin Club,’ Célie replied. ‘Georges said he spends a lot of time there, especially now so close to the King’s execution.’
‘Be careful!’ Amandine warned. ‘You don’t know if you can trust him!’
St Felix nodded, his eyes searching Célie’s.
‘But he may have been part of the plan,’ Célie argued, looking from one to the other of them. ‘We still don’t know who was going to take the King’s place, but maybe Renoir does! It has to have been someone Bernave trusted absolutely. Perhaps it was even Renoir himself! He would be the right age, if they started together. Otherwise we will have to find a replacement, and that is the one person who cannot hope to survive, if we succeed.’
Amandine shuddered. ‘Do you think he’ll know, this partner?’ There was fierce, almost choking pity in her voice, and her eyes were dark with the terrible understanding of it.
‘I don’t know, but we should try.’ Célie did not add that she had promised Georges she would, because he did not trust Bernave as seemingly St Felix did. He knew about the royalist plan, and its betrayal. That was something she did not need to tell St Felix, or Amandine.
‘It’s a risk,’ Amandine said unhappily, still staring at Célie.
‘I know,’ Célie agreed. ‘But it’s worth it. Maybe Bernave trusted him. He did for business, at least. Maybe he did for more.’
‘How will you get out of the house?’ St Felix pursed his lips. ‘What will you tell Menou—and Madame Lacoste? She’ll ask where you’re going.’
‘I don’t know yet; I’ll think of something.’ Célie stood up. ‘Now we must leave. We can’t be caught here talking or they’ll wonder what it’s about. We can take only so long putting away laundry!’
Amandine stood up quickly, smoothing her skirt. She went to the door and looked out, then beckoned Célie to follow her. They tiptoed down the stairs together, avoiding those that creaked, and leaving St Felix alone in his room. Amandine looked back once, but the door was closed.
Georges got out the food as soon as Célie had gone. While she was there he had barely realised how hungry or how cold he was; now it was inescapable again. He was far more worried than he had let her know. She counted on his optimism, his confidence that somehow all would be well. It was what she needed from him. And he found himself struggling to give it, hiding his own feelings, no matter how difficult. He was caught unawares by how much it mattered to him that he should be what she wished.
He ate the bread and onion cold, wit
h almost a glass of wine. He drank it from the bottle, but he guessed it was that much. He was grateful she had not taken any; there was too little left. Had she wanted it? Probably. Thinking back, picturing her face so very clearly, with its strong features, generous and brave, she had looked terribly tired. Her eyes had been shadowed round, her skin unnaturally pale. He had wanted to be able to protect her from some of the truth, the fear, but she would have resented it. It made him feel closed out, as if they were not man and woman, and yet at the same time he admired her for it.
It was typical that she had refused the wine. He was not even sure whether it was true that she had had the coffee. But it was not for him she declined, it was the guilt again. It was peculiarly lonely to realise that, and it surprised him how he was hurt by it. He was merely the one who happened to be involved, no more. She would have felt exactly the same whoever it had been. He was the symbol of the way she regarded her own worth, and she could not live with it until she had proved herself better than that.
What would she do then? Not want to see him again, because he reminded her of a part of herself she had left behind?
He should not think of that; it was far ahead. Before then there was much to do, and far too little time. He must find someone else to take the King’s place, and he dare not even go outside to begin looking until the daylight began to fade. He could not risk another episode like this morning’s. He might not be so fortunate next time.
He stood up, then sat down again. He was shudderingly cold, and the room was too small even to pace back and forth. He stared out of the window blurred with rain, and watched the light on the grey jumble of roofs, willing it to fade so he could begin.
At what he guessed to be about quarter to four he could wait no longer. He put on his coat and went down the stairs, along the alley and into the street. The wind hit him with a knife-edge of ice in it, and he bent forward to protect himself from its bite. At least it gave him an excuse to turn up his collar and hide the lower half of his face. Everyone else he saw was doing the same. After this morning even modesty did not delude him he was easily forgettable.
On the corner a woman was selling hot coffee. The aroma of it was exquisite, tempting him almost beyond bearing. He stopped, breathing it in. He had only a few sous left and without Bernave there would be no more.
A new and grim thought came to him. Since Bernave was gone, what would Célie do? Would she still be able to live in the house in the Boulevard St-Germain? How safe was she there now? Fear for her gripped him. One of them had killed Bernave, almost certainly because they knew what he was really doing. A bitter laughter engulfed him. Or they believed it, as he had—and were wrong! What a supreme irony if Bernave, a loyal supporter of the Commune, had been murdered by another loyal supporter, misled into thinking what Georges, Célie and St Felix thought—that he wanted to save the King! It would be someone who could not see beyond the blind idealism of the revolution, who was so bewitched by the dream that they saw too little of the reality. Fernand? Monsieur Lacoste? Even one of the women?
He should have warned Célie more urgently and made certain she understood exactly how real the danger was. In a way she was more at risk than he. Another irony.
He fished in his pocket and brought out a coin. He gave it to the woman and took the coffee gratefully. It was hot and strong, filling him with its delicious taste and the slow, sweet warmth down his throat to his stomach.
He drank it a sip at a time, his mind racing. There were at least two people he could ask who bore some resemblance to the King, sufficient to pass at a glance—the age, the height, roughly the colouring. One was too thin, but a little padding under his jacket would take care of that.
Georges glanced around him. There were quite a few people still about in the street, mostly women returning home after waiting in queues for vegetables, soap, salt or fuel. He wondered how many hours were wasted standing in huddles in the icy streets hoping for the necessities of daily life, instead of working, caring for children, or the sick, or doing any other useful thing. They were tired and angry. He could hear it in their voices as they passed him, and see it in their bodies as they hurried by, baskets half empty. Too many promises had been made and broken. Too much risk had paid for too little return. If the King were executed there would be worse ahead.
He finished the coffee, gave the cup back to the woman and went on his way. The first man to find was Lazare Carichon. He had been a minor Girondin, until disillusion had dashed his last hope of political competence. He understood the dangers of sweeping away all the established boundaries of a way of life. The whole nation would be hurled into the unknown, a life without rules or sanctions, where nothing was too outrageous to be tried. There would be no ultimate power any more. Man would become his own god, and that thought was terrifying. Georges drove it out of his mind and hurried on.
At this hour Carichon would almost certainly be at his home on the Rue des Écoles. If Georges waited outside, with any luck he would catch him alone.
He walked briskly along the alleys doglegging to the south of St-Germain, then hastily crossed the Boulevard St-Michel, behind the Musée de Cluny. He walked over the Rue St-Jacques, head down, looking neither right nor left, and into the network of alleys between the Boulevard St-Germain and the Rue des Écoles. There were few people loitering—it was too cold—but he was aware of being watched. There was a pervasive atmosphere of tension, anxiety, the knowledge that something was about to happen which was irretrievable.
He thought of Célie going to the Jacobin Club this evening, looking for Renoir. She had the courage and the nerve all right, but had she the skill to ask questions without arousing suspicion? He should not have agreed to her going! She could give herself away too easily! All the craziest, most vindictive revolutionaries in France were there, men like Robespierre and his admirers: the crippled, hysterical Couthon; Saint-Just, disciple of the Marquis de Sade; the renegade monk, Hébert. The list was endless. She could have no idea what they were really like. She was too consumed in her admiration for Madame de Staël and her desire to be like her, instead of consumed by guilt for her all-too-human revenge for her baby’s death.
He found himself smiling as he thought of that now, of her coming to warn him, of her desperation when they were parted in the crowd. She had cared so passionately to undo it his anger had vanished. Perhaps it had never really been there? There had been too little time. When he had realised fully what she had done, and why, it was all over.
The thought of himself and Amandine as lovers was absurd; they were too close for that, almost brother and sister. But he could understand how Célie could have thought it. He had charmed enough women. He had always been able to smile with that easy brilliance and win almost anyone. His wit, his air of confidence had smoothed the path for him all his life, until this last couple of years when his home had gone, his father died and all the old certainties—the assumptions of safety, the natural arrogance of a man who was handsome, well born, rich enough, who needed no one’s favour or protection—were no longer hidden.
He had behaved as if he had courage because he wanted to be seen that way, and then found at the last that he had no alternative, and it had become real.
But he wished Célie saw him more as himself rather than the hero she needed him to be.
He was opposite Carichon’s house now. He hurried across the street and knocked on the door.
It was a moment or two before Carichon answered. He was still dressed in the rather affected clothes chosen by the Girondins. His jacket was overlong and loose, and his cravat too big.
‘Good evening, Citizen Carichon,’ Georges said quietly.
Carichon started, then caught his breath. ‘Coigny!’ He swallowed hard. ‘What are you doing out? Come in, before anyone sees you!’ He stood back and barely refrained from actually putting a hand on Georges to pull him over the threshold. The instant he was inside he closed the door. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you here?’
There was no choice.
‘Bernave is dead,’ he said quietly.
They were in a narrow, warm room with heavily patterned wallpaper and sparse furniture.
Carichon stared at him, his eyes wide. ‘What?’
‘Bernave is dead,’ Georges repeated. ‘He was murdered yesterday evening.’
‘Oh God!’ Carichon went pasty white, even in the yellow candlelight. ‘What about the plan?’
Georges did not answer immediately. Should he tell Carichon about Menou’s statement that Bernave was a spy for the Commune?
Carichon was staring at him. ‘We’ve got to save the King—it is the only way to avoid war! And there will be war! All the rhetoric on earth won’t help then!’ His voice was rising with his anger. He gestured wildly, only just missing the edge of the wooden desk with his fingers. ‘Tell the mothers of the dead, tell the wounded and the blind and the homeless that England shouldn’t have taken offence, or Spain shouldn’t have minded if we sent Louis XVI to the scaffold—because we were tired of kings!’
His voice was raw-edged, his body tight under its exaggerated clothes. He backed further into the room, which served him for study and dining room. There was a stove burning in the corner and it was that which made it so much warmer than outside.
‘God knows I tried!’ he went on, jerking agitatedly. ‘I did all I could to move the Girondins, to make them forget their own quarrels and act for France, but the blind futility of their ambitions is bleeding away what little hope there was left.’ He gestured wildly. ‘All around us Paris is crumbling into civil chaos, and we seem incapable of addressing the issues that really matter.’