by Anne Perry
Fernand’s face tightened defensively, but he could not lie. It would be easy enough for Menou to check if he wanted to. ‘No. But we provide for ourselves.’ He looked as if he were going to add something else, and then stopped.
Célie wondered if it would have been a remark about property, or equality, and then he had thought better of expressing such a sentiment in connection with his father-in-law. He stood still now, with his mouth closed in a thin line.
‘Of course,’ Menou agreed. ‘You are a carpenter and cabinet-maker. Now you and your family will have to learn how to manage the import and export of fabric as well. It is a very good business.’
Fernand said nothing. Célie could have told him that Menou had no intention of giving up. He would question them all until he heard what he wanted to, and he had the power to hold them here as long as he wished.
Perhaps he would hear what he wanted, and the men outside would go away ... and Georges would escape over the roofs? Please heaven! If there was a heaven. She wished there were. If there were no God, no divine power, who was there to appeal to when you were far out of your depth and sinking? Was that why Bernave had believed in God: an understanding of need, a hunger for the promise of forgiveness, when the sorrow was great enough and the price had been paid?
But had Amandine taken Georges as far as the attics? What about the Lacoste children upstairs? What about the rest of the men in the street? It was daylight still. At this hour in the afternoon, between luncheon and dinner, there would be people in bedrooms, particularly in attics.
Menou was still asking his endless questions, probing into loves and hates, envy, possible greed. Then without warning he reverted back to the old subject of where people had stood.
‘And after the torches disappeared, Citizeness,’ he said to Madame, ‘did anyone pass near you, or between you and Citizen Bernave?’
‘I have no idea,’ Madame said coldly.
She was the only one in the kitchen whose composure seemed to be unruffled. If St Felix’s guilt or his death distressed her, she possessed sufficient self-mastery not to allow Menou, or anyone else, to see it.
‘And it was you who faced the intruders and spoke to them so they were ashamed, and turned away,’ he observed. ‘You are as slight as a girl, and you had no weapon. You have great courage, Madame.’
A brief smile lit her face, of black amusement as much as any knowledge of the compliment.
‘How gallant, Citizen Menou. Under your blue and white I think there beats the heart of a gentleman. Please do not take that as an insult. I mean it by nature, not by birth.’
He was flattered. Célie could see it in the flush on his cheeks, even though he strove to hide it. He was annoyed with himself for his own vulnerability, but he could not bring himself to rebuff her. Célie realised with a sudden jolt of surprise that he admired Madame Lacoste. There was an innate dignity in her, a grace of the old gentry that he could not let go. It was sweet to him, awakening a memory or a hunger.
Monsieur Lacoste lost his patience.
‘It seems plain enough to me,’ he said acidly. ‘St Felix had had all the abuse he could take, and he had a knife in the front room. He was out often enough. He may well have known of the riot in advance, or at least that it was likely. We have enough of them these days, over food or soap or candles, or any other damned thing!’ His face was tight and hard. ‘Maybe he took the knife earlier, in case he should have the chance. Then when the rioters broke in, he went forward naturally, and in the confusion—there it was. He took it. He had provocation enough!’
‘And what did he do with the knife afterwards?’ Menou asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Monsieur Lacoste avoided looking at Amandine. ‘Perhaps someone helped him. We all saw how Bernave used him. Our sympathies were with him.’ His tone grew more belligerent. ‘Either way, you’ll not prove it. You’ve got St Felix, poor devil. Let that satisfy your justice and leave us alone.’
Menou sighed. ‘And where is the knife now? St Felix didn’t have it on him.’
Célie drew in her breath to say he could have got rid of it over the roofs, then just as she started the first word, realised her mistake, and changed it into a cough.
Menou looked at her, eyes questioning. ‘You had a suggestion, Citizeness?’
She had to say something. He knew she had been about to speak.
‘Didn’t he have it when he ran from here?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps he threw it away when you were chasing him?’
‘Why would he take it?’ he asked. ‘It was little use in defence, awkward to run with. If he tripped or fell he could have injured himself. And it would only be incriminating if we caught him with it.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I think it is still here, somewhere. And I would like to find it—just to tidy up the last details. It would satisfy my mind. Close the case, as it were.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll search one more time.’
The moment was come. Cold inside, her legs wobbling, Célie stood also. ‘I’ll conduct you, Citizen,’ she offered. ‘You will need help, and I’m sure you would wish to leave the cupboards as you found them. You are a soldier, not a vandal.’ Without waiting for his assent she went to the door, her fingers so stiff she fumbled with the latch. She opened it and went out, listening for his footsteps as he followed her, and hearing nothing. She stopped, her heart pounding, her throat tight. Where was Georges? Where had Amandine put him?
Perhaps she should have let Amandine take Menou? She would know where to steer him away from! Célie, in ignorance, might lead him right to where Georges was.
But on the other hand her innocence might be his best protection. Menou was clever. He would read any deliberate attempt to guide him, and do the opposite, thinking it was the knife they were hiding.
Where was he? Why had he not come with her?
She turned around. The kitchen door was still open. She was gulping air, trying to keep control of herself, steady her voice, her hands.
Menou came at last, smiling very slightly. ‘I am sure you understand, Citizeness, but I had to post a couple of my men in the kitchen, just in case anyone felt disposed to leave the room, and move something. There is little point in my searching the house if the knife is being constantly taken one step ahead of me.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, trying to smile back, but afraid it was more of a grimace.
They began with the front room in which the stabbing had taken place. She stood silently watching while he opened the cupboard again where he had found the bloodstains. There was nothing in it but candles. He felt behind them, then in the drawers, tapping the wood to make sure there was no false panel or bottom. He turned up the chairs and poked his hands down both sides. He examined every part of Madame Lacoste’s sewing table, then gently rapped his knuckles along all the walls as if hoping to find a loose panel. Finally he kneeled and examined each board of the floor, even under the rug. He found several loose, but the spaces yielded nothing but dust. He was quick and deft, as if searching were something he was used to. She watched his hands with a kind of fascination as they moved delicately over every surface—fine hands, with clean fingernails. It took him just over half an hour to finish that room and the one immediately beyond, which was little more than a hallway to the front entrance.
‘Let us try Citizeness Destez’s room,’ he suggested. ‘That is just up the stairs, is it not?’
‘Yes.’ Célie found her chest tight, her breath catching in her throat. Surely Amandine would not have put Georges there? Would she? Was it a sort of double bluff? Was she thinking clearly enough even to imagine such a thing? Georges did not know the house. He had been in hiding since before she and Amandine had come here.
He followed Célie up and pushed the door open.
She held her breath.
It also was empty.
Menou was equally diligent here. She watched his face as he searched the bed, leaning on the blanket and mattress, lifting the pillow. Then he bent and went through Amandine’s chest, taking out her clothes a
piece at a time, running his fingers over the linen. She saw his expression change very slightly as the fine embroidery touched his skin. It was feminine, delicate, a total extravagance left over from the days when she had been a lady of the minor nobility—when such a thing still existed. It was extraordinary to think that had been less than five years ago. So short a time, and their whole world had changed, as had that of half of France, if not more. Only the poorest, whom it had all been meant to benefit, were still the same; still cold, hungry and dispossessed, such as Marat’s hordes in the Faubourg St-Antoine, and places like it. It was an irony that there were so many more of them now.
She watched Menou as he replaced everything. She could not read in his face whether he was disappointed not to find the knife among the linen. It would have closed the case and at the same time satisfied his suspicions of Amandine’s loyalties.
And yet if she had tried to conceal murder, something in him would also have been disillusioned, and it would have hurt him; Célie was sure of that. Whether he loved it or hated it, if he even knew which, a dream in him would have died.
He stood up. His eyes met hers very briefly, then he looked away. For the first time it was she who was the emotional intruder, not he.
‘Now St Felix’s room,’ he directed her, walking to the door without looking back, his shoulders stiff, self-conscious.
She passed him and led the way. She did not hesitate, although her mind was racing ahead, full of imagination. Would Amandine have put Georges there? It would have been a nice irony. Would she even have made a connection without realising, automatically—she had loved St Felix, she loved Georges? It was the sort of step one could take when the brain was numbed with grief.
Menou was behind her. He would watch everything. He was not satisfied. There was a puzzle in this house he had not solved yet, and it gnawed at his mind.
Célie opened the door with pounding heart. The room was empty.
It was very tidy, as if St Felix had half prepared himself to leave it. The few possessions were placed neatly on a single shelf: mainly books, and a small clock. She realised with a jolt the one thing that was missing from the time she had sat here telling him about Jean-Pierre: a miniature portrait of a woman with wide eyes and a soft mouth, her dark hair fallen loose around a slender neck, as if she had been caught unaware, not expecting the artist to immortalise the moment.
Célie felt a sudden ache, a mixture of loss and resentment. It must have been his wife, the woman whose death had left him so alone, and whom Amandine could not replace. Whether he would ever have loved her she would not know now, only dream. And that woman whose face was so individual, so full of emotion, was dead too.
She looked down at the books. Menou stood in front of the shelf looking also, reading the titles. There was a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy, several volumes of poetry, some Voltaire, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, a translation of Shakespeare. No Rousseau.
Menou said nothing. He turned away from the shelf and started to search the room: bed, clothes chest, chair.
At first glance Célie had thought the room was impersonal; there was so little in it that belonged to St Felix. But as she stood watching Menou she began to feel differently. The emptiness, the lack of material possessions, the clear spaces, were part of St Felix also, part of the elusive quality about his nature. It said something about his dreams that all he had brought with him apart from clothes were books, one picture and a clock.
In the chest his clothes were neat, all very clean, nothing frayed or unkempt. There was little enough, but it was of high quality. Menou knew that as he looked through it for the knife, shaking out and folding up again, his fingers on the fine fabric, the wools and clean cottons, though of faded colours. They would be taken at a glance for artisan’s clothes, except for the grace of the cut—better than Menou’s own uniform, and probably also warmer and more comfortable.
Menou did not find the knife, or anything else of relevance to Bernave’s death, or the work he had done for the Commune. All he learned was a little more of the grace and abstemiousness of St Felix’s character, and possibly he also guessed at the inner grief that filled him. It was the room of a man whose life had no hunger or passion left, only memory.
Would she be like that if he found Georges, and took him away to be executed? Would she become someone whose heart lived only in the past?
Menou said nothing as they left. He did not justify the search, or regret having found nothing useful. He simply went to the next door along.
‘Whose is this?’ he asked.
‘Fernand and Marie-Jeanne,’ Célie answered. ‘Their bedroom and their sitting room. They have a small kitchen up here too. And of course the children’s rooms as well.’
‘Citizen Bernave was good to them!’ he said quickly.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, he was.’ She wondered if they had appreciated it.
Menou searched these rooms carefully as well, talking to the children as he did so. He was watched with curiosity by three-year-old Antoine, but guarded resentment by six-year-old Virginie, who was old enough to recognise an intrusion.
‘We haven’t got anything here,’ she said with a frown. ‘You looked before.’
Menou did not stop searching. ‘Were you fond of your grandfather?’ he asked casually.
She was puzzled. ‘Of course.’
‘And Citizen St Felix?’
‘Yes. He talked to me sometimes. He never got cross if someone cried.’ She did not look at Antoine, who was watching Menou gravely. ‘Or left toys around. But we didn’t see him very often. He went out a lot. So did Grandpapa,’ she added. ‘He was always working.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘I don’t know.’ She glanced at Célie.
‘Were you here the night your grandfather was killed?’ Menou asked curiously. His tone of voice suggested it was of no importance.
‘Yes.’
He looked up at her from where he was stooping over a chest of linens. ‘Were you awake?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘There was a lot of shouting and banging in the street. Men fighting—again. I think they came into the house.’
‘Were you frightened?’ he asked.
Again she nodded, watching him all the time. ‘Yes.’
‘And your Mama came up to look after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone else come up here? Anyone at all?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Menou smiled bleakly. Perhaps he believed her, but he still went through every cupboard and chest and stripped the beds.
Afterwards he and Célie went upstairs to the next floor to Monsieur and Madame Lacoste’s rooms. Menou did not seem surprised not to have found anything.
Célie was terrified. They were near the top of the house. There were no rooms above but her own. If Amandine had taken Georges up towards the roof, then it could only be a matter of minutes before they found him. She must do something, anything to divert Menou. But what? He already suspected something was being hidden, to protect Amandine.
What would Madame de Staël have done? Been charming, eloquent, or flirted a little.
But Madame de Staël had been sophisticated, the most brilliant conversationalist in France, perhaps in Europe! She had studied literature, politics and philosophy, held discussions with the best minds of the age! Célie knew how to talk, her parents were Girondins! But that was all empty posturing, the last people on earth to have wit! If they had known how to laugh, they would have seen their own absurdity, and they never did.
And she was useless at flirting! How could she be light-hearted, amusing, when everything that mattered most in the world hung in the balance?
Georges might be just the other side of the door. His life depended on what she did, or failed to do! Or was he in her own room? Or downstairs in Bernave’s rooms? If only she could read Amandine’s mind and know what she had done!
‘What
is the matter, Citizeness?’ Menou asked, watching her with his eyes puckered.
She smiled at him as sweetly as she could, as frankly, and felt her heart almost choke her and her muscles lock as if they were cramped. ‘I suppose I am afraid you will find the knife,’ she lied. ‘And that then you will suspect one of us of having put it there—to help St Felix.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But if you don’t, then you will keep on looking, and we shall never know. I’m not sure whether I want to, or not.’
He regarded her steadily, almost unblinking. For a moment it was as if they understood each other completely.
‘Of course,’ he agreed, then turned and opened the door into Madame Lacoste’s room.
Célie stood behind him, her mouth dry, her stomach knotted.
There was no one inside. She was almost sick with relief. It came over her like a wave and she was giddy with it. But where was he? Surely Amandine could not have been so absent-minded, or so daring, as to have put him in Célie’s own room?
Or had she expected him to go over the roofs—with Menou’s men in the streets? With all the shouting and gunfire there had been, no one would let him in their house. It was more than their life was worth, and everyone knew that!
What would Madame de Staël have done now?
Then suddenly an idea came to her—be bold. Maybe it was madness. On the other hand, perhaps it was the only chance.
‘Citizen Menou ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you excuse me. Nature requires I leave for a few moments ...’
‘Of course,’ he agreed without looking around from his search through the cupboard of household linens.
‘Thank you.’ She went out as quickly as she could in case he should change his mind and follow her. Of course she could move the knife, and he must realise it.
Then she heard him stand up. He was coming with her! She froze inside. Her knees were weak. She had one chance to guess rightly. Where had Amandine put Georges? There were only two places left—her own room, or Bernave’s. Which? Her room was small. There was no place to hide. There was none in Bernave’s rooms either. Which? She must decide now! She was at the stairs—up or down.