by Anne Perry
‘For Amandine’s sake?’ she suggested. ‘It’s a terrible way to lose someone you care for so deeply. This way she would at least keep her dreams.’
Menou nodded. ‘Dreams are precious. They last all life long, and there are times when they’re all we have.’
Amandine was still in the kitchen. She turned from the stove as they came in.
Célie spoke before Menou could.
‘Amandine, we found the proof it was not St Felix. He only ran because he knew they were after him, and he had no defence.’
Amandine raised her head and turned slowly to Menou, her eyes wide, red-rimmed. She looked from one to the other of them. When she spoke her voice was husky. ‘What?’
‘A chisel,’ he answered. ‘It had been put on the old finial where it had been broken. When it was painted it looked pretty much like the rest.’
Amandine looked from one to the other of them, emotion welling up inside her with such power and confusion she could find no words big enough to express it.
The silence was broken by a tap on the back door. Menou walked over and opened it. A middle-aged man in brown clothes stood on the step, his white hair plastered to his head, his blue eyes mild.
Célie’s heart leaped.
It was a moment before Menou recognised him.
‘Citizen Lejeune? What can we do for you now?’
Briard looked beyond him to Célie. ‘I just wanted to thank you for your kindness, and say that I spoke to the gentleman myself. He decided to remain in Paris after all. I believe he felt going now would cause trouble for too many other people.’
‘That’s ... that’s all right,’ Célie stammered. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me. And ...’ How could she ask about Georges?
Briard smiled. ‘Your kindness enabled me to find another client, in a rather insalubrious area of St-Antoine, but a nice enough gentleman. I thank you for giving me his acquaintance.’
St-Antoine! Now she knew where he was, and that he was alive. She found herself smiling idiotically. She wanted to throw her arms around Briard, but it would be ridiculous—and probably offensive to him.
‘Thank you! I—I mean ... you are welcome, Citizen.’
He was about to reply when Fernand came in through the other doorway. His clothes were dry but his hair was wet and dripped down his forehead. Monsieur and Madame Lacoste were immediately behind him. Perhaps they had heard the voices in the kitchen, but more probably they were hoping for hot coffee or chocolate. Monsieur and Madame stared at Menou.
‘What are you doing here?’ Monsieur Lacoste demanded. ‘It’s all over. Go back to keeping order in the streets.’
Madame looked beyond him to Fernand, whose mouth was open as he gaped at Briard.
‘I thought ...’ he started, then whirled to Célie. He started to say something else, but bit off the words.
‘You thought he had the misfortune to look like the late Citizen Capet,’ Célie said for him, pushing the words between her teeth. ‘So he does. But now that Citizen Capet is dead, it doesn’t really matter, does it?’ She met his eyes unflinchingly, and saw reflected in them that it was he, not Bernave, who had told Marat of the plan.
Perhaps he recognised that in her face, because he paled, and looked away.
Célie turned to Briard again. ‘Thank you, Citizen Lejeune. We will not detain you any longer. Good day.’
He understood. He bowed very slightly. ‘Good day, Citizeness.’
Madame glanced at Célie, but her eyes betrayed nothing.
‘Well, why are you here?’ Monsieur Lacoste said, turning back to Menou.
But it was Amandine who answered him, her voice thick with uncontrolled fury. ‘He wants justice, Citizen Lacoste! We all do.’
‘Of course we do,’ Lacoste sighed, frowning. ‘Isn’t the King dead and a new republic enough for you in one day?’
‘No. I want justice for Citizen St Felix.’ Her body was shaking. ‘I want his name cleared of murdering Bernave. And I want you to answer for his death!’
This time everyone froze, staring at her with incomprehension.
Monsieur Lacoste’s face was immobile. ‘Me? I had nothing to do with St Felix’s death.’ He jerked his hand at Menou. ‘This man shot him—I presume because he ran away.’
Amandine was breathing so deeply she seemed to gasp. ‘He ran away because Menou thought he’d killed Bernave, and he couldn’t prove his innocence! But you could have!’
Fernand turned to his father.
Marie-Jeanne stood in the doorway, drowned by the shouting.
Madame did not move her eyes from Amandine.
‘What do you mean?’ Fernand asked. He looked at Menou. ‘Did you start all this?’
‘Perhaps,’ Menou agreed. ‘You see I know what happened, and I know why. I just wanted to find the knife. I’d looked so many times, but it had to be here.’
Monsieur Lacoste was white-faced, but he did not back away.
‘Are you accusing my father?’ Fernand moved a step closer to him. ‘That’s ridiculous! Why would he harm Bernave?’
‘Because he discovered Bernave was spying for the royalists, not for the Commune!’ Amandine answered, swinging round on him. Her lips were dry, and two frantic spots of colour marked her cheeks. ‘None of you could report him, or you’d all lose the house.’
Menou shook his head a little, his brows furrowed. His voice, when he spoke, was remarkably gentle. ‘It was very clever, and quite deliberate. First Citizen Lacoste spread the rumour that you were hoarding food in this house, so the mob would riot and force their way in here.’ He held up his hand to stop Fernand interrupting him. ‘It all worked perfectly, and would have looked just like another incident of looting gone too far, but Bernave was braver than Citizen Lacoste foresaw, and the intruders backed away from him.’
Amandine was shaking, her hands clenched into fists by her sides.
Menou glanced at her once, then away again.
‘You struck too soon,’ he said to Monsieur Lacoste. ‘Perhaps you were afraid someone would come back with torches. There were none of the rioters behind Bernave when you stabbed him. It did not take me long to see that, and that he couldn’t have been shot by the soldiers in the street. But I thought it was a knife. I never imagined a chisel ... until I found it tonight.’
There was total silence in the kitchen. The noise of the rain outside was clear and soft, deadening all other sounds.
‘On the roof,’ Menou said quietly, a certain admiration in his voice. ‘Not under the slate. I thought of that. That was clever, loosening a slate to give yourself an excuse to go up. It was nothing to do with the slate—it was the finial. Painted black—where everyone saw it—and yet no one.’
Fernand swallowed. ‘Well, if Bernave was plotting against the Commune, he deserved to die! My father is a hero, not a criminal. You should be grateful, not coming here to persecute him.’
‘I’m not persecuting him,’ Menou answered. ‘I have no intention of arresting him.’ He lifted his hand slightly in a small gesture. ‘You see I came alone. But Citizen Lacoste did not kill Bernave for betraying the Commune!’ He looked very levelly at Monsieur Lacoste. ‘You asked about Bernave, from many people. I don’t know where you first caught a thread of the story, and it hardly matters now. But I heard about it. I wanted to learn who was enquiring, and why.’
Monsieur Lacoste glared at him.
‘I went to Vincennes too,’ Menou continued. ‘I saw the records and read them. If I had been in your place I think I might have done the same things. But you should not have let St Felix perish for it.’ His voice dropped. ‘I hope I would not have done that.’
‘Why?’ Amandine shouted, her voice choking. ‘Why did you kill Bernave? What could there ever have been that was worth letting St Felix be killed for?’
They all turned to stare at Monsieur Lacoste.
He gazed at Amandine, his shoulders hunched, his head forward. When he answered her, his voice was hoarse with a passion of loa
thing so bitter it filled his face and his whole body trembled. ‘He was evil!’ He spat the words between his teeth. ‘Irredeemably evil, and he deserved to die. I’m sorry I could only kill him once. If I could, I would have killed him a dozen times, a hundred, and relished watching him die. I would like to have seen his face when he saw me, and understood!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Marie-Jeanne asked desperately. ‘You’re talking rubbish!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Monsieur Lacoste said to her, and for a moment his face softened as if he really were. ‘But you didn’t know him as I did. You couldn’t. I wish you would never have to—but blame Amandine for that and Menou, with his enquiries!’
‘What?’ Marie-Jeanne was still completely confused. ‘What do you know that we don’t? How could you?’
Lacoste shook his head, his eyes filled with pain. ‘Before you were born, before Fernand was born, Bernave raped a twelve-year-old girl.’ He stared at her ashen face. ‘I’m sorry—but it’s true. He served twelve years in prison for it, where they tortured him almost to death, but he could never undo the wrong for me.’ His voice was choked thick with tears. ‘Because that girl was my wife! And he made her with child—you, Fernand! Her family threw her out of their lives, out of their world, the whole society she was born to! I found her and married her when she was fifteen, alone and all but starving.’ He looked forward, his lips snarling. ‘And more than that, Marie-Jeanne—you are his daughter, and Fernand is his son! Think of that! He allowed you to marry—that’s obscene, a crime against nature—and he stood by and let it happen rather than admit it to you!’
Marie-Jeanne, waved her hands, as if she would push him away, and the whole, hideous truth with him. ‘No! No—it isn’t possible! How could you know?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong! You have to be!’
‘I’m not wrong!’ There was no doubt in his eyes, or his voice. The passion of hate burned uncontrollably in him. ‘I grew suspicious of him with the royalists and the Commune, and always sending St Felix out, and why he used him so horribly, with all the worst and the dirtiest jobs, and St Felix accepted it. I found other people from Vincennes. They told me. There’s no doubt—don’t torture yourself seeking for it. He was a man evil to the heart and soul.’ He slashed his arm violently through the air. ‘Disown him and forget him!’
Marie-Jeanne was numbed and confused, cowering away from what she’d heard.
Fernand took a step towards her, then changed his mind. He too was shattered. With one fact his entire life had been stripped apart and broken. He seemed limp inside, as if his whole being were bruised. ‘You did the right thing, Papa,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I would have done it myself, if I’d known.’ He turned to his mother, regarding her with amazement and pity. He started to say something, but the idea died before it reached his tongue. What could he offer his mother who had borne him as the result of rape, and then been forced to live in the house of her attacker? The tears spilled down his cheeks. ‘God! I wish I had killed him myself!’ The words choked in his throat. ‘It wouldn’t have been one quick stab to the heart!’
Amandine put her hands over her face, then looked up slowly at Lacoste.
‘I understand why you killed him,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t blame you for it. Nobody could. He was as evil as you say—monstrous! But I can’t forgive you for letting St Felix be blamed in your place.’
Madame raised her head, her face like a mask, only her eyes blazing. When she spoke her voice held a lifetime’s passion and pain.
‘Except that you killed the wrong man, François. It was not Bernave who raped me.’ There was paralysed silence in the room. ‘It was dark,’ she went on. ‘I was terrified and I was hurt. My family would have nothing to do with me. The Church took me in, for a while. But I couldn’t stay there—and help my baby. It was only later, when I met the man again, that I recognised him. By then Bernave had been tried and convicted. I went to the Mother Abbess, but she wouldn’t listen to me. No one wanted to know—’
‘He confessed!’ Lacoste cut across her, shaking his head, his voice loud. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying! You were only a child! You didn’t know any more.’
She looked at him with anguish. ‘I know he confessed!’ Now she spoke softly, the words torn out of her. ‘They both loved the same woman—but she preferred the other man—the one who raped me! And Bernave loved her enough to take the blame for him, so he could go free—and marry her!’
‘Oh, Mother of God!’ Fernand breathed out in agony.
‘That’s not true!’ Lacoste cried hoarsely, but even as he said it he knew from her face that it was. He saw the horror in her, the anguish beyond his power to understand or to touch. ‘Then who?’ he shouted. ‘Who was it? Who did that to you?’
They all stared at her.
Célie felt cold, and sick inside. From Madame Lacoste’s eyes she knew the answer was terrible—beyond bearing.
‘Jacques St Felix,’ Madame replied with a rage of loathing so intense it seemed to scorch the air.
Lacoste was speechless.
Amandine tried to cry out, and it died inside her.
It was Célie who splintered the silence. ‘Then why did St Felix come here, of all places, to Bernave’s house?’ she asked softly. ‘And why in God’s name did Bernave let him in? St Felix must have known that of all men on earth, Bernave could never forgive him!’
‘You are wrong.’ Madame met her eyes unblinkingly, her voice a whisper. ‘That is exactly why he came here. Laura was dead, and he realised then, when it was too late, what his sin had done to him. He longed to be with her in some kind of heaven, but he had mortgaged his soul. He wanted to earn some shred of forgiveness. He was desperate.’
‘And Bernave ...?’ Célie said huskily.
All the fury dissolved from Madame’s face and it became suffused with a strange, passionate radiance. ‘Bernave forgave him,’ she answered so softly they barely heard her. ‘He allowed St Felix to work out his redemption by doing all the worst jobs, the most difficult, the most sordid or dangerous. If it had killed him, St Felix would not have cared—in fact I think he half sought it—except that in the end his courage failed him, as it had in the past. When it came to the moment, he ran.’ She looked at Amandine with a terrible pity. ‘I’m sorry. He had intelligence and wit and great dreams, but he was not the man you believed. Victor Bernave was. He was the noblest man I ever knew.’
She turned slowly to Fernand. ‘I wish he had been your father, but he was not, except in so far as it was his money that fed and dressed you when I was cast out by my own people, and then by the Church—before I met François. He gave me everything he had before he went to trial. The law saw fit to leave it that way. They thought it recompense; they never knew it was compassion.’
Fernand stared at her, the truth dawning on him. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
To have denied it would have been pointless. The answer shone in her face, transfiguring it so the years fell away and they saw the woman she had been long ago: beautiful, passionate and alone.
Célie turned to Monsieur Lacoste.
He tried to speak but the torrent of emotion inside him was too great and too terrible for words to convey it. A darkness had engulfed him, a wound which devoured all of him.
Amandine was also faced with a disillusion so fierce it destroyed everything else she could think or say. She stood perfectly still, but she seemed to sway a little, as if only her body were truly present, and the will to be, to survive, had left her.
Menou looked at her with a naked and fearful gentleness, but he knew enough not to speak.
Monsieur Lacoste stumbled towards the door and went out, and a minute later they heard the outer door slam and the echo of his footsteps across the courtyard.
‘He’ll be back,’ Marie-Jeanne said hesitantly.
Madame Lacoste raised her head. ‘No, he won’t,’ she answered. ‘Not yet, perhaps not ever.’
Fernand stood helplessly, turning fro
m Amandine to his mother, then to Célie. ‘What can we do?’ he begged.
‘Nothing,’ Madame answered him, rising to her feet slowly, as if lifting a mighty weight. She went to Amandine and very gently put her arms round her. ‘I have lost the man I loved—to death; and the man I married to an abyss of guilt he will probably never climb out of. You have lost the man you loved to reality. He never existed. I’m truly sorry.’ She touched Amandine’s dark hair with her hand, in an intensely compassionate gesture, as she would have touched a wounded child.
Then she looked beyond Amandine to Célie.
‘You have courage, enough to risk everything for your beliefs. I’ve watched you. You love Coigny. Don’t deny it to yourself any longer, and lose the one thing you truly want. Don’t live in the past, or hope too much of the future. You’ve lived up to the best in yourself at last. Hold that precious. Don’t waste it.’ She glanced at Menou, then back to Célie again. ‘Leave while you can—safely. I don’t know what François will do. He has nothing left to lose, and no God to hope in. I’ll care for Amandine, I promise you.’
Célie hesitated.
‘Go,’ Madame Lacoste commanded. ‘No one can say what tomorrow will bring. The King is dead and we are on the edge of chaos. I think we will fall headlong into it. There will be war, hunger, more violence. Cling to what you love. Never let go. Take some food, and the money Bernave left in his desk. He liked you. He would be glad for you to have it.’
Célie glanced at Marie-Jeanne.
Marie-Jeanne nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Thank you,’ Célie whispered.
In no time she had collected her things and the money. She went to Amandine, kissed her once on the cheek, and turned and walked away, then took a great gasp and ran, her feet flying.
They had failed to rescue the King, and now France would slide into civil war, probably even war with England and Spain as well. But all through the wet streets only one thought beat in Célie’s mind. The guilt, the contempt for herself was gone. It had slipped away like a forgotten thing, leaving her a shining freedom to love, and to be loved.