Roch pulled on the cord to signal to the driver to stop. He climbed the monumental stairs to the main entrance and walked to the Criminal Court section of the building. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous, empty halls. When he pushed open the only lit courtroom, it was empty, except for the yawning gendarmes and a few men and women scattered on the wooden benches. An iron stove provided adequate heat, but the gaslights hanging from the high ceiling and resting on the judges’ desk left the far corners of the room in darkness. Nevertheless, Roch had no trouble recognizing Mulard’s large figure and long reddish hair.
The painter started when Roch sat next to him. Mulard’s cravat pointed in the direction of his left ear, and dark bluish shadows circled his eyes.
“How are things going?” Roch asked in a lowered voice.
“The jury is deliberating right now. As for the evidence against Topino, there’s none. None of any value, that is.” Mulard frowned. “Ceracchi, the only witness against him, recanted at trial and kept repeating that his confession had been wrenched from him under torture by your fine colleagues at the Prefecture. Then Harel, the mouchard, testified that Topino had not supplied any daggers to anyone. The prosecutor did produce a knife, but two witnesses could not agree on its origin, or whether it had anything to do with any plot to stab Bonaparte. Topino himself has steadily denied any involvement in the conspiracy.”
“I have always thought that he would be acquitted if the case went to trial.”
“He should be, but then the prosecutor argued that sketches of daggers had been seized in Topino’s studio, and that, according to him, would be enough to prove his guilt! Of course a history painter is bound to sketch swords and daggers in the course of his work. I do it all the time. As things stand, those sketches are the sole evidence against Topino.”
“What about David? Did he testify?”
“Oh, yes, as a character witness. He praised Topino’s talent. How is this going to help? As if the jurors gave a damn about painting! They want to punish someone, anyone, for the Rue Nicaise attack.”
A door at the back of the room opened and the bailiff announced: “The Court!” The gendarmes jumped to their feet and saluted. Mulard and Roch rose. The five judges appeared, in their black uniforms and plumed hats, the gilded insignia of their functions hanging from tricolor ribbons around their necks. The jurors also reentered the courtroom. The foreman stood up. The sheet of paper he held was shaking in his hand. Roch felt Mulard shaking too. His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively, his jaw was tense.
“Upon our honor and conscience,” the foreman read, “we the jury find that there existed, during the month of Vendémiaire past, a conspiracy to assassinate the First Consul at the Opera.” The foreman droned on, dwelling on the minutest details of the plot. Roch frowned. He could not follow the rambling, confusing narrative, nor understand which particular role each of the accused was supposed to have played in the conspiracy. Finally the foreman paused to clear his voice. “Accordingly, the jury finds Dominique Demerville, Joseph Ceracchi, Joseph Aréna and François-Jean-Baptiste Topino-Lebrun guilty of participating in said conspiracy.”
Roch barely heard the foreman announce that the remaining accused, three men and one woman, were acquitted. When Mulard heard the name of his friend among those found guilty, he rose all of a sudden and pounced forward. Roch caught him by the tails of his coat to make him sit again. The President, after casting a stern look in the direction of the two men, ordered the gendarmes to bring the accused. They slowly filed into the dock. Roch recognized Topino, young, tall, well built, with dark eyes and curly black hair.
Then everything passed very fast. The actors were weary, most of the audience had gone home, and the outcome of the play left no one in suspense. The accused resumed their seats, the prosecutor began his closing statement. The guillotine was the only punishment befitting the horror of the crime, he argued. The President conferred with the other judges, then read the death sentences and advised the defendants of their rights to appeal. Mulard, very pale, did not seem to listen to any of it. He was staring straight ahead at nothing. Finally, the gendarmes took Topino and the other accused away.
Roch grabbed Mulard by the arm and led him out of the courthouse. Both men walked along the banks of the river. Mulard broke the silence at last.
“Do you realize what has just happened, Miquel? They are going to be guillotined, all four of them, and they are innocent.”
“Go to David. Ask him to intervene. Bonaparte might pardon at least Topino.”
“I doubt it. Bonaparte likes the idea of befriending a great artist, but he would never listen to David on anything related to politics.”
It was a clear night. Mulard’s eyes remained fixed on the dark, slow waters of the Seine. The reflections of the lights along the embankments floated like specks of gold on the river.
Mulard looked into Roch’s eyes. “No offense, Miquel, but you work for evil men. Your Prefect and his torturers will have innocent blood on their hands. Beware. You are a decent fellow, but before long you will become one of them.”
“I will remain what I am.”
“What choice will you have? I heard of your father’s arrest. I am very sorry. I do hope things turn out better for him than for Topino.”
Mulard put his hand on Roch’s shoulder. “Listen, Miquel, don’t take it amiss if I ask you to stay away from me. I don’t hold you responsible for what happened to Topino. I know that this conspiracy business wasn’t your idea, that you had nothing to do with it, but I don’t trust you anymore. Good-bye then.”
He left in the direction of the Right Bank. Roch remained still, listening as Mulard’s footsteps resonated in the chilly night air. This friendship was one of the many things he had lost in the course of a few weeks. He shut his eyes tight, took off his hat and wearily ran his hand through his hair.
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Roch slept poorly that night. In all fairness, after the conclusion to the Conspiracy of Daggers, he could not blame Mulard for wanting nothing to do with anyone linked to the police. But still more ominous was what the verdicts implied for Old Miquel. Anyone could be sentenced to the guillotine on the flimsiest of evidence.
In the morning, the only topic of discussion at the Prefecture was the outcome of the trial. Roch was attending to some routine correspondence when the guard announced a visit from Pépin. The boy removed his cap and remained by the door, at a safe distance. Yet he was grinning proudly.
“Got what you wanted, Citizen Chief Inspector, Sir,” he said. “There’s a coach arrivin’ from Rennes ’round noon, with that man Davignon drivin’. And the day after tomorrow, that other man, that Guillou fellow, he’ll be comin’ back too.”
“This sounds good, Pépin. Anything of crucial importance you forgot to tell me lately?”
Pépin put his hand on his breast. “Me, Chief Inspector? I’ll never do that again. Remember, Sir, you’ve my word of honor.”
“As though you had any such thing to give.” Roch paused. Instead of tossing Pépin a copper coin, as was his wont, he set it down in the middle of his desk. The boy approached cautiously and began to extend his hand, ready to retreat at the first sign of danger.
“Say, Pépin,” asked Roch, “aren’t you tired of begging?”
The boy’s jaw dropped and his hand stopped midway to the desk.
“I can’t stand the sight of your rags,” continued Roch. “And you smell like a dead skunk. I bet you haven’t washed since your last dip in the river in the summer. Listen, I could find you an apprenticeship with a good master, one who would feed you well, give you a set of decent clothes and teach you a trade.”
Pépin retreated backwards towards the door, an uneasy smile on his lips. “Like I tell th’ other fellows on the street: Chief Inspector Miquel, he’s my favorite gen’leman in the whole police. Always a joke at the ready for me.”
“I am not joking, imbecile.” Roch looked into Pépin’s eyes. “So what kind of trade would you like to l
earn?”
Pépin stared back. “Dunno, Sir. Never thought of that.” His voice had a quivering, high-pitched tone now. It must be beginning to break. “Really, Sir, you’d do that?”
“Are you interested?”
“Of course I’m. Thank you, Sir. It’s the first time anyone wants to do anythin’ for me. Really for me, I mean. So yes, Sir, I accept. Right away, ’fore you change your mind.”
“Not so fast. There is something you should know, little rascal. If I learned that your master wasn’t entirely happy with you, I would come after you, personally, and I would give you such a thrashing as you would never forget. So don’t take my offer unless you mean to better yourself. Think about it for a week.”
“Oh, I’ve already thought ’bout it. Thank you, Sir. Well, if I ever thought that you’d . . .”
Roch picked up the coin from the desk and threw it to Pépin. For the first time, the boy missed and squatted to pick it up.
“Now run,” said Roch.
He would talk to Alexandrine about Pépin. She would think of something suitable for the boy, perhaps at the Barrel or at her father’s warehouse. In the meantime, the coachman Davignon would soon arrive in Saint-Denis, and Roch intended to greet him there. He had grabbed his hat and was on his way out of his office when he bumped into Piis.
“Excuse me,” said Roch, “I am in a hurry.”
“Wait, Miquel, it will only take a minute.” The little man seemed distraught. “It . . . it’s about your father.”
Roch seized Piis by the arm. “My father? What do you mean? What happened?”
“Well, I just left the Prefect’s office . . . He was signing various orders and warrants, and—”
Roch shook Piis. “And what? The Prefect ordered my father’s deportation? The scoundrel can’t do that!”
“Let me talk, Miquel. No, the Prefect cannot order anyone’s deportation. But I saw him sign a memorandum ordering your father’s transfer from the Temple to Bicêtre. For tomorrow morning.”
Roch closed his eyes for a moment. All deportees left Paris from Bicêtre. Old Miquel’s transfer there meant that his deportation was now imminent. It might happen as early as the next morning. Roch shoved his colleague out of the way. “Thank you, Piis. I need to go to Fouché this minute.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Miquel, can’t you listen to me for a moment? The Prefect was not acting on his own accord. He had received his orders from Fouché himself this morning.”
Roch frowned. This was indeed the 27th of January, the very date set by Fouché for the arrests of Saint-Régent and Carbon. That of Carbon alone was obviously not sufficient to save Old Miquel. There was no point in going to Fouché before Saint-Régent was captured as well, and this needed to happen within the next twenty-four hours. Roch’s errand to Saint-Denis was more urgent than ever.
He ran out of the Prefecture and stepped into the middle of the street to stop a hackney. The driver, yelling a volley of oaths, pulled on the reins. Roch opened the door of the hackney, seized the astonished occupant by the lapels of his coat and threw him out.
“Police!” shouted Roch over the driver’s curses. “To Saint-Denis, and whip your horse.”
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The guards at the city gates waved the hackney through when Roch showed his Prefecture Card. He jumped off before the vehicle had stopped in front of the Inn of the Golden Lion, the point of arrival and departure in Saint-Denis for all the stagecoaches to and from Rennes. Yet at this time there was no carriage in sight.
Roch rushed into the Golden Lion and grabbed one the waiters by the elbow. The man swore, recovered his balance and steadied the tray he was carrying. “Eh, you, can’t you be careful?”
Roch slipped a coin into the man’s palm. “Sorry. Did the coach from Rennes arrive yet?”
“Oh, that’s why you almos’ knocked me off my feet? Your sweetheart’s on it? Well, the coach’s a bit late today. You never know, with all those brigands on the roads. So what can I serve you to keep you nice an’ warm while you wait for your youn’ lady? A mug o’ wine, maybe?”
Roch thanked the man and went to wait outside. The inn’s wine, for all he knew, might come from Vidalenc’s warehouse, and he doubted that he could he muster the patience to sit still for long.
A rooster, all brilliant russet and green feathers, and a few hens pecked at the dirt with satisfied clucks. A mongrel, seated on his rump, was scratching his ear with vigorous strokes of his hind leg.
After a while other people joined Roch in front of the inn. Among the small group Roch noticed a man, large, tall and fairly young. A low forehead, long matted hair and thick eyebrows gave him a brutish expression. He was dressed in trousers of coarse canvas and a goatskin jacket. Of course, this was a small suburban town, not Paris itself, but the man’s apparel seemed oddly rustic here.
Soon Roch heard the rumbling of wheels and the rhythmic sound of hooves. The coach was approaching at a walk, its horses covered with white patches of sweat. The driver pulled on the reins, set the brake and climbed down stiffly from his seat. Rubbing his lower back, he opened the door for the travelers to alight. Deep lines cut into his face, between his cheeks and his chin, and locks of white hair stuck straight, as though half frozen, from under his hat. This must be Davignon, whose wife, unbeknownst to him, was housed in the prostitutes’ coop at the Prefecture at that very moment.
The coachman, once all the passengers had alighted, looked on as two Auvergnats joking in the Roman language proceeded to unload the luggage from the roof and back of the carriage. The travelers claimed their belongings and went inside to stretch their legs and partake of some refreshments before taking hackneys to Paris. Davignon cleared the reins from the leaders while grooms freed the horses from their harnesses. Roch had retreated into a corner next to the stables entrance to watch the scene.
Once there was no one else left around the stagecoach, the goatskin man approached Davignon. They did not greet each other, nor did they appear to exchange a single look or word. Yet Roch saw the driver reach under the leather cover of his seat and hand the other man a sort of portfolio, which promptly disappeared inside the vastness of the hairy jacket.
So this was how George corresponded with his associates in the capital! There must be yet another trick to get the letters past the guards at the barriers, for they had strict orders to search every cart and carriage coming in and out of Paris.
The goatskin man walked away at a brisk pace. Fortunately no horse, hackney or carriage was waiting for him. He passed the massive walls of the Basilica, where the Kings and Queens of France had been buried before their tombs had been destroyed during the Revolution. Roch, thankful for the dark, narrow, winding streets, followed the suspect closely. But soon the man left the boundaries of Saint-Denis, headed towards the countryside, away from Paris. The cry of a rooster could be heard in the distance. Without the cover of the streets and their many recesses, Roch had to give him more headway and worried about losing sight of him.
A fourth of a league from the city limits, on a hillside, was an isolated white stone house, in the style of the aristocratic châteaux built before the Revolution. The goatskin man walked through the gilded gates of its park.
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Roch avoided the front entrance and followed the wall that enclosed the grounds. It was in good repair, smooth and too high to allow for easy climbing. After walking a few hundred yards to the west, he found a gate, three feet in width. This would do. He put on his leather gloves, settled his foot on the iron bar at the middle and seized the sharp spikes at the top with both hands. Careful to keep his groin clear of them, he pulled himself up and jumped to the other side.
To avoid detection Roch had to rely on the scant protection offered by the park’s clusters of shrubs and trees in the English style. Half crouched, he hurried across the lawns that led towards a terrace at the back of the château. He hoped that no hounds were loose in the park at this hour and regretted the absence of his father’s staff. All he ha
d was Old Miquel’s folding knife in his pocket.
At last he reached the flight of stairs that led to the terrace. It offered a beautiful perspective of Paris. Roch, without pausing to admire the view, stepped onto the terrace. Sheltering his eyes from the pale glare of the winter sun, he peered into a vast oval room, the windows of which opened to the floor. It took him but a moment to break one of the panes with his gloved fist. He pushed on the handle inside and let himself into a room paved in a checker pattern of black-and-white marble. The furniture comprised a large mahogany table, twelve cane chairs and sideboards displaying heavy silver ewers and platters. Two sets of double doors were decorated with painted allegories of the seasons.
Behind the panels representing Spring, crowned with flowers, and Summer, holding sheaves of wheat, he heard the ringing of tiny bells, mingled with the yelps of a small dog. With bated breath he flipped his knife open inside his pocket. So this was the home of Saint-Régent’s lady. He would discover her identity, and the man himself would be within his grasp. Old Miquel would be free at last.
Roch, still holding the knife in his right hand, opened the door with the left one. He found himself in an elegant salon, draped in silks patterned with roses and daisies. A pug ran at him as fast as its bow legs allowed and bit his boot. But Roch was not paying the animal any heed.
What arrested his attention was the sight of Blanche, standing in the middle of the room. She was very still, as pale as her white dress. Her black hair was tied by wide scarlet ribbons in the Greek fashion. She stared at Roch in silence, and he could not keep his eyes off her.
The dog’s renewed attacks on Roch’s boot brought him to his senses. If Blanche rang for her servants, he would be easily overpowered. He placed himself between her and the bell pull.
For the King Page 26