For the King

by Catherine Delors

How could have things come to this? Seducing, deceiving and then getting tangled in her own snares. Betraying the lovelorn Saint-Régent. Worse, helping kill innocents. It could all be traced to Limoëlan. Until she had met him, everything was going so well. She was helping the cause without harming anyone. Then Limoëlan had come to Paris and her life had changed. First he had asked her to seduce Roch. She could have refused that mission. Why had she accepted? She must have been yearning for the romance she had so carefully eluded since Armand’s death.

  She thought she could play with Roch’s feelings without getting caught herself. When she had realized the enormity of her presumption, it had been too late to escape. She had lied to Limoëlan to continue lying to Roch. Limoëlan had sensed her betrayal and kept asking her to do more outrageous things, to seduce Piis, to give herself to Francis. Again the result had been yet more lies, less trust, and more contempt from Limoëlan. All this to keep a man whose love she was bound to lose. Now it had happened, and it was only part of the darkness enshrouding her.

  Roch had been right: either Limoëlan would kill her, or he would convince George to order her execution, and some other Chouan would take care of it.

  And then there was the police. Even if Carbon and Saint-Régent, against all odds, persisted in shielding her, how much longer could Roch protect her without compromising himself ? She imagined herself awaiting death in a jail cell, then stepping onto the cart under the jeers of the people, laying onto the deadly machine, waiting in terror for the fall of the blade. Limoëlan’s bullet would bring a speedier, more merciful death.

  She walked to her dressing closest. She chose her finest pelisse, a white satin lined with ermine fur. It was a gift from Monsieur Coudert on her last birthday, in November. It seemed so long ago. She brought the soft, shimmering fabric to her cheek and fought back tears. It was sure to catch any glimmer of light, even in the dead of the night. Oh, she would never commit suicide, the only sin for which there was no forgiveness. But maybe tonight on the Champs-Elysées it would please God to deliver her from her earthly burden.

  She slipped on the pelisse and was ready to head for the service staircase when she saw a large figure blocking the door.

  “Where are you going, Blanche?” asked Coudert in a quiet tone.

  “Well, Sir, Félicie sent word that she has a bad sore throat. She asked me to spend the evening with her.”

  “Félicie? Again? And why did you put on your best evening pelisse to attend to a sick friend?” Coudert shook his head sadly. “I know that we agreed long ago that I wouldn’t interfere with your life, but I am becoming very worried, Blanche. You disappear at all hours without warning, you go to Saint-Denis every other day, your friend Félicie is sick every week, and now that young policeman comes here and behaves in an outrageous manner in front of the servants.”

  Coudert walked to Blanche and took her in his arms. “And you look so sad, so forlorn these days. All happiness seems to have drained out of you. I hardly recognize you. What is it with you, my dearest?”

  Blanche huddled against Coudert. She closed her eyes, relishing the comfort of his embrace. For a moment she was tempted to confess everything. But what good would come out of it? She pulled away gently and forced a smile. “Thank you, Sir, but I am all right. I will be fine, really.”

  Coudert sighed. “I wish you would tell me the truth, Blanche. You should know you can trust me. If you have run into some kind of trouble, I will do anything in my power to help you. Is it a matter of money, dearest?”

  Blanche shook her head wistfully. If only it could have been about money! “Oh, no, not at all.”

  “That’s what I suspected. It is far more worrisome, isn’t it?” Coudert looked into Blanche’s eyes. “Listen, Blanche. I have rendered Fouché some very important services. I will go to him, explain that you made a mistake. You are very young, you were thoughtless. He will help if I ask him.”

  “It is very kind of you, Sir, but no, not even Fouché could help me.”

  Coudert looked away. “All right, then, it must be what I have been dreading for some time. Your friends have turned on you, haven’t they? What have you done, my poor Blanche?”

  “Oh, please don’t ask me. If I told you, you too would be in danger.”

  “So let’s both leave Paris tonight. We will go to Moriaz. Surely those so-called friends of yours can’t track us down there, in the middle of the Alps.”

  “Yes, they can. Even if we were to leave France, they could still pursue me. You don’t know them, Sir. I would never again have a minute of peace. I would spend the rest of my life in terror.”

  “So at least tell me where you are going.”

  “I can’t. You must let me go now tonight. This is truly my only chance of escape. Please do not follow me. It would only put me in greater danger.”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “If I escape tonight, Sir, I promise I will never again give you a moment of uneasiness. I will never again keep any secrets from you. You will see, we will be so quiet and happy.”

  She realized that she was not only trying to slip away. She meant it. Whatever happened at the Champs-Elysées tonight, she would be free.

  59

  Limoëlan was making his way towards the pier whence, in daytime, the ferry crossed the river in the direction of the Invalides. It was almost midnight now. All was silent and seemingly deserted at this end of the Avenue of the Champs-Elysées. These were the place and time appointed by Blanche in her note. Whether she would be there herself, he could not tell, but he was certain that her lover, along with many other policemen, was laying in wait nearby.

  The soil was sandy in this area, and the dead leaves of autumn had long been swept away by the sharp winds of winter. One could move stealthily, an advantage obviously shared by the scoundrels of the police. The night was fairly clear, and a silvery half-moon glowed behind a film of fog. Rows of trees, planted half a century ago, under the reign of King Louis XV, provided little protection against the illumination of the streetlights, for they were barren in this season. Limoëlan sighed at the remembrance of the hedgerows and thickets of Brittany, so convenient to ambush the Republic’s troops.

  As intently as he peered through the darkness and listened to any noise, he could not detect the presence of any policemen around the place. He approached the little pier and saw a figure draped in white, glimmering softly in the night. His first thought was of the ghosts whose woeful stories his nurse would tell him when he was a child. He promptly shook away those ridiculous fancies. This was no Brittany moor, shrouded in mist and legend; this was plain, prosaic Paris, and the creature was of flesh and bone. One tree at a time, he drew closer. Now he recognized Blanche. He could not discern her face or hair, because she wore some kind of white hood that covered her head. Yet, even at this distance, there was no mistaking the tall, slim figure, the grace of her movements. For she was moving, pacing the length of the pier, sometimes stopping as though to look at the far-off lights of the Invalides across the river. Sometimes she was facing the Champs-Elysées and, in the shadows, Limoëlan and his gun.

  He settled behind a tree, about one hundred paces away from her, well within the range of his gun. With his spectacles, he could easily hit a target at this distance. He was no expert marksman, but his hand was steady and his nerves never failed him.

  This was uncannily easy. Limoëlan, to avoid making any noise, had taken the precaution of fitting the compressed-air reservoir and loading the bullet magazine before leaving the crypt of Church of Saint-Laurent. He dropped to his knee on the humid, soft soil. He aimed at his leisure and was ready to shoot when he heard a man’s voice to his left. Now he could guess at a figure, half hidden by a tree. Not an easy enough target.

  “Blanche, what are you doing here?” shouted the man. “Run! Run away!”

  She turned in the direction of the voice, and seemed to hesitate whether to leave the pier. She walked a yard or two, then stopped.

  “Blanche, come to me,”
pleaded the voice. “Don’t let him kill you. Please.”

  Blanche began to run towards the bank. Soon she would reach her lover and the protection of the trees. The man himself had left his position and was headed in Blanche’s direction. With a little luck Limoëlan could kill them both, one after the other. A slight breeze pushed a wisp of fog between him and his targets. No matter, he could still guess at their positions. He pulled the trigger. There was no explosion, no fire, no smoke, only a whizzing sound, repeated half a dozen times.

  But Limoëlan did not see whether he had hit his targets. All of a sudden he went blind. The pain in the socket of his right eye was so sharp that he dropped his gun.

  “Right ’ere, Citizen Chief Inspector!” cried an unknown voice, high-pitched and croaky. “I nailed the bastard!”

  Limoëlan put his hand up to his eye. A warm gush of blood was running down his cheek. He staggered and fell to his side. Running footsteps were getting closer and closer.

  60

  Roch had heard the whistling of the bullets, but the bank of the river remained hidden in mist. From the spot where he had last seen Blanche no noise was coming, not a cry, not a moan, not a whimper, not a splash in the water. She must have moved in time. As for Limoëlan, there was no telling what had happened to him. Certainly he was not shooting anymore, and the odd voice resembled that of Pépin. Roch headed cautiously in its direction. He could not go to Blanche until he was assured that Limoëlan no longer posed a threat.

  Roch breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Pépin, holding a slingshot and kicking a prostrate Limoëlan in the belly. The man was doubled over in pain, his spectacles were missing and blood was smeared over the right side of his face.

  “Enough, Pépin,” said Roch. “Now grab the gentleman’s gun and watch him for a moment.”

  Roch ran back towards the pier. Another gust of wind tore at the wall of fog. He dreaded seeing at any moment something white lying there. Blanche wounded, in pain, dying. But no, all he could see was the planks of the pier and the sandy soil of the banks. She had disappeared as fast, as silently as an apparition, and he wondered whether his eyes had not deceived him.

  Roch walked back to Pépin, who was standing, air gun in hand, next to Limoëlan. The man, curled up on his side, his eyes closed, was clutching his belly. That sight infuriated Roch.

  “I will take this, Pépin, if you don’t mind,” he said, seizing the gun.

  Limoëlan started at the sound of Roch’s voice and rolled over onto his back. He blinked. Roch pointed the gun at Limoëlan’s face. The man probably could not see anything without his spectacles, but he recoiled from the heat of the barrel on his cheek.

  “Yes, bastard,” said Roch, “this is your gun. Now, tell me, how many bullets have we left in this thing? I’d say at least a dozen. And we aren’t in any hurry, are we? Nice and slow, one at a time. Where do you think I should begin? The stomach? Or the bowels? Or maybe the groin?”

  “Have mercy,” whispered Limoëlan.

  “Mercy? What mercy? Mercy on Blanche when you tried to kill her a moment ago? On those poor people on Rue Nicaise? Now let’s be serious. Give me one reason not to kill you, piece of filth.”

  Limoëlan opened his mouth, but could utter only a rattling sound.

  “None comes to mind, apparently,” said Roch.

  Roch pushed the barrel of the gun into Limoëlan’s belly and was ready to shoot. The man let out a croaking cry. “Wait! I can help you save your father.”

  Roch had not expected this. His heart was pounding.

  “Your father . . .” continued Limoëlan. “Fouché sent him to jail, did he not?”

  “How do you know that? Through Bachelot, that traitor?”

  “Yes. My father too was in jail, before he was guillotined. I couldn’t save him.” Limoëlan paused to swallow. “Fouché has no intention of letting your father go. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You are lying to save your skin, bastard,” cried Roch. He was breathing hard. The worst was that Limoëlan might be right. What incentive could Fouché have to release Old Miquel now? Gratitude? Keeping his word?

  “Listen to me,” said Limoëlan, “and then tell me if I sound like a liar. Fouché asked my mother to arrange a meeting with me. That was three weeks before the attack.”

  “‘I already knew that. He asked you to betray your friends?”

  “No. He seemed to know all about them already. He . . . he asked me to put him in touch with George, and with the King’s government in London. He wants to remain Minister of Police once the King is restored.”

  Roch held his breath. Was it out of character for Fouché to plot such a thing? Certainly not.

  “I see,” said Roch. “Fouché looks the other way while you kill Bonaparte and, as a reward, he gets to keep his position. And what did you do?”

  “I wrote George, of course.”

  “And what had George to say about it?”

  “He forwarded Fouché’s offers to London.”

  “Did George put this in writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is that letter?”

  “Do you think I carry George’s letters in my pockets? I burned them all at the time of Francis’s arrest.”

  Roch looked down at Limoëlan. The barrel of the gun had left a reddish burn on the man’s cheek.

  “Then this is worthless. There’s no proof of what you are telling me. Better think of another story. Fast.”

  Limoëlan blinked a few times. “Wait. Miquel! If you kill me, you will lose any proof of Fouché’s dealings with George. You will be the only man left in Paris to know about that, and it won’t put you in a very enviable position, will it? Do you think Fouché would hesitate for a moment to rid himself of you if you were the last witness against him? And where would that leave your father?”

  Roch pushed the gun deeper into Limoëlan’s stomach. “You are right,” said Roch. “Better arrest you. Get to your feet, I am taking you to the Prefecture.”

  “That won’t work either for you. If you arrest me, I will reveal everything I know about Fouché to the Prefect in exchange for immunity. I need not tell you what that means. Dubois hates Fouché and will have him arrested for treason. Now I understand the Prefect is no friend of yours, is he? You will be dismissed, and your father will be tried before some Military Commission. So, Miquel, as much as you hate the idea, you need me alive, and free.”

  Roch was torn apart. He was Chief Inspector Miquel, one of the upper functionaries of the Prefecture of Police, a man whose paramount duty it was to arrest the assassins and prevent them from killing again. But there was a different Roch, the son of Old Miquel. And Old Miquel, unlike the Rue Nicaise victims, could still be saved. Roch the policeman had lost many of his illusions over the past few weeks. Had his superiors, Fouché and Dubois, displayed any integrity? Of course if Roch let Limoëlan go now, he would be guilty of the same dereliction of duty.

  “Listen, Miquel,” continued Limoëlan, “if you let me go, I give you my word of honor that I will flee to Brittany, and from there to England. You will never hear of me again.”

  “Or you might come back to Paris someday and kill again.”

  “I gave you my word of honor.”

  “Assassins like you have no word, and no honor.”

  Roch’s heart was racing. Rage almost choked him, but now was the time to think clearly for Old Miquel’s sake.

  “Pépin, go look for the gentleman’s spectacles,” he said.

  Pépin walked around and soon brandished them with a cry of triumph.

  “He won’t see too good with’m, though,” the boy said as he showed Roch the spectacles. One of the glasses had been shattered and sparkled like diamonds in the glow of the streetlights.

  “Oh, better these than nothing. Give them to him. We wouldn’t want him to hurt himself, would we?” Roch spat in Limoëlan’s face. “Now run,” he hissed.

  Limoëlan rose slowly, watching Roch through his only intact eyeglas
s.

  “Run, carrion, before I change my mind.”

  Limoëlan turned around very fast and disappeared into the night.

  61

  “So you let the vermin go, Sir, after he tried to kill you and Madame Coudert,” said Pépin, a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

  “I had no choice.”

  Roch was twisting in his pocket Blanche’s last letter. Again she had slipped away when she had seemed so close. Yet to her too Limoëlan’s escape was good news. If Francis and Saint-Régent persisted in protecting her, she might not even be suspected. Roch himself did not intend to reveal her part in the conspiracy.

  It was Blanche who had in fact led him, unwittingly or deliberately, to all three men in stallholder jackets. She had informed Francis’s sister of the short man’s presence at the Convent, which had indirectly caused his niece Madeleine to reveal his hiding place. Then Blanche had betrayed Saint-Régent. Now she had risked her life to allow Roch to capture Limoëlan. Had she hoped to find an escape from her troubles and sorrows in death? Roch clenched his fists at the thought that he had let Limoëlan escape, but that very escape, hopefully, would secure Old Miquel’s freedom. Yes, what mattered now was the fate of Old Miquel.

  Roch shook himself out of his thoughts. “Let’s talk about you, Pépin. I haven’t thanked you yet. Let me do so.” Roch put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your help.”

  Pépin smiled proudly. “I aimed good, eh, Citizen Chief Inspector? Right in his spe’tacles. I’d have gotten him earlier, but I’d to find jus’ the right stone. I knew I couldn’t miss.”

  “You did very well.”

  “I kept an eye on Madame Coudert, like you’d said. When I saw she was leavin’ her home in a hackney, I jumped onto the back. It dropped her over there.” He pointed in the direction of Place de la Révolution. “I almost thought I was too late to save her.”

  Blanche must have already reached her house on Rue de Babylone. It was no more than a fifteen-minute walk from the bottom of the Champs-Elysées. Roch, his hand still on Pépin’s shoulder, headed for the Place de la Révolution. The familiar outline of the Statue of Liberty was no longer to be seen against the night sky. It had already been demolished to make way for a monumental tribute to Bonaparte. Roch remembered his conversation with Old Miquel on the night of the Rue Nicaise attack.