I gulped as I searched for the right words to answer her. I became aware of the circle of eyes on my face and I hoped that they would not be able to read my tumbling thoughts. “He cannot have suffered, Citizeness. He bled to death almost immediately.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Was he in pain?”
“I think not, or not for very long. Everything happened so quickly.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Yes he did, but he only had time for a few words.”
She tensed and gripped my arm with trembling fingers. “What did he say? Tell me please.”
“He spoke your name, ‘Françoise.”
“He did?”
“He said ‘Françoise, my wife, tell her that I love her’.”
She sighed and more tears filled her eyes, making them shine. The end of the sentence was a lie, of course. Gilbert never finished what he wanted to say and I had no idea what he meant to add. Looking at her, though, I doubted that his message would have been any different. So I spoke the words I thought any woman would want to be on her husband’s dying lips. I hoped there had been nothing in their past to betray me. She burst at once into furious weeping, and two of the women were quick to come and put their arms around her. One of them looked at me with tearful eyes and I felt a tremendous shock. This girl was a younger version of the widow, but with Gilbert’s dark hair. I think I must have made some small sound at the sight of her. The same old woman, who had shown me in, came and touched my arm. She pointed silently to the door and we went outside. When we were in the corridor, she said,
“Thank you for coming, Citizen; that is what Françoise needed to hear. It will help her to accept her loss now. We are grateful to you.”
“The future will be hard for her, nevertheless. How many children does she have to provide for?”
“Only one now. Felix is away at the military school and still dependent on her.”
“And the girl in there?”
“Eugénie can support herself. She works for the dressmaker Leroy.”
“That is fortunate, but perhaps my colleagues and I may be able to do something more. At least I will try.”
“Thank you, Citizen. I will tell her you said so.”
I nodded and took my leave, glad to go, for grief is not pleasant in any circumstances. On the other hand, Eugénie Gilbert’s tearful face stirred something inside me, something I had never felt before. How I wished I had met her elsewhere and for another reason. My reaction to her seemed totally inappropriate to the occasion, but I knew I would not forget her. If fate was kind to me, I would to meet her again someday, when I could get to know her better.
I went straight from Gilbert’s house to the bread shop. This time, the shutters had been taken down and the door was open. As I entered, a young man came out and I stood aside to let him pass. He murmured his thanks and walked away down the street. I hesitated, feeling puzzled. I’d seen his face somewhere before, but I could not place it. The memory nagged at me. I stepped back into the street and watched him, until he turned into a narrow alleyway. I still couldn’t remember where I had seen him, only that I had. Then I shrugged off the thought. I had talked to so many people in Paris in the last few weeks that all the faces seemed to be blended together.
I went into the shop. The two women, Citizeness Pensol and Jeanne Simon, were peering down at something lying on the table in front them. The older woman, Jeanne Simon, dropped a cloth over whatever it was as they looked up at me inquiringly
“Can we help you, Citizen?”
“Good day,” I said to them. “Do you remember me?”
“But yes, Citizen, you were one of the police agents who came to see us after the bombing.”
“That’s right. Our search for the culprits is still continuing, but we have arrested some men who may have driven the cart that night. You saw them, Citizeness Simon, and you said that you would certainly recognise at least one of them again. I need you to come with me now to identify them, if you can.”
“Now? Oh...” Jeanne looked flustered, “but I still have my bread baking in the oven.”
“I’ll look after the bread for you, Jeanne. You go with this man and see if these scélérats are indeed the ones who murdered my poor Marianne.”
While Jeanne went to fetch her bonnet and cloak from the inner room, I waited with Citizeness Pensol. She had started to weep again and was trying to stifle her sobs with a large and none too clean rag. I reflected I’d seen more than enough weeping women for one day. They were all different and only Gilbert’s wife and daughter were worth looking at. To distract Citizeness Pensol’s thoughts, I asked her, “Who was the man who left as I came in? I think I have seen him before, but I cannot remember where or when.”
“He’s a kind soul,” she answered, mopping her eyes, “one of many who have come to offer me their condolences on the loss of my girl.”
“At least this one did more than just talk to you,” her friend said, coming back into the room, tying the strings of her bonnet. “Idle words cost nothing, but this man was different. He told you he could not bring Marianne back, but without her, you would need someone else to help you in the shop. He gave you some money, so you would have less work and worry. Very few people think like that. Look, Citizen, wasn’t that good of him?”
Jeanne drew back the cloth and, with a shock, I saw the pile of coins that lay there. Most of them were centimes and sous, of course, but one of them was gold. Louis d’Or had almost disappeared in Paris now and in the rest of France.
“Very good indeed to do so much for you. Is he a close friend of yours, Citizeness?”
“On the contrary, he is a stranger to me.”
“Then truly he is a great philanthropist. I didn’t believe that there were any such men in Paris. You have surprised me.”
“We were surprised ourselves.”
“What is this good man’s name?”
“He told me he was just a well-wisher who pitied my plight. He said he wished to remain anonymous, because he cannot help everybody who is in need.”
“Had you ever met him before?” I asked, wondering about a man wealthy enough to possess gold and give it to a stranger, for no other reason than kindness. I expected her to say no, but again she surprised me.
“He bought bread from me once, a few weeks ago.”
“You have an excellent memory, Citizeness, if you can remember every customer who comes into a busy shop like this.”
“I remember him because it’s not often a gentleman comes in here.”
“A gentleman you say? What makes you think that?”
“He spoke like a gentleman and wore good clothes. They fitted him well and his linen was of the finest quality. I was a laundry maid once, before I married the late Pensol, and I used to wash such things.”
“That’s not to say the man was a gentleman, although he did act like one,” Jeanne murmured. Her tone was astringent. “Who knows who anybody is any more, these days, with everything so mixed up. Not like it was when we were young.”
“No indeed,” Citizeness Pensol agreed with her, “but, from his speech, I am sure that this man was gently-born, at least, and so I recognised him when he came in today.”
“Can you tell me exactly when it was he came into the shop before?”
“It must be some weeks ago now. I told you about it, Jeanne, at the time. Don’t you remember?”
The old woman nodded. “That’s right. It was several days before Marianne died.”
“Can’t you remember more exactly than that?”
“No, I’m sorry. It was just an ordinary day like any other and the shop was crowded. If he had been plain-spoken, I would not have remembered him at all.”
“No matter. I should like to meet your benefactor and thank him for his kindness to you. There are very few people like him, more is the pity. Do you know where I could find him?”
They looked at me blankly. “No, Citizen, how should we know that? We have only ever seen him
here in the shop.”
I smiled. “Never mind. It is good to know such people exist, at least. I cannot match his generosity, but you would please me by adding this to your collection.” I put one of the last of my coins into her hand, although not without a pang.
“You are also very kind, Citizen, I thank you.”
Chapter 14
I took Jeanne Simon to the Conciergerie on the Ile de la Cité, where the Chouans were being held. It’s a dark and gloomy place, made dank by the nearness to the river. A sour smell met our nostrils as we entered; the scent of people kept in close confinement and afraid. The Governor showed us to a small barred window which overlooked the principal corridor of the prison. He told us that, usually, the prisoners were free to come and go there, but he had cleared the place for our benefit. He signalled and, one by one, the Chouans were brought out into the light. I watched Jeanne keenly, but the first man provoked no reaction at all from her. The second man was different. As soon as he appeared, she clutched my arm.
“Merciful God, that’s the man who asked poor Marianne to hold his cart.”
I, too, remembered him as one of those I had seen on that night, the man with the bushy beard. I did recognise him after all.
“Are you sure?” I asked her, although I was already certain myself.
“I’ll never forget his face, the black-hearted villain.” She had risen to her feet and her hands were tightly clenched. I could see the white of her knuckles. She went forward to the window and gripped the bars, as if she would tear them out of their sockets to get to him.
“Who is he?” I asked the Governor.
“His name is Saint-Régeant. One of those cursed Breton rebels. This will do for him now. He’ll plant no more bombs here or anywhere else.”
Jeanne turned around as if to go, no doubt thinking her task over. The Governor shook his head and said, “We’re not finished yet. There’s another one of these swine for you to see.”
She nodded and returned to the window. “Yes, of course. There were two of them on the cart.”
The third man, the one with the scar, came right up to the window. He was in rags and his face smeared with blood. He looked very different from the last time I had seen him, drinking in the tavern.
“Yes,” Jeanne said. “He drove the cart.”
“You are sure?”
“I am. His face has haunted me ever since it happened.”
“His name is Carbon,” the Governor told us. “François-Jean Carbon. We’ve got that much out of him. He’s wanted for robbing diligences, amongst other things. They call him ‘Petit François’”.
“Inappropriate,” I murmured, looking at the size of the man.
“He hasn’t said anything much about the bombing so far, but he will now.” It wasn’t hard to guess his meaning and I repressed a shudder.
The Governor turned to Jeanne. “Thank you, Citizeness, for your assistance.”
“He made a young girl die a horrible death and many others too. Make sure that he suffers for it.”
“Oh, I will, you can be assured of that,” the Governor said, with a smile that made me freeze .
I tried to feel some pity for these men, knowing what was about to happen to them, but I did not. They deserved none.
I took Jeanne Simon to the nearest tavern and bought her enough ale to help her recover from her ordeal. She was shaking. Seeing the men again had obviously unnerved her. As her anger left her, she seemed to shrink and become suddenly aged. It took me some time to calm her down.
“If only I hadn’t let Marianne hold the horse,” she kept saying over and over. “She didn’t really need the money; her mother has a good business. What kind of man buys a young girl’s life with twelve sous? I blame myself. I should never have left her...”
I was glad to be able to bundle her into a hack and tell the driver to take her home.
“Why does a man give a gold Louis to a woman he doesn’t know?” I asked Fournier, when I returned to the bureau after leaving Jeanne Simon. Laurent and Petit were also in the room and both of them glanced up sharply at me when I asked the question.
“The usual reason? So she’ll go to bed with him?”
“You’ve got refined tastes and too much money if you pay your doxies in gold! Me, I like them rough and cheap,” Petit said with a leer.
“You would!”
“That can’t be the reason,” I objected. “The woman’s old enough to be his mother.”
“Not everyone has the same tastes as you, mon brave. These old hens know a thing or two the young ones don’t. That makes them worth their money.” Fournier grinned. “Of course, I wouldn’t know myself, but that’s what they say.”
“They’re worth gold?”
He laughed. “No, of course not. Not to me anyway. If I had gold, I’d find better ways to spend it. But who are you talking about anyway?”
I told them the story of the bread shop. When I finished Fournier looked thoughtful.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“I can give you three possible answers to your question. There could well be more.”
“And your three reasons are?” I prompted.
“The man is rich and sorry for her loss, just as he said.”
“Unlikely,” Laurent muttered, “why should he be? No one goes around giving money to strangers, just because there’s been a death in the family. Deaths happen every day and no one does anything about it, unless you know the people concerned.”
“Two.” Fournier ticked off his reasons on his fingers. “The man has more money than sense.”
“Then he should give some of it to me,” Petit interjected, “I could use it.”
Fournier ignored him and his eyes hardened as he said, “Three. He is trying to compensate her.”
“Compensate her? What for?”
“For the loss of her daughter.”
“Why should he do that?”
“A man might do so, if he felt responsible for her death.”
I stiffened. “Do you mean that he might be one of the people who planted the bomb that killed her?”
Fournier nodded. “Why not? One or two of these men escaped us and there may be more. Lots of people were killed, but he knows this girl’s name and where her mother’s shop is. Perhaps he passed the place and saw the devastation his work caused to the lives of the people who were there. This girl was so young. Maybe he has grown sentimental over ending a young life and now he regrets causing her death. He can’t restore her to life, so this is his way of making some sort of reparation to her mother.”
“Far-fetched.”
“Perhaps he is afraid she will come back and haunt him,” Petit sniggered.
“Do villains who blow up innocent people have regrets?” Laurent asked in a mocking voice.
“Most people do, about something. The only difference is how they deal with their regrets,” Fournier answered him calmly. “If I had done such a thing and had enough money, I might do the same.”
“Well, you’ll never have enough money. That’s for sure.”
“True.”
“Speak for yourself. I don’t regret a thing,” Petit said.
“You’re the exception then.”
“I am. Exceptional is the right word for me.”
“We were not discussing you, however. This man might be exactly as he described himself to the mother...or he may not.” Fournier watched me closely.
“Well?” I asked him.
“It may be worth while trying to find him again and then we’ll ask him. At least, his generosity is unusual enough to be suspicious. Would you recognise him again?”
“I would, now I’ve seen him at the shop.”
“Was he one of the men in your sketches?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly. He looked familiar to me, but I’ve questioned so many people since then. He could have been one of the people I worked with that evening, or a witness I saw later. I certainly couldn’t swear to him.”
/> “A pity. If you remembered where you encountered him before, it might help us find him. We haven’t got any better leads to those who escaped, even though everyone’s still searching. Unless or until the prisoners talk, we’re at a dead end. Why don’t you follow this up and see if you can trace him? Don’t you agree, Laurent?”
“I suppose so,” the man said grudgingly. “He’s as good doing that as anything else and he can’t do much harm, even if he is searching for a phantom.” I bristled at that, but Fournier caught my eye and shook his head slightly, so I let the remark pass unchallenged.
I left the Ministry and set out to try to find the man, with a feeling of foreboding. It’s difficult to locate anybody without a starting place and with only the few isolated facts at my disposal. I combed the streets round Citizeness Pensol’s shop, with no success. No one recognised my description. Obviously the man did not live in the area, or someone would know him. He had certainly been there twice, as witnessed by Citizeness Pensol and Jeanne Simon but they had already told me all they knew.
I searched the alleyway he went down on the day I had met him, but it proved to be another dead end, a literal one this time. It led only to a small square in front of an old church. There were no other exits. The man must have returned the way he entered, perhaps while I was still talking to the women in the bread shop about him.
I went into the church since the door wasn’t locked. It was dusty and disused, as most churches are now, although vagrants must have taken shelter there. I found footprints in the dust and the marks where bodies had lain on the floor, a cold and uncomfortable place to sleep. I pitied those people, if they had nowhere better than this.
I went out of the church, left the square and returned to the Rue Saint-Nicaise. I was walking along when I thought I recognised a figure on the other side of the street. She was dressed in a close-fitting black coat and wore a hood covering her hair, but her face was unmistakable. It was Eugénie, Gilbert’s daughter. There was too much traffic to cross over to her or even to call a greeting. She would not have heard me through the din. By the time I had found a gap through the carts and riders, she had gone. I retraced my steps and looked in all the shops in case she had entered any of them. She had vanished and perhaps it was just as well. I had no idea what I would have said to her. The glimpse of her made me sure that I wanted to see her again, very much indeed. I vowed that the next time we met, I would wear my best clothes, have the right words prepared and a valid excuse to visit her home.
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