by Anne Perry
Menou turned to Monsieur Lacoste, whose expression of contempt was so profound as to demand a comment.
As if suddenly aware of the attention, he smoothed away the anger, but it obviously required an effort from him. He measured his words very carefully. ‘That’s what he said,’ he agreed turning to Menou. ‘Fine words cost nothing. Perhaps you are right and he was working for the Commune. He didn’t always behave like it.’
‘You didn’t like him, Citizen?’ Menou asked.
‘He was family,’ Lacoste replied, as if that answered everything. Célie thought of his closeness to his son, his patience with his grandchildren, the way he accepted Marie-Jeanne, and above all his awkward tenderness for Madame. Perhaps it did answer all that really mattered to him.
‘Ah yes,’ Menou nodded. ‘Your son is married to Bernave’s daughter.’ He looked across at Marie-Jeanne. ‘That’s you, Citizeness ...’
Marie-Jeanne nodded.
Menou looked at Fernand. ‘And you, Citizen, what did you think of Bernave?’
‘I didn’t know he was working for the Commune,’ Fernand replied cautiously, ‘but it doesn’t surprise me. He was a man of deep conviction, and as Célie says, he wanted justice for everyone.’
Menou smiled. He must realise they all knew that if Bernave were thought to be a traitor to the revolution, then the house would be forfeited.
‘Just so.’ He remained looking at Fernand. ‘Tell me about last night, Citizen. What happened—exactly—as you recall?’
Fernand was startled. He glanced at his mother, then back at Menou. ‘I ... I don’t know anything more than I told you then.’
‘Perhaps. Remind me ...’ Menou fixed him with bright, intelligent eyes, waiting.
Fernand looked unhappy, but he obeyed.
‘We were all sitting in the front room ...’
‘You heard noises in the street,’ Menou prompted, when he hesitated. ‘You perceived there was a crowd, and some quarrelling ...’
‘Of course. We could hardly fail to see it,’ Fernand agreed tartly. ‘There were at least twenty people pushing and yelling, and then shots.’
‘Ah yes ... shots.’ Menou turned to Marie-Jeanne. ‘Do you recall the shots, Citizeness?’
‘Yes.’
Menou looked back at Fernand.
‘Did anyone leave the room?’
‘I didn’t see.’
Menou turned to Célie, his eyebrows raised questioningly. If anyone had left, they would have passed close to where she had been.
‘I did,’ Marie-Jeanne said quietly. ‘I went up to my children, to comfort them.’
Menou glanced at Virginie, who was staring wide-eyed at him, the game forgotten, and then at Antoine.
‘Very natural,’ he agreed. ‘Anyone else?’
This time Célie was happy to speak. ‘No, the rest of us were here.’ She was aware of Madame Lacoste’s black eyes watching her. What was she afraid of? Did she know which one of them had killed Bernave? What could she do to protect them? How far would she go? Or did she believe it was St Felix? Perhaps she did, because it was the only answer that would be bearable for her.
‘And the exact order of events?’ Menou turned to Amandine. ‘You, Citizeness. Please tell me again.’
Amandine froze. It was several moments before she answered him. He watched her, looking at her soft hands, unmarked by working as Célie’s were by laundry. She had clear skin and fine features. There was a natural delicacy to her. It was easy to believe she was a woman of grace and breeding fallen on harder times, like so many others. Did he see that? Did he resent it? She had not Marie-Jeanne’s earthy domesticity, or Célie’s challenging intelligence in her demeanour. Until lately she had never needed it—now it was too hard to assume.
Who was Menou? Where had he come from? The constant shifts of power in the revolution had thrown together all manner of people. Yesterday’s ministers and governors were today’s prisoners and tomorrow’s corpses. Yesterday’s servants were today’s masters. Célie studied him. He wore the revolutionary uniform, but so did scores of people, for scores of reasons: passion, conviction, the lust for power, or simply the desire to survive. Menou could be anything. His speech was ordinary enough. He could have been a footman or a tailor or an artisan of any sort before the revolution. Or he could be the third or fourth son of an aristocrat, with enough of an ear to adopt a common speech, and enough political idealism, or opportunism, to seize on the new order.
Or he could have been a lawyer, a moneylender or a thief.
He was very tidy. His hair needed cutting, but his clothes fitted him, and his hands were clean. His boots were rather good. She had noticed that when he came in. Was that breeding, or merely opportunity and the love of nice things, even a little personal vanity?
‘There was a shot which broke the window, and the light went out,’ Amandine answered very carefully, facing Menou. ‘Then we heard the noise at the front door, and the crowd broke in, demanding food. They thought we were hoarding—which we weren’t. We aren’t! Citizen Bernave went over to them.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘He told them that.’
‘And did they believe him?’ Menou asked, and when Amandine did not answer immediately he turned to Célie.
‘No, of course not!’ she retorted. ‘But he would hardly say we were, would he?’
He smiled. That simple gesture startled her. In her experience revolutionaries never saw the funny side of anything, most especially anything which might remotely reflect on them. It was the thing which frightened her the most. It made them inhuman, outside ordinary life. Robespierre never laughed.
‘What happened then?’ Menou asked quietly, looking at Amandine again. But he went on before she had time to answer. ‘Citizen Bernave remained facing the intruders. What about the other men in the room—Citizen Lacoste, Citizen St Felix, for example? Did they move forward to help?’
Amandine was confused. ‘I ... I suppose so. I don’t remember.’ She stared straight ahead of her, as if there were no one else present except herself and Menou. Her pose was unnaturally stiff, her slender back straight as she had been taught to sit, in some far-off schoolroom. Célie knew she was trying to remember where in the panic, St Felix had been.
Célie could not remember either. She had been watching Bernave, and the crowd threatening in the doorway. She had been only dimly aware of the others.
Menou turned towards her.
‘And you, who are such a keen observer, Citizeness Laurent—what can you tell me? Where was Citizen St Felix standing?’
He had been standing, that was true, but how did Menou know that? She could not underestimate him, just because he was a revolutionary. It did not mean he was stupid, or incapable of judging them by their own standards, seeing their weaknesses, and their loyalties.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered. She could not copy Marie-Jeanne’s ignorance. Menou had seen she observed sharply, and he would not believe she panicked, she had no children to protect—not now. Jean-Pierre was beyond her power to help and shield from anything. That cold thought was never too far away to return. ‘He was sitting in the chair opposite when the shot came through the window ...’ Her voice was a little hoarse, her throat tight.
‘And then?’ Menou insisted. ‘When the intruders threatened you, did he not go forward to assist Bernave?’ He watched her face. The question sounded innocent, and yet the implications were inescapable.
Should she lie, and brand St Felix a coward, or tell what she thought was the truth, and place him where he could have killed Bernave?
Menou was waiting.
Célie felt her flesh prickle. His eyes seemed to stare through her.
Madame Lacoste answered for her,
‘There was a great deal of noise and confusion,’ she said levelly. ‘The smoke from the torches out in the street was blowing in and stinging our eyes. It was very difficult to see. I was looking at the men in the doorway: they were the threat, not we who were in the room. I imagine Citizeness L
aurent was as well.’
‘I see,’ Menou nodded, frowning. He turned away from Célie and Madame Lacoste to St Felix. ‘Where were you when the rioting in the street disturbed you?’
St Felix was startled, as if he had not expected to be addressed.
‘I ... I was in the other chair, opposite Citizen Bernave. I think I stood up. I don’t remember. We were all alarmed, it was so close.’
Menou nodded. ‘Tell me exactly what you recall.’
Célie glanced around. Everyone was watching St Felix. Monsieur Lacoste was frowning. He looked worried. Fernand seemed more concerned for Marie-Jeanne. He moved closer to her, defensively. It was only a step or two, but the emotion which drove him was unmistakable. The children were silent, aware of the fear without understanding it.
Amandine was rigid, her hands on the table locked till her knuckles were white. Had Menou been looking at her, rather than St Felix, he could not have helped noticing. Célie ached to protect her, warn her that she was allowing her face, her body, to betray her. But there was nothing she could say without making it worse. She realised her nails were digging into her own palms.
Madame Lacoste was staring at St Felix also, her expression sombre, her dark eyes unreadable.
‘Citizen ...?’ Menou prompted.
‘I’m trying to be exact,’ St Felix excused his silence. Célie could hear the tension in his voice; it was higher than usual, sharper. But Menou would not know that. The difference was slight, and his diction was as perfect as always.
‘It happened very quickly,’ he answered. ‘There was shouting, movement, shots. The window broke. The candle went out. There was smoke from the torches. It was difficult to see. People were breaking into the house from the street. They were very angry and threatening. They wanted food. Citizen Bernave went towards them and told them we had no more than our own rations for the day. They did not believe him. The mood became very ugly.’
‘Did they come forward?’ Menou asked.
There was silence. Everyone understood the importance of the answer.
Célie did not mean to, but she could not help glancing at Amandine. There was tension in her face, but not the fear there would have been had she believed St Felix could have been guilty, whatever the provocation.
Célie felt sick for her. Please God she was right!
‘No,’ St Felix said at last. ‘Not that I saw.’
‘And did you go forward to assist Citizen Bernave?’ Menou asked. ‘No one else seems quite certain if you did or not.’
Again the slight hesitation, the understanding of what either answer would mean. ‘Yes.’
‘Of course,’ Menou agreed. ‘One would. And did Citizen Lacoste? And Fernand Lacoste?’
‘There was great confusion, and it was dark. I believe so.’
Menou looked at both of the other men.
They each nodded.
Menou considered for some time before he spoke again. They all watched him, wrapped in their own fears—for themselves, and for each other.
‘It seems it could have been any one of you who killed Citizen Bernave,’ he said finally. ‘I shall, of course, continue to look for the knife.’ He put down his empty mug. ‘It is possible all of you are aware of what happened, and are concealing the truth, for your own reasons.’
Amandine drew in her breath sharply, and then said nothing.
‘Yes, Citizeness?’ Menou prompted.
‘I thought I was going to sneeze,’ Amandine lied quickly.
There was no way to tell if Menou believed her or not. He rose to his feet and started to walk slowly round the kitchen, regarding each of them as he passed.
They grew gradually more and more uncomfortable. Finally Menou broke the silence again.
‘Citizen Bernave asked you to go to the Convention and observe the debates,’ he said to Célie.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And then to report to him?’
‘Yes.’ She had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling that he was leading to some kind of ambush, but she could not see it. She had no idea which way to sidestep. She knew Amandine was watching her, and she could sense St Felix’s tension.
Menou frowned. ‘Then what did he send Citizen St Felix for? It must have been something very dangerous, must it not? Something that was too dangerous for you.’
‘More likely something I wouldn’t understand!’ she said quickly.
Menou raised his eyebrows and turned to St Felix.
No one moved.
St Felix remained silent, avoiding Menou’s gaze.
‘I don’t know what it was,’ Lacoste interrupted. ‘None of my business. But St Felix often enough came back filthy and covered in blood and bruises.’ He said it with a touch of defiance, knowing the implications. ‘So perhaps it was dangerous.’
Célie wanted to laugh at the ‘perhaps.’ It welled up inside her hysterically, and she stifled it with her hand over her mouth.
Menou looked round the rest of them, to see if they confirmed or denied it. He read the admission in their faces, willing in Fernand’s case, reluctant in Marie-Jeanne’s, and terrified in Amandine’s. Madame Lacoste was guarded, but Célie caught an instant of intense dislike for St Felix, then it was gone again, masked so completely it might have been no more than an illusion of the light on her dark eyes and the shadows beneath them.
Menou swung right round to St Felix again. ‘Why were you prepared to endure such treatment at the hands of a man who seemed to have so little consideration for you, Citizen? Did you not dislike him for it?’
Again Amandine was on the edge of speaking, but just in time realised she might only make matters worse. She stared pleadingly at St Felix, as if willing him to defend himself. Célie ached to be with her, to give her any kind of support, but she dared not. Menou would see and understand.
‘No, I did not dislike him, Citizen,’ St Felix answered quietly. ‘He did what he did, and asked as much of others, because he believed in his cause. One does not dislike a man for that, one admires him.’
‘Ah! So you knew he was working for the Commune! You did not say that before!’ Menou accused.
‘I knew he was working for the revolution,’ St Felix corrected. ‘For the good of France.’
A very slight frown puckered Menou’s forehead.
‘If he believed in his cause so powerfully, why did he not go on these dangerous errands himself?’ he asked ingenuously. ‘It seems the belief was his, and the sacrifice was yours.’
‘I presumed he went on equally dangerous errands himself,’ St Felix argued. ‘He went out often.’
Well answered, Célie thought, with a lift of surprise and relief inside her. Perhaps St Felix would defend himself after all. If Bernave trusted him as he had, then he must have some steel in his soul.
Menou looked at Marie-Jeanne, the question in his face.
‘That’s true,’ she nodded.
Madame Lacoste added her agreement.
‘And came back injured?’ Menou pursued.
There was silence.
Amandine took a deep breath. She was very pale. ‘Yes—’
‘Not seriously!’ Célie interrupted. For heaven’s sake, they could look at the body and see! There was not a recent mark on him. Had Amandine not thought of that? ‘Mostly dirty, cold and exhausted,’ she added.
‘You know something about it?’ Menou turned to her.
‘Of course,’ she said, trying to sound convinced. ‘I think he sent Citizen St Felix to the Commune, with what he had discovered of the royalist plans, but he did not tell me that, of course. And went to the royalists himself, which was far more dangerous. If they were to have discovered what he was really doing, then he would not have come back at all!’
‘That’s right,’ St Felix put in, his voice suddenly certain, as if he realised Célie’s line of thought might rescue him.
Menou’s reply was instant, his eyes narrow and bright. ‘How do you know? He confided in you? You believed what he t
old you?’
St Felix hesitated. To admit that might be dangerous, especially since Célie was almost certain it was not true. Bernave had trusted no one with information of that kind. Menou might know that. It all depended which side Bernave had really served. St Felix might be making things worse for himself.
But for the matter, which side did St Felix really serve? The King, of course—some kind of order from the ashes of the old tyranny and waste. Nothing about him was naturally sympathetic to the violence and vulgarity of the Commune.
Menou smiled. ‘You read the messages he entrusted to you?’ he said, regarding St Felix curiously.
St Felix hesitated yet again.
Célie wondered if he had read them. Did he alone know what Bernave was really doing? And was that why he had killed him: not because of the personal abuse, but because he had discovered his betrayal of the plan of rescuing the King from execution, and France from drowning in blood?
Célie caught herself with horror. She was seriously considering his guilt! She hated the thought! It could not be true ... not St Felix, the man who forgave so easily, bore fear and danger with such quiet fortitude. He had too much sensitivity to others, too much humility to be an aristocrat; too much gentleness and too little hate to be a revolutionary; too much compassion to be either.
And yet the suspicion would not go.
‘You read them?’ Menou repeated.
‘No,’ St Felix replied. ‘Bernave told me, and I believed him.’
Menou smiled. ‘I see.’ His voice conveyed neither acceptance nor denial. ‘I have men outside. We will look again for the knife. It must be in this house somewhere. You will all remain here while we search. I would not like to think it was moved ahead of us all the way. You understand?’ It was not a request, it was an order. Something in him liked to retain a semblance of the courtesy of a past age. He could not altogether hate the ancien régime. Willingly or unwillingly, he admired something in it, hungered for its elegance.
He went to the back door and gestured for half a dozen guardsmen to troop in.
