by Anne Perry
‘I know,’ Georges agreed, moving down to the stove.
‘I tried to persuade them to face the Convention,’ Carichon went on with a bitter laugh, as much to himself as to Georges. ‘Stop following after them and lead, for a change! To hell with what Marat and the Commune want ... we’re the government!’ He moved closer to Georges. ‘France isn’t in any state to fight a war on all sides. If we didn’t kill the King, we might even make peace with Austria.’
He shrugged angrily. ‘But they parroted back at me: “We can’t abandon our principles, we have a far nobler vision than Marat and his followers.”’ He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. His brows were drawn down, his eyes earnest and frightened. ‘Marat’s a lunatic, you know that, Coigny? You should have seen him when he burst in on the celebrations Talma gave General Dumouriez last year. It was a very civilised party.’ A smile lit his face for an instant as he recalled, then it vanished. ‘We were all listening to harp and piano music,’ he continued. ‘Drinking a little sugar water and indulging in conversation. Then all of a sudden there was a fearful clatter on the stairs outside, and the next moment Marat burst into the room with a bunch of his hooligans.’ He drew in his breath sharply. ‘He was filthy! The memory of the stench turns my stomach even now.’ His lips curled. ‘He was wearing one of those carmagnole jackets like the Marseillais, black trousers, no socks, and boots covered with nameless ordure which he left all over the carpet.’
Georges opened his mouth to speak. He knew the story.
But Carichon went on regardless. ‘He was twitching like some wretched animal. The women were terrified. He stared at us and shook his fists, calling us whores and counter-revolutionaries. He even spat on the floor.’ His nostrils flared. ‘After he’d gone, we had to open all the windows and go around with a perfume bottle.’
The smell was a consequence of Marat’s disease and therefore irrelevant, but Georges did not bother to argue that. He could see the revulsion in Carichon’s face and the emotions behind it, the knowledge of violence, the unknown and the uncontrollable. Despair had overtaken him at the sheer ineffectuality of the Girondins, their lack of urgency and, when it came to the point, of courage.
‘I know,’ Georges said quietly. ‘I already heard all about it.’
‘What is there ahead?’ Carichon’s face filled with bitterness. ‘Invasion, civil war and bloody chaos!’ He was so angry his body shook. ‘It’s so idiotically futile, so blind to the flesh and passion and dirt of reality. They’re as unrelated to living, breathing human beings as Rousseau. It’s all words, scribbles on miles of paper that means nothing at all—’
Georges made his decision, not with certainty but as a desperate chance, the lesser of evils.
‘We’ll still try it,’ he interrupted. ‘Just change the arrangements, in case whoever killed Bernave knew something of it. Change everything we can—men, places. We can’t change the time.’ He watched Carichon’s face intently, looking for the slightest flicker of deceit. He saw the spark of hope again, and the knowledge of fear.
Carichon hesitated barely a moment. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Good. It’s our only chance.’
‘There is only one thing we lack ... because of Bernave’s murder.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’ There was no shadow of denial in Carichon, no foreknowledge of what Georges was about to say.
This was the moment. He would test Carichon’s commitment to its ultimate limit. ‘Bernave was the only one who knew the man to take the King’s place in the carriage,’ he said. He did not add the rest; it was obvious after an instant’s thought.
Carichon’s jaw dropped. ‘But without him it won’t work! It can’t! You’ll have to find someone else!’
‘I know that.’
‘Then why are you here telling me?’ Then the blood drained from his face as he realised what Georges was saying. He backed away, stumbling against the table and putting out his hand to save himself. ‘Oh no! You can’t ask me that! I’d be ...’ he swallowed and almost choked, ‘I’d be ... torn apart! They’d ...’ It was beyond him even to give words to it. He stood there shaking his head, gasping.
Georges did not argue. Looking at the man’s terror was enough to know that even if he promised to come, his nerves might render him incapable at the last moment.
He nodded very slightly, touched Carichon on the arm, and turned and went out of the door again into the street. Perhaps he should not have expected the ultimate sacrifice from Carichon, but he still felt a suffocating disappointment. Carichon had seemed the best chance. There were not many Georges could ask, because to do so he had to trust them with so much of the truth.
It was dark now, but as he passed a woman buying coffee from one of the sellers, she turned and stared at him in the light from a café window. She was probably about thirty-five, but fear and hunger made her seem older. He must be more careful than he had that morning. He smiled at her, using all his charm.
‘Good evening, Citizeness!’
She relaxed and smiled back. ‘Evening, Citizen.’
He hurried on towards the river. He was glad to move quickly; at least it set the blood coursing in his veins. He must find someone tonight. He dare not be out tomorrow, and by dusk tomorrow evening it would be too late.
And what after that—after the King was saved, or dead? He could not expect Célie to feed him for ever. She might be fortunate even to feed herself. If he did not find some form of work he would starve, or die of the cold. People did. And if this sort of misery and chaos continued there would be more and more of them. He was young and strong—what about the ill, the weak, the old, the very people the revolution was supposed to protect? Was this what all the dreams and hopes had come to: suspicion, fear, and even more grinding poverty?
He was in the Rue St-Antoine now. The Place de la Bastille was just ahead. That had been a bitter joke—storming the one prison in Paris which held only a few indigents for whom it was more of an asylum than an incarceration! They had stumbled out into the daylight totally confused, suddenly frail—and now homeless.
He crossed the place, head down. Fortunately the wind made that a natural thing to do. No one took any notice of him.
He found what he was looking for, a cooper’s yard. He turned the corner into the shelter of the wall. The man he had come to see was working with the barrels, a trifle awkwardly as if he had not been born to labour. Now at a glance he looked ordinary enough but under his dull, brown working clothes he had a certain dignity, and when he looked up he stood with his shoulders square. His hands were soft, although they were dirty. He had a long nose and heavy cheeks, and he was barely average height, but his eyes were clear and he looked at Georges squarely.
‘Can I help you, Citizen?’ he asked.
‘Possibly,’ Georges replied, keeping his voice low.
The man peered more closely. ‘Coigny? You look like him!’
‘I’ve seen better times,’ Georges agreed with a smile.
‘Haven’t we all?’ The man laughed abruptly. ‘And it’ll get worse.’
Georges raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so?’
‘You can’t be that naïve,’ the man said with anger in his voice. ‘Of course it will! There’ll be no stopping war on all sides. We’ll have got rid of the King, poor sod, in the name of freedom; and imposed a tyranny greater than anything we had before. Certainly we were in a bad way then, with corruption everywhere, but this cure is worse than the disease.’
‘The operation was a success but the patient died,’ Georges said succinctly.
‘You’ve got it!’ the man agreed. ‘What can I do for you? It must be something important to bring you out here.’
‘You have some royalist sympathy ...’
‘Sympathy, yes,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t want the King back on the throne. I just don’t want the poor devil executed because it’ll bring war down on us all, and leave these lunatics in charge. I nearly said “in control,” but nobody’s in control of anyth
ing. The Girondins couldn’t organise an evening salon, and the Commune doesn’t want to. Chaos is their natural state.’
‘Are you prepared to do anything about it?’ Georges asked.
‘Anything?’ the man said slowly, watching Georges. ‘You still have hope that something can be done?’ There was incredulity and derision in his voice. ‘I don’t know whether to envy you, or pity your innocence. It’s too late. I would do something if I thought it would work. I don’t. I’m not giving my life pointlessly. Bad as it is, I’d still rather be alive than dead.’ He shrugged with a bitter smile. ‘That’s the trouble with atheism: it breeds few martyrs. We can’t imagine some glowing heaven where we are rewarded for sacrifices here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘If this is all there is, we’d better hang on to it as long as it’s bearable. Few of us can cope with the thought of extinction.’ He shrugged. ‘Funny that: no matter how little a man thinks of himself, he cannot imagine the world functioning just as well when he is no longer part of it.’
Again Georges did not argue. There would be no purpose, only risk. He bade him goodbye and went out into the street again. The wind was edged with sleet.
He could not blame either of them that they were not willing to be torn and bludgeoned to death in the King’s place. The thought was enough to make anyone quail, sicken them and turn their insides to water. He could not look at it himself.
His clothes were wet through and his muscles were locked with cold.
Did he believe in the King’s rescue enough? How much of his commitment was really only words? How frightened was he of a few moments of agonising, unimaginable pain, his own body destroyed while he was still aware of it? Everybody died eventually, sometimes after long illness. Wasn’t that worse?
Yes. But that was in some unforeseen future, not the day after tomorrow! And not of his own choosing.
But it would still come ... one day. And who would he be then? A man who had not lived up to his beliefs. A man who was willing to ask others to sacrifice what he would not give up himself. A hypocrite, who in the moment of final decision was a failure.
But he was the wrong age, the wrong build, the wrong colouring to make anyone believe he was the King!
And there was so much he still wanted to do, to say, people he could not part from yet. Amandine, Célie ... especially Célie. There was so much to learn about her, and even more that she needed to know about him—weaknesses and strengths, little things, a time for laughter as well as courage. Above all they must have at least one time together when they were honest, without pretence, without the past and the future in the way. He could say what he meant, and touch her just once.
And yet if he did not take the King’s place, perhaps the real parting was already accomplished. She might forgive him. She understood the failure to live up to your dreams. But he would not forgive himself. He understood, and that would be the judgement.
He must find the right clothes, the wig, the padding, whatever it required. He must take the King’s place, without telling anyone else. There were no real difficulties, only excuses.
He put his head down and walked into the wind.
Chapter Ten
CÉLIE INVENTED AN EXCUSE for going out, for Madame Lacoste, should she ask, and for the guard in the courtyard. It cost her dearly because she felt self-conscious and foolish, but it was the only one she could think of which was ordinary and common to all.
‘A lover!’ Amandine said with a smile, looking up from peeling vegetables.
Célie’s mind flew to Georges, for no reason at all, and she felt the heat burn up her face. ‘The guard might let me go for that,’ she said defensively. ‘Please help! I’ve got to see if I can find Renoir.’
‘Only one way to discover,’ Amandine replied. ‘Although the only other likely reason would be to buy something on the black market, which is illegal.’
‘I haven’t any money anyway,’ Célie said ruefully, smiling herself, happy to change the subject. ‘There was some in Bernave’s desk, but I didn’t take it.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ Amandine agreed. ‘Anyway, if the soldiers didn’t take it themselves, Menou will know how much there was. The last thing either of us needs is to be thrown out for thieving.’ She put her hand in her pocket under her apron and brought out a gold Louis. ‘I wish I had more to give you, but most of mine was spent ages ago. This is the best I can do for Georges. You’re the one running all the risks ...’ There was admiration in her face, and a swift warmth of affection. ‘I do appreciate it. He is the only family I have. But even if he were not, he’d still be one of my dearest friends. Thank you—and for heaven’s sake be careful!’
Célie laughed a little to break the tension. ‘I will! Now let me ask the guard if he will allow me to go and see my lover! I wish I were a better flirt!’
‘So do I!’ Amandine said ruefully. ‘Don’t try too hard. You’ll make him suspicious.’
Célie wrinkled her nose at her. She pushed the coin down her blouse between her breasts and fastened the buttons again.
‘Don’t flirt now!’ Amandine said with a flash of her old lightness. ‘You could have a disaster!’
‘Cat!’ Célie retorted. ‘I’ll leave you to think of a good answer if Madame asks where I am.’ And before Amandine could complain, she went through the back door, taking her cloak off its peg, carrying a shawl, leaving her hair loose.
The guard stopped her as soon as she was in the courtyard.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded. ‘No bread at this hour, Citizeness.’
She smiled at him, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I have an hour or two off, away from the Citizeness’s eye. I. ... To tell you the truth, Citizen, I have a lover. I have not been able to see him since Citizen Bernave was killed. I am only human ... so is he!’ She shrugged very slightly. ‘All I want is a little time with him ... please?’
He considered her appreciatively for a moment, his eyes on her cheeks, her throat, the pale silk of her hair. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t have anything hidden. Citizen Menou’ll have me punished if I don’t.’
‘Of course.’ Her fingers shaking a little, she opened her cloak and invited inspection.
He looked up and down lingeringly, his eyes bright. He smiled and lifted his hands.
Her heart sank. The shiver of revulsion she felt was secondary to her fear that somehow he would feel the coin and ask what it was for, or worse, take it from her. She forced herself to smile back at him. It felt sickly. He must see how artificial it was.
His hands touched her body.
She wanted to hit him as hard as she could. It took all her strength to control the impulse and look at him sweetly instead. She must think of something to distract his attention.
‘You must be cold standing out here by yourself, Citizen,’ she began. What a senseless thing to say!
‘Perishing,’ he agreed.
‘And bored,’ she added. Keep talking, his mind is on what you are saying, not the search. ‘Have you always been a soldier?’ That was it—make him talk about himself—most people liked to talk about themselves. ‘It must be a hard and dangerous life. Perhaps we don’t value you enough—until there’s danger.’
He looked at her with a flash of a different kind of appreciation. ‘That’s certainly true, Citizeness. Hardly anyone sees that.’ His hands patted her skirts, not too closely. He was looking for a knife, not money.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked quickly.
‘Faubourg St-Marcel,’ he replied.
‘Is that where you grew up?’
His face lightened a little, memory awakening. ‘Oh no, I was born in Nemours.’
‘Is it beautiful?’
‘Better than Paris!’ he said with feeling.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘Then we are in your debt that you stay here to serve the revolution. Tell me about Nemours. I’ve never been there.’
He did, haltingly at fir
st, then with increasing ease as memory found the words for him.
She listened, and his search was thorough, but not so intimate as to find the coin. He was not looking for anything so small.
When he had finished she smiled at him again, meaning it this time.
‘Thank you, Citizen.’ Then she hurried out under the arch into the street. She had a considerable way to walk along the Boulevard St-Germain, across the river and along the Rue St-Honoré to where the Jacobin Club was. She went briskly for several reasons: time was short and it was far too cold to dawdle, but also she did not want to attract any attention to herself or seem to be without purpose.
She stopped at a small shop and bought a few dried lentils and a couple of small onions. Of course no one had bread at this hour of the day. This would have to do. It fitted quite easily into the pockets of her skirt.
She thanked the storekeeper and left.
The Jacobin Club, like many other buildings in Paris, had originally belonged to a religious order. It had begun its secular life as a social club for deputies from the provinces and other ‘friends of the revolution’ to spend time together. They enjoyed one another’s society and spent endless hours in talk of ideals, and plans for a glorious and virtuous future. Robespierre, who had no appetite whatsoever for pleasures of the flesh, was to be found there on most evenings. The rooms were ideally suited to the building’s present purpose, and the situation was excellent. Robespierre lodged close by in the house of the carpenter Duplay. The Place de la Révolution, where the guillotine did its bloody business, was only a few hundred yards away.
From such small beginnings the club now had three hundred members who were deputies in the Convention. Other members controlled the Commune and the Paris mob. Recently it had set up affiliates all over France. Its influence was enormous, and its power was growing week by week. During the debates that were held in its rooms the ideas were born which later became the rallying cry for the masses as far afield as the borders with Belgium and Germany in one direction, and the Mediterranean shores in the other.
