by Anne Perry
‘I’m ... sorry, Citizen ...’
‘Of course.’ He bowed his head very slightly. It was a gracious, old-fashioned gesture. ‘I understand. People die unexpectedly, and plans have to be changed.’ He put the coffee cup down on the table and turned to leave, his shoulders stooped in defeat.
His words rang in her head: ‘plans have to be changed.’ He was middle-aged, thick-set, not very tall. She had looked at his eyes rather than his nose or mouth, the heavy jaw. Could it be ...
‘Citizen Lejeune!’
He turned back slowly.
How much dare she risk? Georges had said he had found someone else, not excellent, but better than no one. She was staring at the perfect man now. Everything might depend on it. She gulped, her heart beating wildly. She recalled the name on the passes she had found in Bernave’s desk.
‘Citizen Bernave mentioned something to me. Could it be ...’ she could hardly get her breath, ‘for a Citizen Briard?’
They were all watching her, even Menou, but she saw no start of recognition, no flash of understanding.
Lejeune looked at her very steadily, his blue eyes clear and bright again. ‘Yes, Citizeness. I do believe that was the name. Does Citizen Briard still plan to leave the city, do you know?’
‘Yes,’ she said, more firmly than she had intended. ‘I ... believe so.’ She prayed he would understand why she was now equivocating. She dared not appear to know more about it than she could explain. They were all looking at her. She could feel them listening, weighing what she said and thinking what she meant.
‘You know who this Briard is?’ Fernand asked, frowning at her.
She was caught. If she said ‘no,’ she would appear to be lying, because she had just said she remembered. If she said ‘yes,’ one of them would ask her, and she knew nothing at all. If she invented it Madame, at least, would know, and be suspicious.
They were waiting, watching.
Menou was frowning now also.
‘I ... I heard Citizen Bernave speak of him,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t know what it was about, except it seemed important to him.’
‘But you just said he still plans to leave the city,’ Fernand pointed out. The suspicion was bright in his eyes.
Célie wished someone would rescue her, say something—anything! But Amandine was ashen-faced, too absorbed by grief even to think, let alone help. And St Felix was dead.
She must look to her own resources now. At least she had managed to effect Georges’ escape. Perhaps, when it no longer mattered at all, when her own fulfilment meant nothing, she had at last become as charming, as quick-witted and as brave as Madame de Staël.
She turned and smiled directly at Fernand. ‘Why would he change his plans, if he had somewhere to go? I only know that it mattered to Citizen Bernave, and he was a loyal man to all that the revolution stands for, for equality between people, for the freedom for all to pursue their talents and improve their lives, and for equal justice for everyone. He wanted to end hunger and fear and all unnecessary pain. Isn’t that right, Citizen Menou?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Menou agreed, the anxiety smoothing out his face. ‘He was a great man. If this Citizen Briard is a friend of his, and he wishes to help him, then we should honour his intention. You have acted well, Citizeness.’ There was a trace of admiration in Menou’s voice.
But then he could not possibly imagine the irony of the situation. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely, not meeting his eyes. She turned to Lejeune. ‘I shall find out more about the coat, and ... and Citizen Briard, and I shall let you know exactly what is needed. Where may I leave a message for you?’
‘I come and go,’ he replied. ‘I do not have a shop any more. There is a woman who sells coffee on the corner of the Rue Mazarine and the Rue Dauphine. If you leave word with her, she will tell me.’
‘I’ll do that.’
He smiled and turned again to leave.
‘Citizen!’ she said quickly.
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you ... for coming.’ How absurd. He was going to give his life for his people, not even at the guillotine, but to be torn apart by an enraged mob, and she said ‘thank you for coming’ as if he had performed no more than a courtesy. But what else could she say, in front of them all?
‘It was nothing,’ he said softly, and opened the door to the courtyard, and the rain. Menou followed a few moments after.
When he was gone they resumed their meal. Fernand was very quiet; he barely spoke to anyone. Monsieur Lacoste mentioned odd items of news he had heard, and what a relief it would be now that they were free to come and go as they pleased.
‘I’m sorry about St Felix,’ he added, and there was a sincerity in his voice Célie could not disbelieve.
No one answered.
Célie was aching to go to St Felix’s room and look for the passes. He had had them, and without them, even finding Briard, or Lejeune, whatever his name really was, did not help. She had watched Menou search for the knife through the entire house, and not find it. Most particularly she had followed every move in St Felix’s chest, under the bed, the shelf with the books. But Menou had not looked through the leaves of the books, where a pass could be hidden, but not a knife.
She glanced across the table at Amandine. She looked like a ghost, almost as if the spirit had gone from the body and there was nothing left but a shell animated by will, but without heart or hope. Célie longed to be able to comfort her, but what was there to say? Perhaps later, after tomorrow, when there was no more need for care or courage, she could tell her what Renoir had said of Bernave? Then she would understand why St Felix might have thrust the knife into Bernave’s back, in spite of the King, and all there was to lose. It was not noble, or wise, or brave ... but it was understandable. Amandine, of all people, was compassionate. She would be quick to understand, and to forgive.
Célie could not sit still any longer. She stood up, excused herself, and went upstairs to St Felix’s room. She closed the door and stood, trying to think, in which book he would have hidden the passes. He must have known how close Menou was to arresting him. That was why he had run. Had he had time to think about the passes? Had there been anything but terror in his mind? But Menou had been likely to search any time before that. He would have kept the passes somewhere safe right from the beginning.
She looked around at the bare room. It had held so little of the essence of the man. She remembered thinking that when Menou was here. Nothing personal except books.
There were only a dozen. She was on the second to last one and growing desperate when she heard a sound in the doorway and froze.
It was Amandine, her eyes accusing.
‘I’m looking for the passes!’ Célie whispered fiercely. ‘None of it’s any good without them!’
‘Oh ...’ Amandine’s shoulders relaxed. ‘I see. Have you found them?’
‘No!’ She shook the book she was holding. Nothing fell out. She put it back and took the last one, the translation of Dante, and fingered through it, then held it by the ends of the spine and shook it. Nothing. Despair welled up inside her. He must have taken them with him! He could not know he was going to be shot.
Reluctantly, tears stung in her eyes.
‘They aren’t here.’ She swallowed and put the book back, hiding her face for a moment. She wiped her hand across her cheeks. It would do Amandine no good to see her weep. ‘I’ll have to go and tell Georges. He might be able to do something. I don’t know what.’
‘I’ll tell Madame you’ve gone for something,’ Amandine said flatly. ‘Cheese ... I don’t know ...’
‘Thank you.’ Célie turned back to face Amandine, and tried to force herself to smile for a moment. ‘Thank you. I’ll even see if I can find some ... or soap ... or onions ... or anything!’
It had stopped raining. The sky was full of patches of blue, and shafts of sunlight lit the pavement and danced in the puddles. But there was still a hard edge to the wind, and there was every e
xcuse to hurry along the street, looking to neither right nor left. There was not enough of her face showing for anyone to have recognised Célie as she turned into an alley, unless they caught sight of her pale hair. It was far too cold to stand around, and in a short while the light would fade. Tomorrow morning the King would die. Tonight everyone had something to think about, to fear or to celebrate. The cafés were full. People talked, drank, made wild gestures and predictions, promises and threats. The smell of fear was in the air.
The sun was gold on the rooftops and the shadows black when Célie reached the alley. She went up the stairs, feeling her way in the gloom, and at the top she knocked sharply.
Georges opened the door, a candle burning so low on the table behind him she knew him only by the outline of his head.
‘Célie?’ his voice lifted in surprise, and both pleasure and alarm. ‘What is it?’ He stepped back for her to come into the room.
She closed the door behind her. ‘Briard came to the house this afternoon!’
He stopped, then turned slowly, eyes wide.
She watched him intently, the slightest change in expression or inclination of his body.
‘Just after you left,’ she went on. ‘He was very discreet, and it was ages before I realised who he was. But he really looked like the King. He would be perfect.’ She hesitated.
‘What?’ he demanded, his voice cracking with an emotion she could not read, but so intense it shook his body. She could not see his features in the dim light.
‘I liked him,’ she answered quietly. ‘It was stupid. I spoke with him for just a few moments, but it hurts to think what will happen to him. And of course he knows.’ She needed Georges to understand.
He said nothing. There was no possible answer.
‘But we don’t have the passes,’ she hurried on, before he could hope, crushed by having to tell him. ‘I searched St Felix’s room everywhere, even after Menou went, but they’re not there. He must have taken them with him in case they were found. We’ve got to have papers to get the King out of Paris, past the section leaders, if there are any still on duty. They’ll send men out in every direction after him.’
‘I know about the passes. St Felix took them when he ran. They were destroyed.’ Now his voice was different. There was excitement, even a rush of joy in it he could not conceal. ‘We might get by in the panic, but I doubt it,’ he went on, gathering emphasis. ‘Somebody’s head will have to fill the basket, and it will take a lot of them to replace the King’s. Everyone leaving Paris will be suspect, especially fat, elderly gentlemen who look ill and terrified.’
It seemed hopeless. Célie was cold in this grim room with the last of the winter daylight fading over the rooftops, and now barely reaching the windows. There was no sound up here but the creaking of the wood settling and a faint thread of the wind. They seemed removed from the bustle and the anger of the streets, but not from the desperation, and certainly not from the hunger.
‘Who can we get new papers from?’ she asked quietly. ‘Dare we forge them ourselves? Will they look that closely?’
His answer was immediately, and touched with a glint of humour. ‘Yes, they will. It’s the first thing they’d think of. They need to be real, and with a signature no one will argue with.’
‘Well, we can’t ask Robespierre!’ she said drily. ‘He’s suspicious of everyone. He’d want to know all the details, ask endless questions, and then refuse.’ She remembered the venomous little face and the consuming passion in it. ‘He’s obsessed with purifying everything. He’ll go on until there’s nobody left, unless someone stops him. He’s always talking about the “Virtue of the People,” but I sometimes wonder if he sees real people at all, if he knows they have feelings and can be hurt or deceived, and it matters!’ She felt a sudden anger so sharp it twisted inside her as she saw Monsieur Lacoste’s face in her mind’s eye, and his blind belief, all the hope he had invested in a man who did not see him, or anyone like him, as real, with flesh to bleed and dreams to be betrayed.
‘And don’t even think of asking Marat!’ she added. ‘All he can think of is blood—rivers of it—seas of it. The only people he cares about are the Communards—and all they can think of are their empty plates.’
‘Who can blame them, poor devils,’ Georges answered with sudden gentleness. ‘It has to be Danton. He is still the sanest, the most like an ordinary man. He’s reachable, and that makes the difference. And he’s a patriot, not in love with dreams, but with reality. That’s what’s wrong with all the rest of them.’ He gestured to the chair and she sat down on it. He folded up on the mattress opposite her. A sharp twist of humour touched his lips. ‘Have you read any of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Célie?’
She hesitated. Should she be honest? Her parents had quoted him as if he were a prophet of the new light, and she had turned from him in disgust, holding his endless ideas responsible for their obsessions. Even though Madame de Staël and her friends had spoken of him often, with respect, it had not softened her resolve never to read him herself.
She knew they all praised the breadth, sensitivity and originality of his ideas. Even those who did not agree were thoroughly familiar with his work. Half the dreams of the revolution had been fired by idealism such as his, the belief in a better world founded on the innately noble nature of man, if educated rightly and freed from oppression and injustice. She had heard that Robespierre admired him passionately, as had so many of the leading revolutionaries, except Danton.
Georges would not admire her childish stubbornness, and his disapproval would wrench inside her like a sprain. She had proved her courage, loyalty, imagination, quickness of thought. But it did not free her from the pain of caring, to which she could see no end. The pain would only become deeper if he found her ignorant or silly, or knew that she was trying too hard.
‘You haven’t.’ His voice cut across her thoughts.
The colour burned up her face. She should have been honest. She was furious with herself. How stupid!
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just thinking of what I had heard people say of him. I suppose it is something I should read, in order to understand what is happening, but I always thought I would dislike it.’
‘I’m sure you would!’ he said with a sudden grin, laughter flaring up in his eyes in desperate relief for an instant of triviality far from the real.
‘You have far too much knowledge of life to be taken in by people who wander around falling in love with each other’s spirits,’ he went on, his voice edged with derision. ‘Weeping and arguing and sympathising together, but never reaching anything so natural as touching one another.’
That was not what she thought of as falling in love. Love was a joy that welled up uncontrollably, making your heart almost choke you, the thought of it unreturned was another name for hell. It was what gave you courage to do the impossible, lit the most pedestrian things with magic, and made another person so precious the thought of them in danger made you weak with terror. Above all it was touching, even if only in dreams.
But she did not want him to know that!
He was watching her face. ‘Everyone in his works is discontented, without knowing why,’ he continued, his voice charged with amazement and derision. ‘They are all starving in the soul, but no one has the wit or the physical instinct to know that love, with its power and laughter, its pain and sweetness—and absurdity—is the answer.’
It was the first time she had heard him speak of love. She was afraid of what he might say, but she could not let go. She needed to know—whatever it was. The impression she had of Rousseau was of an emotion she did not understand, and certainly could not share.
‘I thought they were all in love?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice level, the urgency and the emotion out of her eyes.
He dismissed it with a jerk of his hand, contemptuously. ‘Not real love, not love that can give and take, and find any fulfilment, only anguish that is always travelling but never arrives.’ He was
still watching her just as intently. ‘Anyway, every time they are on the brink of actually doing anything, they stop and philosophise for pages!’
‘Isn’t that because he’s a philosopher?’ she asked, feeling a warmth begin to open up inside her. She recalled an ardent admirer in Madame’s salon talking about the purity of Rousseau’s characters, their nobility and chastity. Did Georges see that in them? Was that what he admired?
‘In treatises, yes,’ he answered, meeting her eyes. ‘Not in life. What is the use of knowing everything, if you never actually practise it? They are forever cooking and never eating.’
‘Oh ... I see.’
‘Do you?’ He touched her lightly, so lightly she barely felt more than the brush of his hand on her arm. ‘You would if you read Rousseau.’ His voice was soft. ‘But please don’t waste your time.’
Her mind raced away with thoughts she dared not entertain, imagination not of Rousseau’s dreamers’ love, but of Georges,’ urgent, intimate and real.
There was no time for it. It would be too precious, too consuming. She forced it away.
‘Can we really ask Danton?’ She brought them back to the immediacy of the present. They had barely twelve hours, and Georges was right: without passes they could not succeed. Briard would have sacrificed himself for nothing. ‘I suppose there’s no way without telling him the truth?’ she asked.
He looked at her steadily, weighing his answer.
‘None at all,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no one else. And he’ll guess anyway. Wiser not to look as if we are trying to deceive him. I’ll go ... now.’ He straightened up.
‘No!’ she said sharply, instinctively reaching out and grasping his wrist. ‘Better I go. Danton’ll know who you are. You could even be stopped before you’ve had a chance to tell him the whole story ... the reasons ... the truth.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
She was standing beside him now.
