One Thing More Page 12

  He did not interrupt her, but she could feel his luminous eyes steady on her face. It was discomfiting, as if he could see the shame to come.

  The words were still almost impossibly difficult to say. ‘While he was with Amandine ... he died. We don’t know why. Don’t ask.’ Why should he? But she wanted to prevent him anyway. ‘I wished I could die too.’ She must go on, reach the point which mattered, which would explain to him why she cared about the King, and would do anything necessary to help Georges Coigny, even risking her own life in this scheme.

  He was still watching her, waiting.

  ‘At first I accepted it.’ She swallowed. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. ‘Then Thérèse, Madame’s laundress, told me that Jean-Pierre died because Amandine neglected him while she lay with her lover. If he had cried, then she had ignored him, left him to ...’ She still could not say the words—choke—suffocate. ‘I could not forgive her for that,’ she hurried on. ‘The thought was ... beyond bearing.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said softly. His whole manner had changed. There was a gentleness in him she had never seen before. He understood bereavement, that tearing loss which is like a pulling apart of the body. But could he understand her guilt, her hatred of Amandine? What would he think when she told him the rest? Contempt? It could hardly be anything like the contempt she felt for herself.

  But half the story made no sense.

  ‘Thérèse told me the lover was Georges Coigny.’

  ‘Amandine’s cousin?’ He was amazed, incredulity in his voice.

  ‘I didn’t know that then.’ What a weak excuse! She hastened past it. ‘I believed Thérèse. I hated them both. All I could think of was Jean-Pierre.’ Funny how sweet it was to say his name, and how it hurt. No one else spoke it, as if he had never existed. Amandine was afraid to, and the other did not know. ‘I thought of his death over and over,’ she continued. ‘It filled my mind, awake and asleep. I dreamed of holding him again ...’ The tears spilled down her cheeks and choked her into silence.

  She felt his hand close on hers. His grasp was gentle, but so strong she could not have pulled away even had she wanted to. The power of grief in him was as great as her own, binding them together. It was almost possible to believe he understood her guilt as well.

  Except that she had treated grief differently. She could not look at him, even in the shifting candle flame, as she went on.

  ‘I planned my revenge for it,’ she whispered. ‘To teach both of them.’ She gulped. ‘I waited until I knew when they would be together, then I repeated things Georges had said against the revolution. I told the National Guard, and I told them where to find him ... in Amandine’s house, so they would both be taken.’

  She heard the sharp intake of his breath, but he said nothing. His hand tightened over hers. It was surprising how warm his grip was, and still how gentle.

  ‘Then it was the beginning of September,’ she said the words softly. There was no need to explain. Everyone knew of the September Massacres. ‘People were trying to escape Paris. All kinds of people were hunted. We were terrified the Austrians were marching on the city. One of Madame’s lovers was wanted by the National Guard. She hid him in her own house.’ She could recall this oddly without pain, in spite of what had followed. There was a kind of freedom in thinking of Madame standing there talking to the Guardsmen, charming them out of searching.

  ‘What happened?’ St Felix prompted, his voice cutting across the pictures in her mind.

  ‘The Guard came,’ she replied. ‘They were rough and angry, wanting to arrest someone, full of resentment for Madame’s wealth and her bearing. She spoke to them as if they had been equals, as if they had the same wit and culture that she did.’ Her voice lifted with warmth. ‘She had been admired by all the finest men in Europe—philosophers and artists of an entire generation—and she looked the Guard straight in the face and smiled, flattered them so subtly they were not even aware of it. They simply believed she thought well of them, even liked them. And they did not search the house—not really.’

  ‘They didn’t find him?’ In spite of himself St Felix was drawn into caring.

  ‘No. He escaped.’ She still remembered the sense of victory.

  ‘And you?’

  The tears were warm on her cheeks. ‘I suddenly realised how beautiful it was to be brave, to save someone rather than destroy them. I wanted to be like her, with courage, charm, intelligence and honour, more than anything else in the world. And I hated what I had done.’ The fierceness of her honesty blazed through the bare words, her voice shaking. ‘I couldn’t take back what I’d told them about Georges. No one would have believed me. All I could do was warn them—both.’

  ‘And you did!’ His voice was husky, filled with some passion of his own.

  ‘Yes ... but of course I had to tell them why Georges was wanted—that it was because I had betrayed him.’ The word was terrible, but once it was said it did not need to be said again. Honesty was satisfied. She had been true to that self of the past which would never go away.

  St Felix was silent, waiting for her to go on.

  ‘I found Georges.’ It all came back so clearly. ‘It was the beginning of the September Massacres. We were parted in the crowds. Madame escaped, taking me with her. She went back to Switzerland, but perhaps you know that? It was in the carriage ride out of Paris that she told me Georges and Amandine were cousins and lifelong friends, not lovers. Thérèse invented that story out of jealousy. Georges ... Georges is very handsome, very charming.’ Why was that so difficult to say, even now? She knew it was not the shallow, easy thing she had thought it then.

  ‘And Therese wanted him destroyed because he rejected her?’ St Felix concluded softly.

  ‘Yes. And I accomplished it for her.’ She was choked with self-disgust. ‘So now Georges is running and hiding in an attic, cold and hungry, and he dare not come out except at night, because every National Guardsman knows his face and there is a price on his head for being anti-revolutionary ... and I put it there.’

  St Felix smiled with a flash of bitter irony. ‘He wants to save the King’s life, Célie. That is about as anti-revolutionary as one can be!’

  ‘He doesn’t want him back on the throne!’ she protested, jerking her head up and staring at him. ‘Any more than I do! He just sees that if we execute him all Europe will be against us, and all the good we have fought for, and so many have died for. It will be swept away by invading armies of foreigners, who are all royalist and will govern us in exactly the way we have just got rid of—only worse, because they won’t even be French!’

  ‘And you want to pay back your debt to Georges Coigny?’ he added.

  That stabbed with the sharpness of truth.

  ‘Yes.’ It needed no more than that one word. That was it all: to pay Georges for what she had done; to be like Madame de Staël, brave and compassionate and honest, not like Célie Laurent, who sought revenge for something which had not happened, and let her grief destroy her humanity, even her knowledge of what was right.

  ‘Now I understand,’ St Felix said quietly, and there was a passionate grief in his eyes that made her feel for a moment as if he truly did. They were not comfortable words he was saying, but a gulf had been bridged between them which she had thought could never be.

  ‘And I shall trust you from now on,’ he added. Then his tone changed. ‘Nevertheless, if we are to continue to any purpose we shall need more done than simply you and I can do in hardly more than two days.’

  ‘There is no one else!’ she pointed out.

  ‘There is Amandine,’ he answered.

  ‘You shouldn’t risk—’ she began.

  ‘There is risk to all of us,’ he cut across her, ‘but I had nothing of great danger in mind. Only you and Amandine will be allowed out of the house, if anyone is. Menou will probably let you queue for bread. Had you forgotten that? You cannot do it all.’

  She had forgotten, for a moment.

  ‘If Coigny attends t
o the two safe houses nearest here, which he can reach, and the men to mob the carriage,’ he went on, ‘that still leaves us to find a new house in the Faubourg St-Antoine. And we must check on the drivers of all three coaches from the safe houses onwards, and all the way either to the sea, or to the borders with Italy and Spain. And the captain of Bernave’s ship in Calais.’ He frowned. ‘I like that least.’

  ‘He did not trust the drivers,’ she explained. ‘They don’t know enough to betray us. It all rests on getting as far as the safe houses, and changing clothes. Do you have the passes for getting out of the city?’

  ‘Yes.’ He grimaced, moving his shoulders a little in memory of the bruising he had earned in the venture. Then his eyes widened suddenly. ‘No! I gave them to Bernave!’ His voice was sharp. ‘They’ll be among his papers!’

  ‘I’m going to search them now,’ she answered. ‘I’ll get them. But what about the man who is going to take the King’s place? Do you know who he is?’

  He looked blank. ‘No. Only Bernave knew that.’

  She said nothing. Her mind was racing to think of anything Bernave had said which would tell them who the man was or how they could find him. They had so little time. Where could they even look for anyone else? Who dare they trust?

  St Felix straightened up. ‘Tell me what you find,’ he said quietly. ‘Otherwise we shall have to ... to look for someone else.’ But he said it without hope.

  There was no more to add. Célie stood up. She was so tired her head throbbed and she was dizzy with it, but before Menou returned she must search Bernave’s desk and all his papers.

  She went out of the room without speaking again. After the candlelight in his room the darkness was total. She felt her way to the bottom of the stairs. Outside the rain was sporadic and the wind gusted roughly.

  She had no idea if anyone else was awake. She would make no noise going through Bernave’s papers, but she would have to have a light. What if someone else had the same idea, and found her here? She had no explanation. They would think she was looking for something to steal, or even worse, that she might have killed him for some reason, a clue to which was hidden in his room, and now she was searching for it. That was so far from the truth it was funny. And yet if she were caught, at best she would be thrown out, at worst handed over to Menou, for trial and execution.

  Who else would look in Bernave’s study in the middle of the night? Monsieur Lacoste, or Fernand, if they were afraid Bernave had royalist papers that would compromise his reputation, and thus his property, which of course would now come to Marie-Jeanne, little interested as she seemed. But they would be!

  Célie dared not risk being caught there. The cost would be too high. But who could she ask? Who would come at this hour?

  Madame Lacoste! She would see the necessity for searching through Bernave’s possessions before Menou did, even removing anything which was personal or intimate—private letters, references to anyone in the family—that could be exposed to the National Guard and the prurient eyes of the Commune.

  And there was always the simple matter of money. Who could say that the National Guard would leave every sou they found?

  Célie began to tiptoe up the stairs again, still in the dark.

  What if she knocked on the Lacostes’ bedroom door and Monsieur answered, not Madame? What would she tell him? Would he insist on coming with her?

  She stopped. Perhaps she should waken Marie-Jeanne instead? After all, Bernave had been her father, and it was her inheritance.

  But all her instincts drew her to Madame’s door. She could see in her mind’s eye Madame’s thin, gentle hands as she had touched Bernave’s body, the shadows on her face. She would protect Bernave’s reputation, some memory of dignity for him, as well as protect the house for all of them. And she had the mastery of herself not to betray them unwittingly when she faced Menou.

  Célie was shaking with cold. She began to climb again.

  She remembered also the emotion in Marie-Jeanne as she had spoken of her father. There was resentment there, no tenderness, no thought of past moments of love or the innocence of other times. She would have no respect to keep his secrets or guard his possessions from intrusion.

  Célie was at the top of the stairs, the bedroom doors ahead of her.

  There was no sound of breathing or movement, only the rain outside.

  She raised her hand to knock, her heart pounding.

  Before she touched it the door opened and Madame stood there, a candle in her hand. Her face was bruised with emotion, her long, black hair loose about her head and shoulders. She came out into the corridor and closed the door behind her before she spoke.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘In the morning Menou and his men will come back,’ Célie replied under her breath. ‘They will search Citizen Bernave’s room, the papers in his desk. We should do it first, to make sure there is nothing there we would prefer they did not find.’ Was that enough of an explanation? Would Madame suspect something more? The whole household knew Célie ran errands for Bernave. Would she guess his business was illegal, sufficient to get them all executed?

  What would Madame do?

  Nothing! Keep the house. If Bernave were prosecuted then the house was forfeit and they would all be penniless and on the street.

  ‘There might be business interests that are ... private,’ she added, her voice shaky.

  ‘You are right,’ Madame agreed. ‘I should have thought of it myself. Come, quickly, before we waken anyone else.’ She started down the stairs, holding the candle high, leaving Célie to follow. ‘Although I don’t know if anyone is really asleep tonight.’

  Soft-footed, they crept one behind the other down the last flight of stairs and along the hall, boards creaking, to Bernave’s door.

  ‘Wait,’ Madame ordered, giving the candle to Célie, then going in and closing the door behind her. She returned a moment later, ushering Célie inside. After a moment Célie realised that the curtains had been pulled across. It was a good thought. It should have occurred to her also that the light would have been seen outside. It would be as well if Menou’s men out in the street were given no cause to wonder what they were doing down here in the small hours of the morning. It would be very awkward to find an acceptable explanation. Anything they tried to say would only draw more suspicion.

  Instinctively Célie put the candle on the floor, so that the bulk of the desk hid the flame from the window. It would be awkward to look at papers bending or squatting down, but far safer. There would be no more than a glimmer to be seen from outside, and no shadows outlined or moving against the windows.

  Madame nodded briefly, understanding. She opened the first drawer in the desk and pulled it right out, laying it on the floor beside Célie. She lifted the contents out upside down, putting the sheets back in one by one as they had been read. From what Célie could see, looking at them from an angle, they appeared to be mostly accounts, receipts for wool, leather and silk, and bills of shipping.

  She hesitated. Was this information of any value to her? Were these the names or addresses she had to know, the routes of escape?

  Madame’s dark face was bent in concentration, scanning only the addresses and amounts, then placing the papers aside, reaching for the next one.

  Should Célie begin on a pile herself, or watch what Madame was doing? What did Madame Lacoste know of Bernave? Where did her loyalties lie? Had they changed now Bernave was dead and could not be hurt?

  But his money was now Marie-Jeanne’s, his continued business was the income for her family, and surely that would include Fernand’s parents, and such servants as they chose to keep?

  Madame’s face was fierce in concentration, her thoughts unreadable.

  Célie stood up, made her way to the desk and pulled out the next drawer. She returned to the light with it and started to go through the papers in the same way. They too were records of money, but far less interesting, mainly household accounts. The bottom bund
le was carefully in order, money matched with receipts. The next ones were less neatly kept and there was no cross-referencing. The top ones were without any order at all. It was a clear indication that Bernave had learned to trust both Célie and Amandine, and no longer bothered to keep track of their expenditure. Célie found herself caught unaware by a wave of sorrow so sharp the tears prickled in her eyes. That was ridiculous! She had known Bernave trusted her. Why should it suddenly hurt to see this very pedestrian evidence of it?

  Madame was staring at her.

  She blinked and turned away, looking down at the papers again and flicking them over, conscious of tears spilling and running down her cheeks.

  ‘It doesn’t look like much more than bills and receipts here,’ Célie whispered, sniffing and looking for a handkerchief. ‘What have you got?’ She would almost certainly not have another chance to see Bernave’s papers. It was a judgement between the necessity of knowing and the fear of Madame perceiving the reason behind it.

  ‘Just the routes in and out of Paris for cloth,’ Madame replied. ‘I can’t see anything in this that could cause trouble.’

  Célie held out her hand. ‘May I see?’ She was shaking very slightly, but she could not control it. Madame passed over a handful of papers.

  Célie took them and started to read as quickly as she could, her heart pounding. Which were the routes he would use? She knew the names of the three drivers: she should look for them. Presumably they would travel the same routes each time? Would there be bills for post houses, hostelries, changes of horses? But if there were, wouldn’t Menou see them and know just as much as she did?