One Thing More Read online

  She and Georges had never discussed the days before the Bastille. It was another world, gone for ever. Did he never speak of it because he had not been part of it, or because it did not matter now? Or because he was ashamed? Not only had the world changed, but, like so many others, he had also.

  Or had it mattered too much, and he could not bear to remember it, like a person who will not mention the name of someone dead whose loss they have never accepted?

  Or was it simply too dangerous because he knew she had been no part of it, and could not possibly share his feeling?

  Célie found she was walking faster. She told herself it was to keep warm. She knew it was because she was angry, and excluded, and the exclusion hurt.

  Georges woke early. He lay still for a few moments, then memory of Bernave’s death and possible treachery flooded back like an icy, drowning tide.

  He was shivering under the blankets. The mattress was hard and the room was freezing. There would be a skin of ice on the inside of the window.

  It was still dark, but he could hear wheels on the cobbles outside. It was time to get up, the longer before full daylight, the better. He must warn those whom Bernave might have betrayed, if they were not already arrested. He was no stranger to betrayal. He would not be here at all had not Célie thought him to blame for her baby’s death, and in revenge told the National Guard that he was anti-revolutionary.

  He had had no time to hate her for it, because he had known nothing until she had risked her own life to warn him. Then they had been parted by the hysterical crowds thronging the city just before the Massacres.

  When Amandine had explained to him, afterwards, about Jean-Pierre’s death, and Célie’s grief, the emotions were too overwhelming. It seemed pointless to cherish one more hated among so many. Too much was lost already, and he knew she regretted it more than he ever would, no matter how cold or hungry or cramped he was now. And there was a certain ironic justice in it. Who could be more anti-revolutionary than a man who planned to save the King’s life?

  He had told Célie he would check on the safe houses closest to him in St-Sulpice and St-Honoré. He had left the one in St-Antoine, the furthest, and in the worst district, to her.

  He threw the blankets off in one movement and felt the bitter air hit his body through his shirt. He hated lying in it, but he had no such luxury as a separate one for the night, and if he left it off he would be too cold to sleep at all.

  He lit the candle. There was a little water from last night and he washed his face. He shaved, cutting himself slightly. He should have been accustomed to using cold water by now. He had been running and hiding for nearly five months. It didn’t do to think back on servants with steaming jugs, fresh linen smelling of wind and sun, a clean, bright room overlooking the sweep of woods and fields—the home farm, a good horse to ride. Nothing from the past could be kept—not by him, not by anyone.

  He dressed in a woollen jerkin and trousers and a high-collared coat, the warmest things he had, ate half of the bread he had left and drank a little wine. He would have preferred coffee, but he had nothing with which to heat it.

  He would begin by going to see Maurice Doué. It was he who had found the men and women to surge forward out of the crowd and mob the King’s carriage on the way to the execution so as to mask the change from the King to the man who would take his place. He must warn him even before he checked on the safe houses. Doué would have to judge for himself whether he needed to replace the people with new ones, in case any of them were compromised. They should not be. He had told Bernave nothing except that they had been engaged.

  The question was, how much did St Felix know, and what might he have told Bernave? Perhaps new people would be safer, although safety was relative. No one could count on being free and alive next week, let alone next year.

  He blew out the candle and pinched the wick, then opened the door. It must have rained in the night; the stairs were slippery from the leak in the roof. He closed the door behind him, pulling it sharply to force it shut over the place where the wood was swollen, then crept down carefully.

  Outside there was a slight paling of coming daylight over to the east, but he could see little more than the outlines of the buildings against the clear sky, and he had to continue to pick his way. It was numbingly cold and the night’s ice was slick on the cobbles.

  He thought longingly of the south, of home as it had been only a few years ago. It was an illusion, of course, but his memory always created sun there, the long sweep of the earth, a gold in the air, men working in the fields and over the vines, faces streaked with sweat and dust.

  He had thought it an ideal life then, just as his father always had. He could see him in his mind’s eye, straight-backed, eyes narrowed against the sun and wind, stopping to talk to a worker here or there. He had cared for them, known them by name, worried about nurturing the land for them, as Georges had meant to do after him.

  Had it really been oppressive, too paternalistic, denying them a chance of equality? Had their polite smiles hidden hatred underneath, because the land was Coigny’s while they worked it and owned nothing? Was what he imagined to be benevolence really a mark for another kind of tyranny? Not even honest in the end, because it clothed itself in virtue.

  Georges had loved his father and admired him. Such a thought was itself a betrayal the old man would not have understood. It would have been better if he could have died before the mobs took the house and the land and destroyed so much, five generations of care. He could not forget the old man’s face when they had burned the barns and driven the horses out, terrified, plunging into the darkness, the flames roaring up behind them into the night sky. He would far rather have given them the whole thing, if only they would have cherished it as he had.

  But that was all gone as if it had been decades ago, not a mere eighteen months. There were other things to fight for, something that might still be saved, and no doubts clouded his mind about that.

  It took him nearly two hours of walking, standing, questioning and walking again before he discovered Doué across the river near the Place de la Bastille. By this time Georges was tired, cold and extremely hungry.

  They met in a farrier’s yard, in a small shed close to the forge, blessedly warm from the heat of the fires, but dim, and smelling of horse sweat and manure.

  Doué was another fugitive like himself, moving from attic to cellar through one alley or another, always one step ahead of pursuit or betrayal. As it was, when Georges found him, Doué was standing with a knife in his hand, ready to fight for survival, if need be. He relaxed only when Georges took off his hat and let the thin winter light show his face, dark eyes wide, cheeks thinner than before. Only his smile was the same, charming and a little wry.

  ‘Oh ... it’s you!’ Doué was surprised. He lowered the knife and held out a half-empty bottle of wine. It was a generous gesture.

  Georges took it, but drank only a couple of mouthfuls, feeling the liquid hit his throat with a glorious heat. There was however no time to waste, so he handed the bottle back with thanks. ‘Victor Bernave was killed last night.’ He watched Doué’s face tighten in the grey daylight that came in through the half-open doorway.

  Doué took the bottle and put it down. Wine was too precious to be drunk casually. He was obviously startled.

  ‘Accident?’ he asked, pushing his brown hair out of his eyes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not the guillotine?’ Doué made it more of a denial than a question. ‘You said Victor Bernave?’

  ‘Yes ... why? Didn’t you think he would be guillotined?’ Georges asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Unlikely. What for?’

  It was not the answer Georges was seeking. He did not bother to point out that little enough reason was needed these days. ‘Why unlikely?’ he pursued.

  ‘Too careful,’ Doué replied. His expression was impossible to read in the gloom. ‘Clever bastard. Why are you telling me?’

  There was no answer bu
t the truth.

  ‘Because he was the one behind the plan.’

  Doué’s eyes narrowed. ‘Bernave? Victor Bernave behind the plan to rescue the King?’

  The cold settled inside Georges’ stomach. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Not before, you damned well didn’t!’ Doué exploded. ‘God in heaven! How much did he know of us—of our men?’

  ‘Nothing from me, but from anyone else, I don’t know. Warn everyone—’

  ‘You’re damned right I will!’ Doué swore and clenched his fists in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What a bloody mess!’ he said furiously. ‘The Austrians and the Prussians are pouring over our borders. The Convention’s in chaos. The Commune is doing whatever Marat tells it to do, and the puritans are following Robespierre, God help them.’ His voice was thick with emotion and he seemed to find it difficult to catch his breath. ‘The few rational men in the middle are listening to Danton, for whatever that’s worth,’ he went on. ‘And the Girondins are quarrelling among each other like a bagful of cats—and about as much use. They couldn’t make a decision what to do about anything.’ His face was twisted with scorn. ‘A roomful of them couldn’t even agree with each other what day it is. And if Marat came in and said “Boo!” they’d all run away. Probably fall over each other and get wedged in the door on the way out.’

  Georges laughed at the vision, but with bitterness for the truth of it. He moved closer to the forge. He was getting warmer, and aware of how cold he had been.

  ‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘And we choose now to chop the King’s head off and provoke what’s left of Europe that isn’t at war with us already.’

  Doué stared at him, squinting a little. ‘So are we going on with our plan?’

  Georges had never doubted it. There was nowhere to go back to, for anyone. The past was broken with.

  ‘Yes. Find new men,’ he said aloud. ‘Warn the old ones. Maybe they should get out of Paris, if they can ... at least for a while.’

  ‘God help them, if Bernave was working for the Commune!’ Doué shook his head.

  ‘Was he?’ Georges asked.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,’ Doué answered, sounding surprised at himself. He moved a little closer to the wall that backed on to the forge fire. ‘Vadier told me some other news about the Commune, to do with Pache and the guns, and he said something about the Comte d’Artois and some scheme to rescue the King.’ He took a quick drink, upending the bottle. ‘I didn’t believe him. Told him it was nonsense. But he said he had it from an excellent source, spy among the royalists for the Commune. I asked him who. He told me he didn’t know. It could have been Bernave—or any of fifty others.’

  Georges said nothing. The fear was gripping tighter inside him, and he realised the feeling was hurt as well, which surprised him. He thought betrayal couldn’t hurt any more. But he had trusted Bernave. He was repelled by what Célie had told him of his abuse of St Felix, but he had assumed there must be some reason. He had still trusted Bernave’s honour, his sense of purpose. He had seemed to share Georges’ own vision of events so clearly, so very rationally. If he were too careful of his own skin to risk it when he could risk St Felix’s instead, or if some old enmity with the man had made him use this chance for revenge, then they were flaws in his character Georges despised. But they had not destroyed his fundamental belief in his political honesty.

  ‘Or he could be feeding the Commune a lot of rubbish,’ Doué went on, looking at Georges with one eyebrow raised. He rubbed his hands together in the cold. ‘After all, it wouldn’t matter to Artois! The Commune would guillotine him if they could catch him, regardless!’ He took another long pull at his bottle.

  ‘Can you find out?’ Georges asked.

  ‘If it was Bernave?’ Doué regarded him steadily. ‘Possibly, but not without raising suspicion, and certainly not before tomorrow night, which is about the last chance we have to change anything. Who killed him anyway?’

  ‘Don’t know. Fellow called Menou, from the National Guard, is trying to find out.’

  Doué jerked his head up, staring at Georges. ‘Who told you Bernave was dead?’

  ‘Better you don’t know,’ Georges replied softly, Célie’s passionate, stubborn face coming too easily to his mind. ‘Someone with enough courage and imagination to get out without being seen, and to help us go on with the plan. Can you get new people for the crowd?’

  ‘If I need to,’ Doué conceded. ‘Maybe I’ll replace one or two, as you say, or simply tell them they’re in danger and to get out of Paris, or at least out of wherever they are now.’ He pulled a face as if the previous mouthful of wine had been sour. ‘Most of them have nothing to lose. Whatever they had once they’ve lost now ... mostly home, family. You’ll not be betrayed by any of them.’

  Georges nodded. ‘Just thought you’d a right to know.’

  Doué lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug of acknowledgement. He held out the bottle.

  Georges took it, drank another short swig, then passed it back. ‘Thanks. I’ve got other errands. Goodbye.’

  ‘’Bye.’ Doué watched him leave.

  Georges hurried back westwards towards the Rue St-Honoré, passing almost within the shadow of the Louvre. He barely looked at its massive glory of stone now, with its ageless grace. A few years ago his family would have been welcome there, had they chosen to live in Paris rather than by the Loire. That was what he regretted, not the old life in Paris or Versailles. He had never cared for the balls and masques, the afternoons at the races or evenings of endless conversation. There had always been something alien about them. But the château overlooking the river, the evening light on the trees, the width of sky and the birdsong was home as nothing else could be. Its loss still hurt with a deep and abiding pain.

  Had it simply passed to someone else who would have loved it as his father had, nurtured it and understood its needs, perhaps he could have borne it. But they had had to stand by helplessly as ignorant men, full of hatred for possessions and those who held them, had broken and destroyed centuries of beauty. It was senseless. Nobody gained. And yet it was the tide which engulfed all France, and if it was not stemmed soon, nothing would be left. In a generation’s time, who would there be left who even remembered it, knew what certainty was, and untarnished dreams?

  He forced the ache from him. There was no time for grief. He turned right off along the Rue St-Honoré and up the Rue Cambon. The Place de la Révolution with its stark, jutting posts of the guillotine was behind him now, hidden by the buildings along the Rue de Rivoli, but he could never forget its presence. His mind’s eye saw it, whichever way he faced. This was a fashionable area, far from the slums and alleys where the dispossessed and the hunted could find some sanctuary. The National Guard would have plenty of informers here, but no one could search every alley, and on the day of the King’s execution the streets would be teeming with life, everyone packed together, craning forward, trying to see. Once the exchange was made they could flee down an alley, pursuit blocked by a quickly moved barrow. Their route was carefully planned, and as short as possible. Up here to the right was the stable yard where they could take the cart and hide it while the King slipped into the loft and changed into the merchant’s clothes, then came down again on the other side and continued on his way.

  It had been a long walk in the cold. Georges thought of Célie having to go all the way to the Faubourg St-Antoine. He could picture her in his mind, not her pale, beautiful hair, but her eyes—the anger, the courage and the guilt in them—and the soft generosity of her mouth. Her legs would ache far more than his by the time she got all the way to St-Antoine and back. And how would she explain her absence for such a time to Madame Lacoste?

  But he could not go. It was too far to risk in daylight. Too many people could recognise him from the posters around, naming him as an enemy of the revolution, or from a sketch in one of the pamphlets, like Père Duchesne or L’Ami du Peuple. He had seen one or two of them. Even in the rough strokes
of the pen, a few lines, they had caught his brow and the angles of his cheek and nose, the way his hair grew from his brow.

  He had kept mainly to the busy streets where there was plenty of traffic, hoping to be unnoticed, but now he must go up the Rue Cambon.

  All the usual shops were open, and there were queues of people for bread, coffee, candles, soap and sugar. Some stood silently, faces set hard in lines of despair, others were quarrelsome, ill-suppressed anger spilling over at the slightest provocation.

  He started up the street, walking at what he hoped was a normal pace, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. He intended looking for a man called Romeuf who owned the stable inherited from his brother who had been killed on the Austrian front. He had no love for the Girondins, despising their incompetence, their cowardice and the personal ambitions which tore them apart and rendered them totally ineffective in controlling the Convention. He had protested against Pache’s diversion of boots and guns from the army to the Commune, and incurred Marat’s personal wrath for his temerity. A considerable number of very ordinary people had taken up his cry. He was no lover of royalty, but he had a larger vision of patriotism than the gratification of a local hunger for power, whatever the cost. He had been close to his brother, and proud of him. He saw his life sacrificed senselessly, not through a military defeat which was inevitable, but because he was sent to fight and then robbed of the means to do it by the Paris Commune.

  Georges had never mentioned Romeuf to Bernave. He told no one anything they did not need to know. Still, could Bernave know Romeuf’s name and his connections to the royalist cause from some other source? Had he betrayed him to the Commune? Georges must at least warn him.

  He stepped off the kerb to avoid a group of women talking together, their voices raised, but he did not swing quite wide enough. He brushed past the basket of one of them, knocking it sideways.

  She swore at him.

  He turned to apologise. ‘I’m sorry, Citizeness.’