One Thing More Read online

  The rain splattered on the window, and in the hearth the logs settled lower. Briard leaned forward and put on another. Someone could inherit the claret, but he was damned if he was going to be cold.

  ‘I never thought there would be any other outcome,’ he said truthfully. ‘As soon as they put him on trial there was never any other end possible. I can remember that farce as if it were yesterday. The ever-virtuous little Robespierre with his clicking heels and his green spectacles. He claims to be France’s best hope for a pure future, you know—devoid of greed, corruption or immorality. And perhaps he is! Why do I hate him so much?’

  ‘God! I hope not!’ Bernave said passionately, his voice raw. ‘You hate him for his lies of the soul! Because he takes the dreams of decent men and twists them into the shapes of his own starved nightmares. Because he finds filthy the human loves and needs of ordinary men, and makes of them something to be despised.’ He sat absolutely still, but his voice was shaking, and there was a passionate misery in his face. ‘He’s read too much Rousseau. Lovers of the mind who never touch each other, but are in a perpetual anticipation, and never consummate anything, as if the reality would soil them.’ He tried to smile, and it was a grimace. ‘They are philosophers of the unfulfilled, and unfulfillable.’

  Briard stared into his glass as the fire crackled and burned up. It was already beginning to seem far away, the pedantic little figure who was obsessed with purity, who never forgot an insult, or forgave a favour.

  ‘Never do him a service, Bernave,’ he said aloud. ‘If you place him in your debt for anything he will never pardon you for it.’

  Bernave’s lips twisted back off his teeth. ‘I will never do him a favour, believe me! I would rather deal with Danton any day, or even Marat.’

  Briard was surprised. Marat’s savage face came too easily to his inner eye. ‘Would you? Would you really?’

  ‘I think Robespierre’s hatred for Marat will tear the Convention apart,’ Bernave replied quietly. ‘I pray I am wrong.’

  ‘Does Danton hate him?’ Briard was puzzled. ‘I didn’t see that. Danton does not seem to me like a man who hates.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Bernave sipped the burgundy, rolling it on his tongue. ‘But he will. Robespierre will give him cause.’

  ‘Any man who listens to Saint-Just—’

  Bernave jerked his scarred hand dismissively. ‘The man is mad! Madder even, than Hébert or Couthon. That we listen to him is surely the most terrible measure of what we have become. What more could anyone say to condemn us?’

  Suddenly Briard saw the tiredness naked in Bernave’s face, the weariness with struggle.

  ‘And the royalists have no sense of political reality,’ Bernave went on. ‘They either can’t or won’t see that the world has changed. They are still playing yesterday’s game—and by yesterday’s rules. The old bargains they could have made last year are gone. They always give too little—and too late.’ His voice was flat, contemptuous. ‘They don’t listen. They have seen the convulsions of the last three and a half years, and they’ve learned nothing. Even in the shadow of the guillotine, with Marat controlling the streets and the Convention, in all but name, they can’t see that we can never go back. The past is dead. The best we can do—all we can do—is save something for the future.’

  Briard felt a shiver of apprehension. He knew the answer, but he still had to ask. ‘You didn’t tell them ... anything?’

  ‘No I didn’t.’ There was no impatience in Bernave’s eyes, or his voice, no criticism for the question, even the bitterness was almost gone. ‘I have been around far too long to trust any courtier from Versailles to keep his word on anything. I’ve watched them as the storm gathered around them on every side, the mobs marched to the palace gates, and still they understood nothing. I had a dog with more sense!’ The regret and the loneliness in his face were as profound as another man’s tears would have been. ‘And more charity,’ he added softly. ‘And come to think of it, more perception of the absurd. It was a good dog.’

  Briard smiled, but he did not reply. There was no need. They sat in silence while the fire burned hot, and drank the rest of the burgundy. Then Bernave put on his coat again and went out into the rain. Everything had been said; to add anything more now would have been clumsy.

  Célie let herself in by the back door. Amandine was in the kitchen and there was fresh bread on the table. Steam from the soup pot smelled sharp and fragrant, probably because there was too little meat in it and too many herbs.

  Amandine swung round as soon as she heard the latch, the ladle in her hand, her eyes expectant. She tried not to look disappointed as she saw it was Célie and not St Felix. The colour warmed up her cheeks with guilt. They had shared many thoughts and feelings over the two years of their friendship, and ungraciousness was alien to her nature.

  ‘You must be frozen,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Take that wet cloak off and warm your feet. Would you like some soup? It’s hot.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Célie accepted, doing as she was bidden. Her boots were so soaked it was hard to undo the laces and the sodden hem of her skirt flapped around her ankles, cold as ice. Her fingers were numb and it was hard to hold anything. St Felix must be out again. She knew it was he whom Amandine had hoped for with such urgency.

  ‘Have you seen Georges?’ Amandine asked instead. She cared about him too, in a different way, but no less deeply. They were not only cousins but had been friends and allies since childhood. How often she lay awake and worried about him Célie could only guess. Amandine had twice offered to take him food herself, but Célie had pointed out the additional risk to Georges if more people were seen going up the narrow alley to the steps, carrying baskets. And above all, they could not afford to awaken the suspicion of Monsieur Lacoste, or of Fernand, both of whom were ardent supporters of the revolution, and would certainly see it as their duty to the state, and even more the safety of their own family, to turn in any wanted person.

  ‘In good spirits,’ Célie answered quietly, easing off her other boot. She could not say when she had seen him, nor why. It would worry Amandine unnecessarily, and there was nothing she could do to help. Her fear for St Felix was more than enough.

  Amandine looked at her doubtfully. She passed her the dish of hot soup, making sure she had hold of it in case her frozen fingers let it slip.

  ‘He is,’ Célie assured her, feeling the heat on her hands. She could say it with the ring of conviction because it was true. How Georges kept his courage, alone in that cold attic, she did not know. It was part of his nature, the unreachable confidence in him that nothing seemed to shake, as if he knew a secret no one else did. It was what both attracted her to him, and frightened her because it made him different, invulnerable. He needed her to bring him food, and news, but he would never need anyone, except perhaps Amandine, in an emotional way, and even that was because she was family. Theirs was one of those old ties of land and birth that no outsider could break into.

  Célie took a first mouthful of soup. It was very hot and she could taste the onion in it.

  The kitchen door opened and Madame Lacoste came in. She glanced at both of them. She must have known that Célie had been out because of her wet skirts and the boots on the floor, but whatever she thought, whether she knew it was some errand of Bernave’s or not, she refrained from commenting. She was a quiet woman, possessed of a quality of stillness which was an indication of a kind of peace of heart, a certainty about what she believed, and yet it was a thin covering for intense emotion. Célie had seen it in her face in repose sometimes, an overwhelming hunger so great it made her for an instant both frightening and beautiful. Célie had not been able to fathom her feelings for Bernave. She was always polite to him, but there was a tension in her as if that courtesy cost her some effort, and she did not often meet his eyes. Perhaps whatever he would have seen in them was too private, too dangerous to share. Her son was married to his daughter, and his family needed this home.

  Célie wonder
ed what Madame had been like as a young woman, what her life had held, above all what had drawn her to a dour man like Monsieur Lacoste. There was little wit or joy of life in him, but he had endless patience with the children, and Célie had seen a tenderness in him surprisingly often when he spoke to them. Fernand respected him, and Marie-Jeanne liked him better than she liked her own father.

  Madame flashed her a quick smile, then went across the kitchen to fetch clean linen from the press, and thanked Célie for it. She was almost to the hall when there was a noise outside the back door, it opened and Bernave came in. He slammed it behind him and stood on the stone floor, dripping water from his coat. He was obviously exhausted, his face gaunt in the candlelight, streaked with rain and almost colourless.

  He stamped his feet, shaking the water off himself.

  Amandine loathed him for what he was doing to St Felix, but her deepest instinct was to nurture, and before she had time for memory and emotion to curb her, she took a clean towel from the airing rack and went towards him.

  ‘You are perished, Citizen. Let me take your coat,’ she offered. ‘Dry yourself.’ She held out the towel. ‘I’ll get you some hot soup. Have you eaten today?’

  ‘No ... no time.’ He took the towel and let her remove the coat and hang it near the door where it could drip without shedding puddles over the whole kitchen.

  Célie glanced at Madame, and saw with surprise a look of alarm in her face. Was it concern, or fear? For whom? For Bernave or her own family?

  Bernave looked across and his eyes met Madame’s. They stared at each other for a matter of seconds, and then she broke the silence, speaking quite casually, her voice low.

  ‘You must be cold, Citizen. It is a pity your business requires you to be out on such a day.’

  ‘Lots of things are a pity, Citizeness,’ he replied, his eyes still unwavering on hers. ‘It does no good to think of them. We can only deal with what is.’

  ‘I know that!’ There was pain in her voice, raw as if some terrible wound still bled. Then an instant later she concealed it again. All emotion was gone, wiped away. ‘We are fortunate to have a roof over our heads, our food to eat,’ she observed. ‘It is more than many poor devils in Paris can say.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he nodded, still facing her.

  The seconds ticked by. She turned her head away and walked towards the door. ‘Good evening, Citizen,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope you are able to rest now,’ and she went out without glancing back.

  He stood motionless for several moments, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. It could have been profound emotion in him, or simply a bitter amusement because he knew what he was attempting to do, knew how desperately it mattered, not only for him but far more for all France. He knew how short time was, and she guessed nothing. For all she understood, he could have been about some money-making affair.

  Then he sighed and looked at Amandine.

  She smoothed the expression from her face also, erasing the anger.

  ‘Bring the soup to my study,’ he told her. ‘Célie, come with me.’ He walked out the way Madame had gone, and Célie drank another few mouthfuls from her bowl before following after him. She hated to leave it behind.

  In the study there were five candles burning, making the room soft and bright. Amandine had lit the stove over an hour ago, and it was warm. Bernave stood in front of it, the steam rising from his wet jacket and breeches.

  ‘Did you deliver my message?’

  ‘Yes, I saw them all,’ she answered.

  ‘Good.’ He stood wringing his frozen hands. They were white where the circulation had stopped, the heavy scars standing out livid. ‘How was Coigny last night?’

  She had told Amandine what she wanted to hear. She should tell Bernave the truth.

  ‘Cold and hungry,’ she answered. ‘But still determined.’

  He smiled, laughter in his clear eyes. ‘You admire him, don’t you, Célie?’ It was hardly a question.

  She resented the thought of admiring Georges. An instant denial came to her lips; then she realised Bernave would know it was a lie, and worse than that, he would know why. He seemed almost to look inside her.

  ‘I admire his conviction,’ she said defiantly. ‘And his intelligence.’

  Bernave’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh? What did he say?’

  Her answer was interrupted by Amandine knocking on the door, and at Bernave’s command, bringing in his meal. She set it on the desk. He thanked her. Discreetly she placed Célie’s soup bowl, refilled, nearer the corner. Then she took her leave, closing the door behind her with a snap.

  ‘Well?’ Bernave asked, going over to the desk and sitting down. He gestured towards the cup. ‘Don’t stand there! Finish your soup. Then go and do whatever it is you do in the house. And, Célie!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’ For a moment there was affection in his face, as if she might have been a friend.

  She stared back at him for a long minute, then finished the soup and left.

  She spent a little time working on the laundry, Marie-Jeanne helping her, taking the dry linen and clothes off the airing rack and folding them while Célie hung the fresh laundry in its place. It was wet and heavy and made her arms ache.

  ‘Sugar’s gone up again,’ Marie-Jeanne remarked, flicking a pillow cover to get the corners straight. ‘Three years ago it was twenty-four sous—today Citizeness Benoit told me they were asking fifty-eight! Can you believe that? She left it—of course.’ She winced in a grimace of pity, and reached for a sheet, matching corner to corner. ‘Her husband was injured in the storming of the Tuileries,’ she went on. ‘Shot in the shoulder, I think. He’d hardly recovered from that when he was called up to go and fight the Prussians. She heard just two weeks ago that he’s been killed. And her eldest child is sickly. Poor soul doesn’t know where to turn.’ She pulled out the sleeves of a jacket and straightened it on the rail. ‘I gave her a cupful, but I can’t go on doing that.’

  ‘We’ve got more than most people,’ Célie agreed. ‘Citizen Bernave sees to that.’

  Marie-Jeanne’s face was deliberately expressionless. ‘Yes. We’re fortunate.’ She shook a small shirt hard to take out the creases. Her fingers moved swiftly, gently over it, as if she were thinking of the child to whom it belonged.

  Célie turned away. She could not think of anything so small without a return of the pain. She could remember Jean-Pierre so sharply, the weight of him in her arms, the milky smell. There were times when it was unbearable. She forced herself to turn back to the laundry. Some of the sheets were wearing thin. She would have to start cutting them down for pillowcases, or if things were hard enough, for shirts and drawers.

  Marie-Jeanne was frowning, as though she felt the need to explain herself, but could find no words. She was unaware of the turmoil in Célie. She knew nothing of Jean-Pierre’s death, or Amandine and Georges, or the terrible thing Célie had done in her agony.

  She was examining a jerkin of Fernand’s when St Felix returned. He came in through the back door again, soaked to the skin, his face and arms covered with mud, his hat missing, his hair plastered to his head.

  ‘Oh, my heavens!’ Marie-Jeanne dropped the jerkin and rushed forward. ‘Whatever happened to you? You look awful! Where did he send you this time? No—don’t bother! Sit down before you fall!’

  Célie thought of the wound in his arm, but Bernave’s haunted face was too sharp in her mind for anger.

  Célie was profoundly grateful that Amandine was not in the kitchen. At least she might not see St Felix until they had got him warm and dry. The first thing was to see what damage there was beneath the dirt and sodden clothes. She went to get water and warm it, then a little vinegar to wash any cuts and abrasions, and wine for St Felix to drink. Marie-Jeanne disappeared to fetch him some clean clothes of Fernand’s from upstairs.

  Célie had the water warmed by the time Marie-Jeanne returned, followed by Madame Lacoste. Madame’s face was dark and fierce, her
brows drawn together, but she expressed no opinion. She could not know the urgency of the errand which had taken St Felix out. Whatever she thought of Bernave, she was too wise, or too careful to speak it aloud.

  ‘Here!’ she offered, taking the clothes from Marie-Jeanne and holding them out. Without looking at his face, she gestured to the blue jerkin and breeches St Felix had on. ‘Put that lot out of the door. Let the rain clean it!’

  He was too exhausted to argue, neither did he hesitate or look at her, but began to strip off. There were clean towels left where she had folded them only moments since.

  He stood in the middle of the floor, shuddering, his fair skin raised in goose bumps, his face haggard, cuts and bruises dark, blood seeping red through the linen bound around his arm. He looked beaten and frightened.

  Amandine came in. Her eyes went instantly to St Felix; she drew in her breath sharply, her hands clenching as if to stop herself from speaking.

  Very gently Célie unwound the bandage and looked at yesterday’s injury. It was angry and red, as if it had been caught by a new blow, but the bleeding was slight, and the edges of skin were still close together. The shock was that of revulsion and possibly terror more than physical damage. She could picture what must have happened. St Felix, for all the simple clothes he affected, might have seemed to someone like a gentleman. A joke would have got out of hand, became rough, and ended in a brawl. Ill feeling rose very quickly where there was drunkenness, and that strange turmoil of emotions that was in crowds these days. At last they had the power they had longed for, fought for, and yet they were still cold and hungry and just as helpless as before. The confusion turned to rage, but they did not know who or what to blame.

  But far more urgent in Célie’s mind than consideration of St Felix’s state was whether he had succeeded in whatever Bernave had sent him to do. With less than three days left, it had to concern the King’s escape, and that affected them all.

  ‘Did you see the man Citizen Bernave wanted?’ she asked him quietly as she rebandaged his arm with clean linen.