For the King (20 page)

Old Miquel smiled at Roch. “I even read your name a couple o’ times. Made me feel all funny, proud and sad at the same time. Then at night after dinner the guards herd us, there’s a roll call and I am locked back in my cell.”

“Did they put you in a decent place at last?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite all right. A little chamber, up in the tower. It used to be occupied by Madame Elisabeth, the
ci-devant
King’s sister, before she was guillotined too, poor thing. Too many people died then, for sure.” Old Miquel shook his head pensively. “See, Roch, I sleep in the bedroom of a princess now. Never thought that’d happen to me. And then, because it used to be Madame Elisabeth’s cell, all the Chouans in the Temple come and visit. The turnkey charges them a fee to bring them up there. So they kneel, and say prayers for the repose of her soul, and the souls of the royal family. A
pilgrimage
, they call it. So now I’m used to people kissing the filth on the floor at the foot of my cot, and I move out of the way. I don’t agree with their ideas, but that’s no reason to bother them, is it? Then, when I see they’re done with their prayers, I talk to them for a bit.”

“Really, Father? And they talk to you?”

Old Miquel shrugged. “Oh, yes, they’re even quite nice. Normally I wouldn’t make friends with
ci-devant
aristocrats, but in jail you can’t be too fussy about the company you keep. So I’ve discovered we’ve something in common: we all hate Bonaparte, and here the differences between us don’t matter anymore. See, once in a while the guards call someone to take him before one of those Military Commissions, and everyone knows what it means. Sometimes we read his name in the papers the next day, sometimes not even that. That can happen to any of us, any day, so that makes it easy to understand one another.”

Roch closed his eyes, then, very fast, reopened them. The scene of Chevalier’s execution had come to mind again with fresh intensity.

“I read in the papers about those Jacobins who got deported,” continued Old Miquel. “And they say it’s only the beginning. So I reckon that, even though I missed the first ship, someone’d make sure I got on the next one, or the one after that.”

Old Miquel, from prison, had a perfectly clear understanding of his own situation. Roch, dumbfounded, had not expected this. He was torn between the desire to confide all he knew about Fouché’s threat and the fear to confirm his father’s all too perceptive assumptions.

“It’s not for me to decide, of course,” continued Old Miquel, “but if I’d my say, I’d much rather die cleanly with my chest full of lead after a Military Commission than be sent to rot alive across the oceans, in a place that’s too hot for people, and full of vermin and mosquitoes.”

Roch was still uncertain of what to reveal, but was spared that decision, for Old Miquel hastened to say: “Enough talk about me. Tell me about you and that investigation of yours.”

“I am sure the Jacobins are innocent. So far, I have three suspects, all Chouans. And Fouché sent me information leading to the identification of two of them.”

“Nothing about the third man?” mused Old Miquel. “Yet I bet Fouché knows about that one just as well. Maybe he’s protecting him. Maybe he’s made an alliance with some Chouans against Bonaparte.”

Roch stared at Old Miquel. “The Chouans wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They hate him. Remember, Father, he voted in favor of the King’s execution in ’93.”

“Oh, like I told you, I’ve talked quite a bit with the Royalists here. Now I understand better what they think of many things and many people, including Fouché. They hate him all right, and they’ll never forgive him for voting to kill Louis XVI, but they’d be mighty happy if he’d help them get rid of Bonaparte. Then, with Bonaparte dead, they’d turn on Fouché. Many people here talk of having him drawn and quartered, which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad idea for a man like that.”

“I must have been very naïve, Father. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Neither has Fouché, I bet. He’s clever, but less than he thinks. So yes, Roch, he could’ve turned around and made friends with some of the Chouans, without realizing the risks to his precious person.”

“So you think Fouché might be betraying Bonaparte? Indeed I have heard that Bonaparte does not trust him at all.”

Old Miquel nodded. “Our glorious General may be right about that. Just make sure you don’t trust Fouché either. I’ve always thought you were too keen on the man. He doesn’t care about you, or Bonaparte, or anyone else. He only cares about himself, about his position, his safety, his money. Help him, and he’ll be your friend. Until he betrays you, that is.”

“I am afraid you are right. I didn’t want to believe that of him before.”

“Be careful, that’s all. Now tell me about the Barrel. Everything’s all right there?”

“Alexandrine has offered to keep it open in your absence. I thought you would like that, and I accepted.”

“Well, of course I like that. That’s kind of Alexandrine, but then she’s always kind. And old Crow likes her. He’ll feel a bit lonesome, after all these years we spent together.”

Roch looked away. “Crow died three days ago, Father. Quietly, at Alexandrine’s feet.”

Old Miquel opened his mouth without uttering any sound. At last he pulled a red and white handkerchief from his pocket. “Poor Crow,” he said, noisily blowing his nose. “Changes aren’t easy, for old dogs or for old men. At least Alexandrine was there with him. She must’ve petted him when he went away. Be sure to thank her.”

“I already did, Father.”

Old Miquel tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked into Roch’s eyes. “I mean thank her
properly
, from the heart. I’ve noticed that you’re not always so very pleasant with her.”

Roch flushed. “I regret it now. I am beginning to appreciate her as she deserves.”

“Good. And you should thank her on your own account too,” added Old Miquel. “It’s better for you if the Barrel remains open, because you’ll get a better price for it when you sell it.”

Roch looked intently at Old Miquel. “It belongs to
you
. Alexandrine is keeping it open for you, until your return.”

Roch’s words sounded hollow to his own ears. His father simply gazed at the darkening sky outside the barred window.

“Well, Roch, you should know that I put my affairs in order a few months ago. Like I knew what was coming. Actually it wasn’t so hard to guess. Mignon, my attorney, will give you all the details, but everything goes to you, of course.”

Roch felt a lump in his throat. “Please don’t talk like this, Father.”

Old Miquel seemed to hesitate. “I don’t like it either, Roch, but we need to talk now, because I don’t know if we’ll get another chance. There’s something I have to tell you. Yesterday afternoon the clerk told me that I’d be taken to a Military Commission at nine o’clock that evening and—”

“The bastards!” Roch hit the table with his closed fist. “If—”

“Don’t let your anger govern you. That’s no good.” Old Miquel patted Roch’s arm. “Anyway, I reckoned I’d have a close look at the guns of the firing squad in a matter of hours. But then at night they locked me in my cell as usual, and they told me someone’d given other orders to the contrary. Still, in the meantime, I tidied up my mind, so to speak. The good thing’s that I’m leaving everything in order. I owe no money, and if I’ve ever harmed anyone, it was done without malice, and I’d beg their forgiveness if I could. The only thing that bothered me, and it bothered me quite a bit, was about you. I know it’d cause you a great deal of pain.”

“They made you go through that agony!” muttered Roch between his teeth. “I failed you. I should have prevented that.”

“You didn’t fail me, and it was no agony.”

Roch bit his closed fist. “I too have something to tell you, Father. I was here, at the Temple, last night. To take Chevalier to a Military Commission. I attended his execution.”

“Yes, I’d heard he’d been taken to a Military Commission. Only I didn’t know it was by you.”

“And on the same day, the clerk here tells you that the same is going to happen to you. And then someone orders otherwise. Then today they allow me to see you. All in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Wait a moment, Roch. When you say
they
, who’s that?”

“If only I knew, Father. It was the Prefect who told me to attend Chevalier’s execution. When I think of it now, I believe he was taunting me. He must have known that you were scheduled to appear before the Military Commission at the same time as Chevalier. The bastard wanted me to witness your execution.” Roch paused. He had never understood the true intensity of the Prefect’s ill will. “But then Fouché must have given orders to save you. And it was Fouché too who allowed me to visit you today.”

Old Miquel frowned. “So I’d owe Fouché my life? It doesn’t sound right. Why’d he do that for me, or for you?”

“It’s not all, Father. There is no point in hiding it since you have guessed anyway. He told me that he would have you deported if I did not arrest those two Chouans by the end of January.”

Old Miquel shook his head pensively. “Aye, that’s more like Fouché. Now I think I understand what he was doing. He ordered my execution, knowing that the Prefect’d tell you to attend, and then he gave orders to the contrary at the last minute. Just to rattle you. If I’d been shot last night, he’d have lost all power over you. With this threat of shipping me to the Colonies, he can make you do his bidding. I told you, Roch, beware of that bastard.”

Old Miquel seemed lost in his thoughts for a while. Then he shook himself and grasped Roch’s arm. “I want you to remember something. For my sake. Whatever happens to me, I don’t want you blaming yourself for it. It’s my own damn fault if I talked so freely about Bonaparte and Fouché. You warned me to be careful, remember, and I wouldn’t listen to you. I don’t regret it on my own account, because I had a good life, and I am old enough to go. But I should’ve thought more of you. You’re my only child now, and I couldn’t have wished for a better son. D’you hear me, Roch? I want you to promise you’ll remember that. Say it.”

Roch concentrated on fighting the sobs that were choking him. He swallowed hard before he could utter the words. “I promise, Father. I will always remember it.”

“Good. I believe you, and I can rest easy now. I think it’s time for us to say good-bye.”

Roch knelt on the floor and removed his hat. “Father, please give me your blessing.”

Old Miquel rose and extended both of his hands over his son’s bowed head. He said the ritual words:

Old Miquel raised his son to embrace him. Then he walked to the door and knocked to call the guard. He left the little room without looking back.

30

R
och’s hate for Dubois had taken a new turn, personal, vivid. He felt the same kind of dislike, to a lesser degree, for the rest of his colleagues. They seemed to understand it and avoided his eye whenever they met him in the corridors of the Prefecture. He limited his direct contacts to his Inspectors, who kept searching all of Paris for Saint-Régent and Carbon, still without success.

Yet when he crossed the path of Piis, the Secretary General, on the morning of the 15th of January, he was surprised to see a smile parting the man’s thick lips.

“Ah, Miquel,” exclaimed Piis. “Am I glad to see you! I have a little something here on which I would like to have your opinion.”

Piis, without waiting for a response, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. Roch cringed. The fact that Piis again spoke to him was probably a good omen, but he had no desire to listen once more to the readings of his colleague’s poetry.

Of course, Roch had studied the classics, Virgil, Ovid and Horace, as well as French poetry, at Monsieur Veau’s Academy for Boys. It was not a fond memory. He could barely read and write when he had arrived at the Academy, and he had been three years older than any other pupil in his class. During the first six months, he had been flogged without fail every Saturday for his ignorance and unruliness until the Latin teacher took pity on him and tutored him, free of charge, at night. Thanks to that kind soul, Roch caught up with the boys of his age, and was on his way to graduate with honors if the Academy had not abruptly closed due to the emigration of its proprietor. Now poetic endeavors of any kind held little interest for him, and he was not in any mood to humor his colleague.

“Thank you, Piis,” he said, “but perhaps you should read it to Bertrand. He used to own a bookshop.”

“Bertrand? That mindless brute? All you have to do is look at that snout of his to tell that he doesn’t understand the first thing about poetry. No, I want
your
opinion. A good-looking young fellow like you must be in love.”

Roch was not sorry to disappoint his colleague and remained silent.

“So?” asked Piis with some impatience. “Are you?”

“A good-looking fellow? You flatter me, Piis. I hardly know what to say.”

Piis rolled his eyes and let out a groan. “No, Miquel, you know perfectly well what I mean. Are you
in love
?”

“I generally reserve the avowal of my feelings for the lady who inspires them.”

“Ah! We have a lady here! And even if you are not in love, it may be close enough.” Piis lowered his voice. “You see, Miquel, in my case, there’s a rather delicate situation. I have declared my flame to my lady, but she won’t have anything to do with me. She says she will never like me because I work at the Prefecture.”

“Perhaps she worries that you might take advantage of your functions to read her police file.” Roch arched his eyebrow. “Did you?”

Piis puffed with indignation. “Of course not! No man of honor would read his beloved’s police file. But this little sonnet should mollify her. Now listen.”