For the King (32 page)

Roch shrugged. “Oh, yes, for all the good that will do.”

As he feared, the questioning of Mademoiselle de Cicé threw little light on the investigation. She persisted in saying nothing about Carbon, Saint-Régent or Limoëlan, beyond the fact that the latter was not a relative of hers.

Mother Duquesne and the Sisters of the Convent of Saint-Michel had been questioned by Bertrand. The nuns still denied any knowledge of Carbon’s involvement in the Rue Nicaise attack. One of them, Sister Ursule, did remember Mother Duquesne confiding that the short man’s presence “was a great inconvenience, and worried her to no end.” As for Mother Duquesne herself, she insisted that it was her good friend Mademoiselle de Cicé who had brought Francis to the Convent. The Prefect decided to question both women together.

Roch felt some amusement when he saw through the peepholes the two suspects facing each other. They were both past fifty and dressed in similar black gowns, but Mother Duquesne’s full face, with its square jaw, contrasted with the wan, emaciated cheeks of Mademoiselle de Cicé. Mother Duquesne, her eyes downcast, maintained that her friend was the one who had asked her to give Francis shelter at the Convent. The old maid put her hand to her breast in indignation and lost her usual pallor as she vehemently denied the accusation.

Roch tended to believe Mademoiselle de Cicé. He had noticed since their first meeting that she never seemed to lie outright. She only refused to answer questions when she did not want to tell the truth. That meant that Mother Duquesne was, at the risk of compromising an old friend, still protecting the
lady
who had actually brought Carbon to the convent. That unknown woman must be either very dear to the Prioress, or a very important cog in the Rue Nicaise plot. Or both.

48

T
his was the 30th of Nivose, the last day of a month that had seemed longer than any other in the course of Roch’s life. Now Nivose, the month of the snows, was ending to give way to Pluviose, the month of the rains.

Roch left his office and climbed down the rickety stairs. He was ready to go home when he caught sight from afar of the giant frame of Division Chief Bertrand in the corridor. This was enough to make the short hairs on the back of Roch’s nape stand on end. Bertrand had noticed Roch as well, for he stopped walking. Roch pressed on. But Bertrand was blocking the passage.

“In a hurry, Miquel? Not in the mood for a friendly chat tonight?”

Roch had never been so physically close to Bertrand, and he could now smell the odor of stale sweat that emanated from the man’s armpits. He grunted.

Bertrand was grinning. “No wonder, you must be worn out by all your worries. I heard that some of the Jacobin deportees have left Bicêtre already. Headed for an undisclosed port in the West, where they will board their ship to the Colonies. Well, the first batch of deportees, that is, because more are to follow. In a week or two all those scoundrels will be gone. Who knows, the Prefect, in his goodness, might even let you say good-bye to your father. That way you will be able to see the old man walk away, chained to his friends.”

Roch had to close his eyes for a moment. He remembered his father’s advice.
Don’t let your anger govern you.
Bertrand was only trying to provoke him; he was looking for a pretext to file a complaint with the Prefect.

“Also,” continued Bertrand, “Metge, you know, the Jacobin pamphleteer, is going to be tried by a Military Commission tonight. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? With three other rascals of the same ilk. All had conspired to assassinate the First Consul.”

Indeed Roch had not heard of it yet. He had read some of Metge’s writings, though. They were inflammatory. His last pamphlet,
The Turk and the Military Man
, was nothing but a thinly veiled invitation to assassinate Bonaparte. These days expressing such opinions had become a capital crime.

“Those Military Commissions are just the thing,” added Bertrand. “Fast, efficient, clean, no appeals, no needless fuss. That’s what I was telling the Prefect this afternoon. The government needs to empty the prisons, starting with the Temple, of all that vermin crawling in there. Don’t you agree, Miquel?”

Roch struggled to control his breathing. The occasion did not call for rash action. He looked carefully at Bertrand. The beast must be fifty pounds heavier than himself, maybe more, and a good six inches taller. His hands were the size and color of the slabs of beef one saw hanging from hooks in butcher shops. But the left foot was stiffly turned outwards, and the left shoulder was shorter than the other. This was the weak side.

Roch took a step back for momentum, and also to trick the other man. Bertrand grinned more broadly. The fool, as expected, had interpreted the move as a retreat. All of a sudden, Roch plunged headlong into the left side of Bertrand’s chest, just below the breast. Bertrand, caught unaware, gave a retching cry, staggered and fell heavily onto his rump.

Roch watched with some pleasure his colleague struggle to get back to his feet. “My poor Bertrand,” he said after a minute, “these corridors, though not waxed very often, can be slippery. You should be more careful, especially with your deformity. There, let me help you.”

He offered a hand, but Bertrand, still on the floor, bellowed and pushed him away. Roch shrugged. “What’s this? Who’s not in the mood for a friendly chat now? Oh, fine with me. Have a good night.” He stepped over Bertrand’s splayed legs and left the Prefecture.

Outside, the crisp, cold night was soothing. Roch was pleased, very pleased with his encounter with Bertrand. It had been long overdue. The fine thing about it was that the man liked to boast of his strength, and would be too vain to bring the incident to the Prefect’s attention. Besides, Roch felt sure that the blow, though it must have broken a couple of ribs, had left no trace. It would still hurt for a few weeks.

Yet in one regard, Bertrand had succeeded. He had brought to the fore Roch’s anxiety about his father. What was the old man doing at this very moment, in the tower of the Temple? He must be done with dinner. Was he reading the papers, talking politics with the Royalists before being locked in his cell for the night? More importantly, had Fouché made a decision as to his fate?

49

R
och would have given anything for the comfort of a talk in the Roman language with his father. Of course, Alexandrine too could give him the pleasure of speaking their native tongue. She was probably at the Mighty Barrel now. And, in spite of his father’s admonition, he had never called on her to thank her
properly
.

Truth be told, he had never paid Alexandrine much attention. Yet his attitude was inexcusable now that she minded the Mighty Barrel. He realized that he had always been angry with her because of things for which, in all fairness, she could not be blamed. He remembered resenting her intensely after the death of his sister. The two girls were about the same age, and little Anna Miquel, whom Roch loved, had died, while Alexandrine had lived. And more recently he had disliked Alexandrine because of the trouble her father’s so-called wine had caused. That was not her fault either. Most of all, he had resented the fact that Old Miquel wanted them to marry, while he was enthralled by Blanche. So he had scowled at Alexandrine at almost every opportunity. If only as a friend of many years, she deserved better.

Before Roch realized it, his steps had taken him to the Mighty Barrel. Alexandrine smiled when she saw him push open the front door, but he detected a certain sadness in her greeting. The tavern was busy at this time of the night, but she told the headwaiter to mind the common room and led Roch to Old Miquel’s private dining parlor in the back. Steam and the smell of vegetable soup filled the room. In the hearth, flames licked the bottom of a copper kettle resting on a tripod.

“Have you any news of your father?” asked Alexandrine as soon as she closed the door behind them.

Roch sat wearily in a chair by the table and rubbed his eyes. “I was allowed to visit him once in the Temple. He is doing well, much better than I had thought. He has lost none of his spirit.”

Alexandrine put a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. She sat in a chair next to Roch. “I am not surprised. It would take more than jail to break him down.”

“There is something else,” he continued, “something that makes me very angry. The night before I had permission to visit him, he was told that he would be tried before a Military Commission. You know what that would have meant.”

Alexandrine gasped. “But your father cannot be tried for anything, Roch. He didn’t do anything wrong. He must have been very upset.”

Roch looked at the copy of the
Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen
that his father had proudly hung on the wall. What did those words mean now? He turned his eye to the low fire in the hearth. He remembered the goose roasting on a spit on the 3rd of Nivose, when he, Alexandrine and their respective fathers had been gathered in this room for the Christmas Eve
réveillon
, moments before the attack. Now Old Miquel might never return to the Mighty Barrel.

Roch sighed. “No, Alexandrine, Father was not even upset. He seemed resigned to the worst, without being despondent. The prospect of the firing squad only worried him because of the pain it would cause me. You are right, he is strong.” Roch shook his head. “I was hoping that the discovery of the true culprits would help Father and his friends. I was wrong, I was naïve. And some of the assassins are still at large. I have failed to arrest them all. Father is still threatened with deportation, or worse. Everything I have done, or tried to do so far, has been useless, worthless.”

Alexandrine put her hand on Roch’s arm. “But nothing, at least nothing that can’t be mended, has happened to him yet. There is hope. I think you are too harsh on yourself. You feel disheartened now because you are tired. You have been working so hard. Of course some good will come of your efforts, very soon. I am sure that your father will be released. Your superiors owe it to you. They have to appreciate your merits, and the results of your work too.”

Roch shrugged at the thought of the Prefect’s appreciation of his merits. What was still worse than the Prefect’s animosity, open or disguised, was Fouché’s duplicity.

“No, Alexandrine, things don’t work in this manner. My superiors don’t like me at all. Neither do many of my colleagues. Some have been jealous of my promotion, some dislike me because of Father and his opinions, and some . . . well, some simply don’t find me very likable.”

The sad smile returned to Alexandrine’s lips. “Perhaps you pay more attention to those who dislike you than to those who like you.”

He could not help smiling back. “How true.” He reached for her hand. “So what on earth do you find to like in me, Alexandrine?”

Now Alexandrine’s smile had turned mischievous. “A pointed question, isn’t it? But I will try my best to answer, since you seem to count me among those who like you.”

He bit his lip. “I am sorry. I must sound abominably conceited.”

“No, please don’t apologize. I take your candor as a token of friendship. And you are right, I do like you. For one thing, I have known you since I was four years old, which is almost as far back as I can remember. I have never had any brother, and when I was a little girl I admired you because you were out in the streets all day long, in all weathers, helping your father. Like him, you never let your work or anyone’s scorn wear you down. And you are still the same. As proud, as brave as ever, in a different way, and I still admire you for it. Indeed I cannot think of a time in my life when I have not liked you.”

Her tone was that of lighthearted banter, but he knew that she meant all of it.

“Now, Alexandrine, I am truly humbled. I have been so often rude to you, and I don’t know how to make amends.”

“There is no need for amends.”

She kept her eyes down. He could not think of what to say, and maybe it was better this way. In spite of her embarrassment, and of his own too, he wanted this moment to linger. In a few words she had dispelled much of the gloom that had been weighing upon him for days. For the first time he was enjoying her company. He was still holding her hand, feeling its warmth. He laid it flat on the table and caressed it with the tip of his fingers. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he seized it and brought it to his lips. She took a sharp breath and withdrew her hand.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I startled you.”

“I guess I am not used to seeing you so affectionate.” She hesitated. “Roch . . .”

He cringed. He feared that something terribly serious was coming, and did not want to hear it, least of all at this time, when he felt so weak.

“This is not easy to say,” she continued, “so please listen and don’t interrupt me.” He opened his mouth. She put a finger on his lips. “No, please listen to me, Roch. I need to tell you of this. I know that your father and mine would like us to marry, and that most men in your position would be happy to have me, if only for the sake of my dowry. And I know that
you
won’t do it because . . . because it wouldn’t be right for you, or for me. I understand, and I respect you for it.”

She kept her eyes fixed on a few stray embers glowing red in the hearth. “So please do not feel uneasy for not wanting to marry me. Again, I think you are doing the right thing. It shouldn’t prevent you from calling here to spend some time with me if it can bring you any comfort. Even if it is to talk of another woman.”

She looked straight at him now. Her eyes were shinier than usual, and her nose a little pink. She smiled, and her smile no longer had any sadness in it. “There. I am happy to have said it, and it was not so difficult after all.”

Roch felt ashamed of the manner in which he had thought of her before, dismissively, as though she were nothing but a pretty face attached to a sack of gold.