For the King (33 page)

“Your guess is right, Alexandrine. There is, or rather there was, another woman, a woman . . . well, a woman I would like to forget. I cannot tell you of what happened, but in a way I feel that she has deceived me. It doesn’t make any sense for me to feel this way, because she was only my mistress. She didn’t owe me anything, not even the truth. I shouldn’t have expected anything from her, but I did. I left her once I discovered what she had hidden from me. And I have no regrets over leaving her. But I have not forgotten her yet, and it still pains me to think of her. A part of me still yearns for her.”

He seized Alexandrine’s hand again and kept it in his. “I will be as candid as you,” he continued, “and tell you what I want tonight. I want to hold you tight, and I want to rest my head against your breast, like a child in need of comfort. But if I let myself do that, if you pressed me in your arms, before long I would be seeking your lips to kiss you, not as a child, but as a lover, and then I would want more. In fact, just speaking of it makes me want more already. I want all of you.”

Alexandrine half rose from her chair and leaned towards him. He held her firmly by the wrist to make her sit back. “I am very unhappy and confused now, dearest Alexandrine, and worried over Father’s troubles. But I feel better for coming here tonight, for seeing you, for talking to you. Thank you for saying what you said, and thank you for your friendship. I need it even more than you can imagine.”

He rose from his chair. “I should go now.”

He brushed his lips against her flushed cheek and fled before she could respond.

50

T
his was the day when Roch had to visit the businesses of the Palais-Egalité. Before he had broken with Blanche, meeting her mother was simply unpleasant, but now that prospect was excruciatingly painful. His face burned with shame when he remembered looking at a jewelry store window at the Palais-Egalité in quest of a wedding ring. Only a week had elapsed since that day. He resolved to do his rounds at a later time than usual, during the evening. Then Madame de Cléry would be too busy to pay him much attention, and that would limit any exchanges between the two of them to a minimum.

In the meantime, he wished to have another chat with Madame de Nallet. He could ill afford to neglect any clues that might lead to the conspirators, to Saint-Régent in particular, and he realized that he had not paid the little flower painter the attention she deserved.

When he entered David’s studio, he saw, standing on the dais, a young man of athletic stature, nude, his clothes neatly folded at his feet, his arm pointing at the ceiling. The position looked painful to hold. Roch could see neither Mulard nor Madame de Nallet. He asked one of a group of students at their easels.

“Mulard? No, I haven’t seen him in a few days,” answered the man without looking away from his canvas. “Not since the trial of the Conspiracy of Daggers opened. He’s a great friend of Topino, you know.”

“And where did Madame de Nallet go? She is not here today?” asked Roch.

“Oh, David doesn’t allow any female students when we do male nudes. And anyway, she doesn’t come to the studio anymore. When I last saw Mulard, he told me that she had decided to abandon her flower studies.”

Roch nodded. This was as he had suspected. The woman had remained close to David long enough to have her brother’s name removed from the list of the émigrés. So much for her much-vaunted dedication to her art. Whatever Piis’s assurances, this warranted further investigation, but for now Roch had no longer any reason to tarry in David’s studio.

That night he headed for the Palais-Egalité. The galleries were far busier than during the day. Now they were full of prostitutes, strolling around in pairs, arm in arm, in search of patrons. There did not seem to be any shortage of those either. He saw Rose and Fanny, his acquaintances from Citizen Renard’s establishment, shivering in their sheer gowns in spite of fur stoles thrown around their shoulders. They winked at Roch. They had found their quarry, a crimson-faced, paunchy fellow, whom they were steering in the direction of the brothel. Each of the young women had seized one of his elbows and both giggled in his ears. They huddled against him, to prevent any thoughts of escape and maybe also for warmth.

All of the brothels and gaming salons he visited had lost their daytime sleepiness. Roch called on Madame de Cléry last. He heard raised voices and shrill laughter before he pushed her door open. Groups of men and women were gathered around card tables. Some women were dressed like society ladies and kept their eyes fixed on the cards, while others, wearing the same sheer gowns as Rose and Fanny, were seated in the men’s laps or standing behind them, their arms draped around their clients’ necks. Piles of
louis
, like a gold tide, rolled towards the center of the tables.

In the middle of the crowd, Madame de Cléry cut a conspicuous figure. Roch had never seen her fully clothed. Now the gold fabric of her gown caught the light of the candles, and a scarlet shawl, embroidered in a darker shade of red, was artfully draped around her arms. Her breasts, full and round, were generously exposed. Very similar to Blanche’s, thought Roch with a pang, only larger. A gracious smile on her lips, Madame de Cléry was walking from table to table, stopping to address her guests. She looked very elegant, and behaved like a society hostess at a fashionable party.

She drew herself up, frowning, when she recognized Roch, and walked quickly to him. “Here you are, Chief Inspector,” she said under her breath. Her whisper was almost a hiss. “I had almost given up any hope of a visit from you. As you can see, I am rather busy at this time. Perhaps it would be more convenient if we kept to our usual hours.”

“On the contrary, Citizen Cléry, this time suits me perfectly. It also allows me to watch the operation of your salon. A thriving business, if appearances are to be trusted.”

“You happened upon us on a particularly good night. Now if you would please follow me to my apartment . . .”

Roch paid more attention than ever before to Citizen Cléry’s bedroom, dimly lit by the fire in the hearth. At the far end, slender mahogany columns, trimmed with gold, formed an alcove around the bed. It was draped in blue silks, studded with little gold stars. The same fabric covered the walls and hung from the windows. Roch’s eye traveled upwards to the painted swans that decorated the ceiling. He then returned his attention to Madame de Cléry. She was kneeling in front of a strongbox. Its gold-trimmed mahogany, matching that of the bed, disguised its function. She deftly turned three keys in their locks, revealing a thick steel lining under the wooden veneer, and seized a large purse.

“Are you looking for anything in particular, Sir?” she asked as she rose.

Roch was struck by a sudden inspiration. This was the bedroom of a lady. Indeed Madame de Cléry was a
lady
, though he had never thought of her in that light. What if she were Saint-Régent’s lady? She was fifteen years older than the man, but she remained strikingly handsome. And was she also the lady who had taken Short Francis to the Convent?

He looked into her eyes. “No, Citizen, I was just thinking. Of a convent. The Convent of Saint-Michel. Do you know it?”

Madame de Cléry blanched, though her features remained unmoved.

“No, Sir, I have never heard of such a place,” she said after a minute.

She handed him the purse. “You may obtain a warrant to search these premises if you wish, but you will find nothing. As you probably know, I had spent half a year in prison during the Terror. I have not forgotten those months. I awoke every morning wondering whether it would be for the last time. That experience has taught me to stay clear of anything that could send me back to jail.”

Citizen Cléry’s gaze wandered towards the mirror above the fireplace. She seemed very thoughtful now, almost sad. She looked her age. “I made many mistakes in my time, Chief Inspector, some grievous to the point of being irreparable. Some I repent to this day. I learned the value of prudence.”

Roch took the purse. For the first time he felt no dislike for her. To a certain point she might be telling the truth, though he was sure she was lying about the Convent of Saint-Michel. He would have her gaming salon watched closely.

51

R
och hailed a hackney and drove to the Ministry to drop the money he had collected. Though Marain, Fouché’s secretary, had an apartment there, he did not seem too happy to be disturbed at this late hour.

As the hackney was driving Roch home, it crossed the Isle of the Cité and passed the main Courthouse. A row of windows at the northeastern corner of the building was still brightly lit. Surprised, Roch looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. This must be the trial of the Conspiracy of Daggers. Judges and jurors would only remain in session so late for a case of major importance.

Roch pulled on the cord to signal to the driver to stop. He climbed the monumental stairs to the main entrance and walked to the Criminal Court section of the building. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous, empty halls. When he pushed open the only lit courtroom, it was empty, except for the yawning gendarmes and a few men and women scattered on the wooden benches. An iron stove provided adequate heat, but the gaslights hanging from the high ceiling and resting on the judges’ desk left the far corners of the room in darkness. Nevertheless, Roch had no trouble recognizing Mulard’s large figure and long reddish hair.

The painter started when Roch sat next to him. Mulard’s cravat pointed in the direction of his left ear, and dark bluish shadows circled his eyes.

“How are things going?” Roch asked in a lowered voice.

“The jury is deliberating right now. As for the evidence against Topino, there’s none. None of any value, that is.” Mulard frowned. “Ceracchi, the only witness against him, recanted at trial and kept repeating that his confession had been wrenched from him under torture by your fine colleagues at the Prefecture. Then Harel, the
mouchard
, testified that Topino had not supplied any daggers to anyone. The prosecutor did produce a knife, but two witnesses could not agree on its origin, or whether it had anything to do with any plot to stab Bonaparte. Topino himself has steadily denied any involvement in the conspiracy.”

“I have always thought that he would be acquitted if the case went to trial.”

“He should be, but then the prosecutor argued that
sketches
of daggers had been seized in Topino’s studio, and that, according to him, would be enough to prove his guilt! Of course a history painter is bound to sketch swords and daggers in the course of his work. I do it all the time. As things stand, those sketches are the sole evidence against Topino.”

“What about David? Did he testify?”

“Oh, yes, as a character witness. He praised Topino’s talent. How is this going to help? As if the jurors gave a damn about painting! They want to punish someone, anyone, for the Rue Nicaise attack.”

A door at the back of the room opened and the bailiff announced: “The Court!” The gendarmes jumped to their feet and saluted. Mulard and Roch rose. The five judges appeared, in their black uniforms and plumed hats, the gilded insignia of their functions hanging from tricolor ribbons around their necks. The jurors also reentered the courtroom. The foreman stood up. The sheet of paper he held was shaking in his hand. Roch felt Mulard shaking too. His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively, his jaw was tense.

“Upon our honor and conscience,” the foreman read, “we the jury find that there existed, during the month of Vendémiaire past, a conspiracy to assassinate the First Consul at the Opera.” The foreman droned on, dwelling on the minutest details of the plot. Roch frowned. He could not follow the rambling, confusing narrative, nor understand which particular role each of the accused was supposed to have played in the conspiracy. Finally the foreman paused to clear his voice. “Accordingly, the jury finds Dominique Demerville, Joseph Ceracchi, Joseph Aréna and François-Jean-Baptiste Topino-Lebrun guilty of participating in said conspiracy.”

Roch barely heard the foreman announce that the remaining accused, three men and one woman, were acquitted. When Mulard heard the name of his friend among those found guilty, he rose all of a sudden and pounced forward. Roch caught him by the tails of his coat to make him sit again. The President, after casting a stern look in the direction of the two men, ordered the gendarmes to bring the accused. They slowly filed into the dock. Roch recognized Topino, young, tall, well built, with dark eyes and curly black hair.

Then everything passed very fast. The actors were weary, most of the audience had gone home, and the outcome of the play left no one in suspense. The accused resumed their seats, the prosecutor began his closing statement. The guillotine was the only punishment befitting the horror of the crime, he argued. The President conferred with the other judges, then read the death sentences and advised the defendants of their rights to appeal. Mulard, very pale, did not seem to listen to any of it. He was staring straight ahead at nothing. Finally, the gendarmes took Topino and the other accused away.

Roch grabbed Mulard by the arm and led him out of the courthouse. Both men walked along the banks of the river. Mulard broke the silence at last.

“Do you realize what has just happened, Miquel? They are going to be guillotined, all four of them, and they are innocent.”

“Go to David. Ask him to intervene. Bonaparte might pardon at least Topino.”

“I doubt it. Bonaparte likes the idea of befriending a great artist, but he would never listen to David on anything related to politics.”

It was a clear night. Mulard’s eyes remained fixed on the dark, slow waters of the Seine. The reflections of the lights along the embankments floated like specks of gold on the river.

Mulard looked into Roch’s eyes. “No offense, Miquel, but you work for evil men. Your Prefect and his torturers will have innocent blood on their hands. Beware. You are a decent fellow, but before long you will become one of them.”