One Thing More (7 page)

A copy of last week’s
Père Duchesne
blew across the pavement into the gutter. There was a crude drawing on the front, and the usual masthead silhouette of the comfortable old man with his big nose, and the pipe in his mouth.

Further up the street there was a loud argument, two women in browns and greys fighting over a loaf of bread. Half a dozen others stood by, faces sullen and frightened. Célie knew why. She had felt the same frisson of panic run through her when she had arrived at the end of the baker’s queue too late and had had to return home empty-handed and hungry. It was happening more often. It was a long time till harvest. Where was all the grain?

‘You got bread!’ someone shouted, voice sharp and accusing.

‘Liar!’ came back the answer. ‘I got nothing ... jus’ like you! Jus’ like all of us!’

‘Not like all of us ... some got bread, an’ onions, an’ cheese!’ another said, her face twisted with hatred.

‘Yeah? Who? Tell the Commune! Hoarding’s a crime.’

The woman gave her a filthy look. ‘If I knew who, I’d kill ’er meself! They’re murderers o’ the rest of us ... that’s what they are!’

The woman with a loaf of bread was enraged. ‘Who are you calling murderer, yer ol’ bag? I got me loaf, same as you, an’ six kids ter feed! An’ my man’s up fighting the Austrians, God help him!’ She spat on the cobbles, completely unaware of having called on a deity who officially no longer existed. ‘Go an’ look at some o’ them rich bastards up St-Germain! They got plenty, I ’eard!’

A few yards along the street a National Guardsman swung a musket round threateningly and loosed a shot off into the air.

The women grumbled and started to move away.

Célie turned towards the Quai Voltaire and increased her pace.

J
OSEPH BRIARD STOOD BY
the window staring out at the rain. It blew in gusts against the glass, but here in his room it was warm. The candlelight glowed on polished wood. Most of the floor was covered by a red rug, worn and mellow with time and the passage of feet. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of books and mementos of his life.

He had only three more days’ fuel left, but it was enough. He would burn it all. After that he would not need it, nor the wine in the glass he was holding, watching the light in its ruby depths, letting its flavour fill his head. It was a burgundy—one of the best years.

He smiled as he thought of the past. In his mind he could see sunlight on rolling hills, smell the sweet grasses and the herbs of the south. Unconsciously he narrowed his eyes as if the reflection off blue water dazzled him, but it was only memory, the days of youth sharper and more real than this grey winter of the soul in Paris.

Would it all be futile anyway, a grand gesture, but no more? Or was it possible they could succeed? He had done everything, precisely as Bernave had instructed. Still there was so much room for error, circumstance unseen, unprepared for.

And if it worked ... that was something he would not think of. He had faced it once, imagined it, even the last few moments. Now it was best put from his mind. Sometimes your body could let you down, even when your heart had no doubt at all.

He sipped the wine again. There was also enough meat left for two more days, and vegetables and a whole loaf of bread. There was a good claret, but he would leave that ... for Bernave, perhaps?

There came a rap on the door, twice, sharply, and then silence. It would be Bernave. He had come to tell him what Briard already knew.

He refused to hesitate. He went to the door and opened it.

Bernave stepped in, shaking the water off his hat and shoulders. His boots left wet marks on the floor. There was no need for him to speak; all that lay between them was in his eyes and the set of his lips—the hope, the fear, and above all the pity.

Briard swallowed. This was the moment.

Bernave closed the door.

‘Have a glass of burgundy,’ Briard offered, keeping his voice light. ‘It’s the best year I’ve tasted.’ He turned and led the way back to the chairs beside the fire. Without waiting for the answer he poured a second glassful, a beautiful crystal glass engraved with lilies.

Bernard took it. For a moment the candlelight flickered through its burning heart.

‘Long live the King!’ he said softly.

Briard found his throat too tight to drink. ‘Long live the King!’ he answered, then filled his mouth with the clean, full taste of the wine.

Bernave was looking at him. Was he still uncertain, weighing him in his mind, or did he know now that he would do it? Which was worse, the decision committed and irrevocable, or not yet made?

‘The die is cast,’ Bernave said steadily. ‘All is in hand. Have you met with the drivers?’

‘Yes.’ Briard recalled it vividly, playing the part of the nervous trader so concerned with his goods he was determined to travel with the most important cargoes, regardless of the personal danger or inconvenience. It had caused some amusement, and a little contempt, but he had not been disbelieved. ‘Yes, I did,’ he repeated. ‘And I have the clothes.’ He swallowed a little more wine to moisten his dry lips. ‘Over there.’

In three neat parcels were the three different jackets he had worn; a dark green woollen coat of excellent cut, high collared with brass buttons in which to meet the driver west to Calais and the sea; a blue coat with lighter facings to speak to the driver south towards the Pyrenees and Spain; a brown jacket with buff-coloured collar, cuffs and lapels to introduce himself to the driver south and east towards Italy. They were all expensive and memorable. When another man with similar white hair and long nose turned up in the same clothes, it would be assumed it was he, still determined to ride with his cargo. Each parcel was labelled with the direction for which it was intended. Each one would be left at a different safe house, according to which route of escape the King was going to take. That would be decided upon at the moment, according to which seemed best.

Bernave glanced at them, and was satisfied. He said nothing else about it, no words of praise or debt, no questioning of his resolve, simply, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then silence.

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.