THE RAIN PASSED AND the morning was bright and cold. Everyone was gathered in the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the house, and it seemed that, for their different reasons, they wished to be together. Marie-Jeanne sat in the largest chair nursing the baby. In the corner Virginie and Antoine were quietly playing a game with a pile of sticks, dropping them in a heap, and then seeing who could remove them one by one without upsetting the pile.
The other adults sat around the kitchen table slowly eating the last of the bread from yesterday, and drinking hot chocolate. They were probably all thinking—at least in part—of the same things, but nobody liked to say so. Now that Bernave was dead, where would their income come from? How much had it depended upon Bernave’s skill? Could anyone else manage the business now he was gone?
Monsieur Lacoste was a natural Communard. He was an ordinary man, a locksmith and worker in metal, a man with no natural privileges—and to whom revolution offered the first chance of a voice in his own future, and his family’s, and a feeling of being in control. He had enough repressed anger in him to understand the urge to destroy. Yet even he found Marat extreme. He preferred the abstemious Robespierre, always talking about virtue.
Fernand believed in the Commune, but he actually knew very little about it. At least Célie thought he did! Perhaps that was a misjudgement too. He was a cabinet-maker, occasionally turning his hand to a little other carpentry when business was slow. He was a respectable artisan. He would like to have started his own business, in time to have employed others, but no one did things like that these days. He had ambitions for peace, and he was prepared to fight to achieve it. Like his father, he wanted more justice, more chance to learn, and to speak his thoughts. They understood one another, and beneath the superficial quarrels now and then, there was both affection and respect.
Célie was also concerned, not only for the others around the table, but for herself. Did she have an employer any more? Would the Lacostes want or need her? Did they even approve of employing people domestically, or—in these days of equality—would they think it wrong, even dangerous? Célie would far rather be unequal in a warm, dry house, than theoretically equal, starving in the winter streets. And she knew perfectly well that most people felt the same, but nobody offered them a choice.
Apart from that, would there be funds anyway?
And without money, how would she continue to feed Georges? If she had to find another job, where would she begin to look? Was it callous so soon to think of realistic things? It was better than thinking of Bernave lying on the floor, the spirit fled from him, the emptiness left behind. Where had all that passion and energy gone, all that intelligence, the unflinching purpose? Could it really have become nothing, in a moment destroyed for ever—like Jean-Pierre? Was that the reality, and all the faith of centuries a fairy story to keep the people obedient, and oppressed, as men like Marat claimed? She refused to believe it. Think of the present! Concentrate!
Foremost in her mind were the two questions: whose side had Bernave been on; and who had killed him? Someone around this table had held that knife and lunged, someone she was sitting here sharing breakfast with, someone sipping chocolate to disguise the taste of stale bread. Why?
Menou came in through the back door from the courtyard. Everyone stopped moving and stared at him, mugs halfway to their lips, bread in the air.
‘Good morning, Citizens,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but certain matters will not wait.’ He glanced around curiously, although he had been here before when searching for the knife. Now he looked towards the stove where the last of the chocolate was simmering in the pan.
Célie felt her whole body tighten with fear. Everything depended on how they conducted themselves now. She could feel Menou’s presence as if it were generating some kind of force in the room.
‘You ... must be cold, Citizen,’ she heard her own voice in the silence, a little hoarse. ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’
She half saw Monsieur Lacoste stiffen. Who had food enough to share these days? She deliberately ignored him. Who had safety enough not to share with the National Guard? She could hardly point that out to him now. She might later on—except that she never felt very comfortable with Monsieur Lacoste. She disagreed with his views, especially on Robespierre, and she was afraid he would know it if they ever had a conversation of any length. On a deeply instinctive level, Robespierre’s virtue frightened her far more than Marat’s rage. It was less human.
‘Thank you,’ Menou accepted.
St Felix moved a little to allow him room at the table, and he accepted the seat.
Célie went to the stove, taking down a clean, revolutionary china mug from the rack on the dresser as she passed. She poured out the last of the chocolate and brought it back to the table.
Menou took it with a gesture of gratitude. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has found the knife which killed Citizen Bernave?’ he said, raising his eyebrows and gazing round at them one by one.
‘No,’ Madame Lacoste answered him with very slight surprise—presumably that he should ask.
He sipped the chocolate. ‘I had not thought so.’ He nodded slowly, swallowing. ‘Never mind, we shall keep looking. It can’t be far, can it?’
Again no one replied.
‘I think ...’ Menou spoke almost as if to himself, ‘that we better go over exactly what happened as each of you remember it.’ He took another sip. ‘It’s very good.’ The shadow of a smile crossed his face. ‘I appreciate a woman who can make even simple things well.’
Amandine swallowed. ‘Thank you ...’
He gazed at her. ‘You look uncomfortable, Citizeness. Does it embarrass you to be complimented on your skill? Or are you suffering grief at the death of your employer? Was he good to you?’
Amandine was caught completely off guard. Célie could see the indecision in her face. She knew she was thinking of St Felix and what she could say to protect him, and yet still be close enough to the truth not to be caught out. After all, one of those listening had killed Bernave, and meant someone else to be blamed for it.
Menou was waiting, his clear, grey eyes intent. Célie noticed in the daylight that he had dark lashes. If he had been anyone else she might have thought him good-looking.
‘He was ... fair ... yes,’ Amandine said awkwardly. ‘I did not see a great deal of him. He ... left me to get on with my work. He was not mean. He ... trusted me.’ She stopped, aware she was answering far more than he had asked, talking too much. She coloured awkwardly, and put up a slender hand to push her hair back off her brow.
Menou turned to Célie. ‘And was he fair to you too, Citizeness Laurent?’
Monsieur Lacoste was watching her, waiting to see what she would say. He knew how often she had been sent out on errands in the rain and cold, and at late hours. Certainly it had been to less dangerous or unpleasant places than St Felix, but did he know that? What would she tell Menou? Her answer must be close enough to the truth. If she were suspected it would ruin everything.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied, meeting Menou’s probing eyes and feeling his intelligence discomfiting. She forced the ghost of a smile. ‘He was generous sometimes. Other times he sent me out late and in the rain. I imagine it was necessary, or at least he thought so.’
Menou was interested.
‘Oh? What sort of errands, Citizeness?’
There was total silence around the table. Everyone was watching her. St Felix allowed his chocolate to go cold. Amandine was unconsciously crumbling her bread in her fingers.
‘Letters sometimes,’ Célie answered, trying to keep her voice light, as if it were of no relevance, and she were not weighing every syllable. ‘And of course to the Convention now and again, to keep him aware of exactly what was happening. He liked to know what was said in the debates.’
‘Why did he not go himself?’ Menou asked, cupping his cold hands around his mug. He had good hands, strong and slim, and his nails were clean. It suddenly brought to Célie’s mind Robespierre’s bitten fingers fluttering as he spoke, and she shivered involuntarily.
‘I didn’t ask him,’ she replied.
A touch of amusement crossed Menou’s face and disappeared. ‘And you reported back to him what you had seen and heard, Citizeness?’
‘The best I could.’ She must not appear too clever, or too well informed on political matters. He might suspect her of motives of her own.
‘How interesting.’ He stared at her. ‘Not many men in these turbulent days would send a laundress to the Convention, to keep them abreast of matters of state. He must have thought remarkably highly of you.’ He regarded her closely, right from the top of her sleek, pale head to her hands resting on the table, which was all he could see of her. ‘Had you known him for long?’
She dreaded to think what he might be imagining. She could feel the colour warm up her cheeks. She had nothing to feel guilty for, in the manner she feared he was supposing. She wanted to say something sarcastic and funny, but she suppressed the impulse. Most revolutionaries had no sense of humour.
‘Only since the middle of September,’ she replied as steadily as she could.
‘Célie and Amandine came here then,’ Madame Lacoste confirmed. She was still white-faced, her eyes ringed with shadow. Her cheeks were gaunt as if she had not slept, but her look was completely steady and there seemed to be no fear in her.
‘You came together?’ Menou asked, turning from Célie to Amandine, and back again.
‘No,’ Célie corrected him. ‘Amandine came first. She was good enough to recommend me. I came a few days later.’
‘I see.’ Menou obviously did not. ‘And you do the laundry and the mending ... and political observation ...’He left it hanging in the air, an unexpected shred of humour behind it.
‘I did whatever—’ Célie started, then realised the double meaning and then stopped. ‘I did whatever needed doing in the house,’ she corrected herself. ‘And when I had time, I carried messages or errands also. Citizen Bernave fed us well, and kept a warm house. As far as I know he was a believer in the revolution and wanted liberty and justice for everyone.’
Menou turned to Monsieur Lacoste, whose expression of contempt was so profound as to demand a comment.
As if suddenly aware of the attention, he smoothed away the anger, but it obviously required an effort from him. He measured his words very carefully. ‘That’s what he said,’ he agreed turning to Menou. ‘Fine words cost nothing. Perhaps you are right and he was working for the Commune. He didn’t always behave like it.’
‘You didn’t like him, Citizen?’ Menou asked.
‘He was family,’ Lacoste replied, as if that answered everything. Célie thought of his closeness to his son, his patience with his grandchildren, the way he accepted Marie-Jeanne, and above all his awkward tenderness for Madame. Perhaps it did answer all that really mattered to him.
‘Ah yes,’ Menou nodded. ‘Your son is married to Bernave’s daughter.’ He looked across at Marie-Jeanne. ‘That’s you, Citizeness ...’
Marie-Jeanne nodded.
Menou looked at Fernand. ‘And you, Citizen, what did you think of Bernave?’
‘I didn’t know he was working for the Commune,’ Fernand replied cautiously, ‘but it doesn’t surprise me. He was a man of deep conviction, and as Célie says, he wanted justice for everyone.’
Menou smiled. He must realise they all knew that if Bernave were thought to be a traitor to the revolution, then the house would be forfeited.
‘Just so.’ He remained looking at Fernand. ‘Tell me about last night, Citizen. What happened—exactly—as you recall?’
Fernand was startled. He glanced at his mother, then back at Menou. ‘I ... I don’t know anything more than I told you then.’
‘Perhaps. Remind me ...’ Menou fixed him with bright, intelligent eyes, waiting.
Fernand looked unhappy, but he obeyed.
‘We were all sitting in the front room ...’
‘You heard noises in the street,’ Menou prompted, when he hesitated. ‘You perceived there was a crowd, and some quarrelling ...’
‘Of course. We could hardly fail to see it,’ Fernand agreed tartly. ‘There were at least twenty people pushing and yelling, and then shots.’
‘Ah yes ... shots.’ Menou turned to Marie-Jeanne. ‘Do you recall the shots, Citizeness?’
‘Yes.’
Menou looked back at Fernand.
‘Did anyone leave the room?’
‘I didn’t see.’
Menou turned to Célie, his eyebrows raised questioningly. If anyone had left, they would have passed close to where she had been.
‘I did,’ Marie-Jeanne said quietly. ‘I went up to my children, to comfort them.’
Menou glanced at Virginie, who was staring wide-eyed at him, the game forgotten, and then at Antoine.
‘Very natural,’ he agreed. ‘Anyone else?’
This time Célie was happy to speak. ‘No, the rest of us were here.’ She was aware of Madame Lacoste’s black eyes watching her. What was she afraid of? Did she know which one of them had killed Bernave? What could she do to protect them? How far would she go? Or did she believe it was St Felix? Perhaps she did, because it was the only answer that would be bearable for her.
‘And the exact order of events?’ Menou turned to Amandine. ‘You, Citizeness. Please tell me again.’
Amandine froze. It was several moments before she answered him. He watched her, looking at her soft hands, unmarked by working as Célie’s were by laundry. She had clear skin and fine features. There was a natural delicacy to her. It was easy to believe she was a woman of grace and breeding fallen on harder times, like so many others. Did he see that? Did he resent it? She had not Marie-Jeanne’s earthy domesticity, or Célie’s challenging intelligence in her demeanour. Until lately she had never needed it—now it was too hard to assume.
Who was Menou? Where had he come from? The constant shifts of power in the revolution had thrown together all manner of people. Yesterday’s ministers and governors were today’s prisoners and tomorrow’s corpses. Yesterday’s servants were today’s masters. Célie studied him. He wore the revolutionary uniform, but so did scores of people, for scores of reasons: passion, conviction, the lust for power, or simply the desire to survive. Menou could be anything. His speech was ordinary enough. He could have been a footman or a tailor or an artisan of any sort before the revolution. Or he could be the third or fourth son of an aristocrat, with enough of an ear to adopt a common speech, and enough political idealism, or opportunism, to seize on the new order.
Or he could have been a lawyer, a moneylender or a thief.
He was very tidy. His hair needed cutting, but his clothes fitted him, and his hands were clean. His boots were rather good. She had noticed that when he came in. Was that breeding, or merely opportunity and the love of nice things, even a little personal vanity?
‘There was a shot which broke the window, and the light went out,’ Amandine answered very carefully, facing Menou. ‘Then we heard the noise at the front door, and the crowd broke in, demanding food. They thought we were hoarding—which we weren’t. We aren’t! Citizen Bernave went over to them.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘He told them that.’
‘And did they believe him?’ Menou asked, and when Amandine did not answer immediately he turned to Célie.
‘No, of course not!’ she retorted. ‘But he would hardly say we were, would he?’
He smiled. That simple gesture startled her. In her experience revolutionaries never saw the funny side of anything, most especially anything which might remotely reflect on them. It was the thing which frightened her the most. It made them inhuman, outside ordinary life. Robespierre never laughed.
‘What happened then?’ Menou asked quietly, looking at Amandine again. But he went on before she had time to answer. ‘Citizen Bernave remained facing the intruders. What about the other men in the room—Citizen Lacoste, Citizen St Felix, for example? Did they move forward to help?’
Amandine was confused. ‘I ... I suppose so. I don’t remember.’ She stared straight ahead of her, as if there were no one else present except herself and Menou. Her pose was unnaturally stiff, her slender back straight as she had been taught to sit, in some far-off schoolroom. Célie knew she was trying to remember where in the panic, St Felix had been.
Célie could not remember either. She had been watching Bernave, and the crowd threatening in the doorway. She had been only dimly aware of the others.
Menou turned towards her.
‘And you, who are such a keen observer, Citizeness Laurent—what can you tell me? Where was Citizen St Felix standing?’
He had been standing, that was true, but how did Menou know that? She could not underestimate him, just because he was a revolutionary. It did not mean he was stupid, or incapable of judging them by their own standards, seeing their weaknesses, and their loyalties.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered. She could not copy Marie-Jeanne’s ignorance. Menou had seen she observed sharply, and he would not believe she panicked, she had no children to protect—not now. Jean-Pierre was beyond her power to help and shield from anything. That cold thought was never too far away to return. ‘He was sitting in the chair opposite when the shot came through the window ...’ Her voice was a little hoarse, her throat tight.
‘And then?’ Menou insisted. ‘When the intruders threatened you, did he not go forward to assist Bernave?’ He watched her face. The question sounded innocent, and yet the implications were inescapable.
Should she lie, and brand St Felix a coward, or tell what she thought was the truth, and place him where he could have killed Bernave?
Menou was waiting.
Célie felt her flesh prickle. His eyes seemed to stare through her.
Madame Lacoste answered for her,
‘There was a great deal of noise and confusion,’ she said levelly. ‘The smoke from the torches out in the street was blowing in and stinging our eyes. It was very difficult to see. I was looking at the men in the doorway: they were the threat, not we who were in the room. I imagine Citizeness Laurent was as well.’
‘I see,’ Menou nodded, frowning. He turned away from Célie and Madame Lacoste to St Felix. ‘Where were you when the rioting in the street disturbed you?’
St Felix was startled, as if he had not expected to be addressed.
‘I ... I was in the other chair, opposite Citizen Bernave. I think I stood up. I don’t remember. We were all alarmed, it was so close.’
Menou nodded. ‘Tell me exactly what you recall.’
Célie glanced around. Everyone was watching St Felix. Monsieur Lacoste was frowning. He looked worried. Fernand seemed more concerned for Marie-Jeanne. He moved closer to her, defensively. It was only a step or two, but the emotion which drove him was unmistakable. The children were silent, aware of the fear without understanding it.
Amandine was rigid, her hands on the table locked till her knuckles were white. Had Menou been looking at her, rather than St Felix, he could not have helped noticing. Célie ached to protect her, warn her that she was allowing her face, her body, to betray her. But there was nothing she could say without making it worse. She realised her nails were digging into her own palms.
Madame Lacoste was staring at St Felix also, her expression sombre, her dark eyes unreadable.
‘Citizen ...?’ Menou prompted.
‘I’m trying to be exact,’ St Felix excused his silence. Célie could hear the tension in his voice; it was higher than usual, sharper. But Menou would not know that. The difference was slight, and his diction was as perfect as always.
‘It happened very quickly,’ he answered. ‘There was shouting, movement, shots. The window broke. The candle went out. There was smoke from the torches. It was difficult to see. People were breaking into the house from the street. They were very angry and threatening. They wanted food. Citizen Bernave went towards them and told them we had no more than our own rations for the day. They did not believe him. The mood became very ugly.’
‘Did they come forward?’ Menou asked.
There was silence. Everyone understood the importance of the answer.
Célie did not mean to, but she could not help glancing at Amandine. There was tension in her face, but not the fear there would have been had she believed St Felix could have been guilty, whatever the provocation.
Célie felt sick for her. Please God she was right!
‘No,’ St Felix said at last. ‘Not that I saw.’
‘And did you go forward to assist Citizen Bernave?’ Menou asked. ‘No one else seems quite certain if you did or not.’
Again the slight hesitation, the understanding of what either answer would mean. ‘Yes.’
‘Of course,’ Menou agreed. ‘One would. And did Citizen Lacoste? And Fernand Lacoste?’
‘There was great confusion, and it was dark. I believe so.’
Menou looked at both of the other men.
They each nodded.
Menou considered for some time before he spoke again. They all watched him, wrapped in their own fears—for themselves, and for each other.
‘It seems it could have been any one of you who killed Citizen Bernave,’ he said finally. ‘I shall, of course, continue to look for the knife.’ He put down his empty mug. ‘It is possible all of you are aware of what happened, and are concealing the truth, for your own reasons.’
Amandine drew in her breath sharply, and then said nothing.
‘Yes, Citizeness?’ Menou prompted.
‘I thought I was going to sneeze,’ Amandine lied quickly.
There was no way to tell if Menou believed her or not. He rose to his feet and started to walk slowly round the kitchen, regarding each of them as he passed.
They grew gradually more and more uncomfortable. Finally Menou broke the silence again.
‘Citizen Bernave asked you to go to the Convention and observe the debates,’ he said to Célie.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And then to report to him?’
‘Yes.’ She had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling that he was leading to some kind of ambush, but she could not see it. She had no idea which way to sidestep. She knew Amandine was watching her, and she could sense St Felix’s tension.
Menou frowned. ‘Then what did he send Citizen St Felix for? It must have been something very dangerous, must it not? Something that was too dangerous for you.’
‘More likely something I wouldn’t understand!’ she said quickly.
Menou raised his eyebrows and turned to St Felix.
No one moved.
St Felix remained silent, avoiding Menou’s gaze.
‘I don’t know what it was,’ Lacoste interrupted. ‘None of my business. But St Felix often enough came back filthy and covered in blood and bruises.’ He said it with a touch of defiance, knowing the implications. ‘So perhaps it was dangerous.’
Célie wanted to laugh at the ‘perhaps.’ It welled up inside her hysterically, and she stifled it with her hand over her mouth.
Menou looked round the rest of them, to see if they confirmed or denied it. He read the admission in their faces, willing in Fernand’s case, reluctant in Marie-Jeanne’s, and terrified in Amandine’s. Madame Lacoste was guarded, but Célie caught an instant of intense dislike for St Felix, then it was gone again, masked so completely it might have been no more than an illusion of the light on her dark eyes and the shadows beneath them.
Menou swung right round to St Felix again. ‘Why were you prepared to endure such treatment at the hands of a man who seemed to have so little consideration for you, Citizen? Did you not dislike him for it?’
Again Amandine was on the edge of speaking, but just in time realised she might only make matters worse. She stared pleadingly at St Felix, as if willing him to defend himself. Célie ached to be with her, to give her any kind of support, but she dared not. Menou would see and understand.
‘No, I did not dislike him, Citizen,’ St Felix answered quietly. ‘He did what he did, and asked as much of others, because he believed in his cause. One does not dislike a man for that, one admires him.’
‘Ah! So you knew he was working for the Commune! You did not say that before!’ Menou accused.
‘I knew he was working for the revolution,’ St Felix corrected. ‘For the good of France.’
A very slight frown puckered Menou’s forehead.
‘If he believed in his cause so powerfully, why did he not go on these dangerous errands himself?’ he asked ingenuously. ‘It seems the belief was his, and the sacrifice was yours.’
‘I presumed he went on equally dangerous errands himself,’ St Felix argued. ‘He went out often.’
Well answered, Célie thought, with a lift of surprise and relief inside her. Perhaps St Felix would defend himself after all. If Bernave trusted him as he had, then he must have some steel in his soul.
Menou looked at Marie-Jeanne, the question in his face.
‘That’s true,’ she nodded.
Madame Lacoste added her agreement.
‘And came back injured?’ Menou pursued.
There was silence.
Amandine took a deep breath. She was very pale. ‘Yes—’
‘Not seriously!’ Célie interrupted. For heaven’s sake, they could look at the body and see! There was not a recent mark on him. Had Amandine not thought of that? ‘Mostly dirty, cold and exhausted,’ she added.
‘You know something about it?’ Menou turned to her.
‘Of course,’ she said, trying to sound convinced. ‘I think he sent Citizen St Felix to the Commune, with what he had discovered of the royalist plans, but he did not tell me that, of course. And went to the royalists himself, which was far more dangerous. If they were to have discovered what he was really doing, then he would not have come back at all!’
‘That’s right,’ St Felix put in, his voice suddenly certain, as if he realised Célie’s line of thought might rescue him.
Menou’s reply was instant, his eyes narrow and bright. ‘How do you know? He confided in you? You believed what he told you?’
St Felix hesitated. To admit that might be dangerous, especially since Célie was almost certain it was not true. Bernave had trusted no one with information of that kind. Menou might know that. It all depended which side Bernave had really served. St Felix might be making things worse for himself.
But for the matter, which side did St Felix really serve? The King, of course—some kind of order from the ashes of the old tyranny and waste. Nothing about him was naturally sympathetic to the violence and vulgarity of the Commune.
Menou smiled. ‘You read the messages he entrusted to you?’ he said, regarding St Felix curiously.
St Felix hesitated yet again.
Célie wondered if he had read them. Did he alone know what Bernave was really doing? And was that why he had killed him: not because of the personal abuse, but because he had discovered his betrayal of the plan of rescuing the King from execution, and France from drowning in blood?
Célie caught herself with horror. She was seriously considering his guilt! She hated the thought! It could not be true ... not St Felix, the man who forgave so easily, bore fear and danger with such quiet fortitude. He had too much sensitivity to others, too much humility to be an aristocrat; too much gentleness and too little hate to be a revolutionary; too much compassion to be either.
And yet the suspicion would not go.
‘You read them?’ Menou repeated.
‘No,’ St Felix replied. ‘Bernave told me, and I believed him.’
Menou smiled. ‘I see.’ His voice conveyed neither acceptance nor denial. ‘I have men outside. We will look again for the knife. It must be in this house somewhere. You will all remain here while we search. I would not like to think it was moved ahead of us all the way. You understand?’ It was not a request, it was an order. Something in him liked to retain a semblance of the courtesy of a past age. He could not altogether hate the ancien régime. Willingly or unwillingly, he admired something in it, hungered for its elegance.
He went to the back door and gestured for half a dozen guardsmen to troop in.
‘Did you search the shed and the workshops?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Citizen,’ the sergeant answered, then shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Menou insisted.
‘Certain. Went through all the metal out there, and the wood. No knife.’
‘Then take the men and look through the house,’ Menou directed him. ‘Look through everything. You, Lavalle, stay here and see no one leaves the kitchen.’ He followed the other men out.
Amandine asked permission to clear the table and continue with her duties, and it was granted.
Célie asked the same, and it was granted also.
‘Then may I go for bread?’ she asked. ‘If I don’t, it will be too late.’
The guard gestured refusal. ‘Then tell us who killed Bernave, Citizeness, and you can.’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘If I did, I’d have told you already.’
A sneer twisted his face.
‘Maybe! Maybe it was your lover? Or maybe you did, eh? Did he try to rape you? You didn’t want an old man—’
‘He wasn’t old, and he didn’t force himself on anyone!’ Madame Lacoste snapped. ‘Watch your tongue, fellow, or I’ll report you to Citizen Menou. It is a hero of the revolution you are talking about!’
The man coloured hotly, but he did not answer back. He glared at her, then turned away. ‘Get on!’ he said sharply to Célie. ‘Get on with the cooking, or the laundry, or whatever it is you do!’
‘I do the shopping!’ she returned, meeting his eyes angrily.
‘Not now you don’t!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You don’t do anything unless I tell you to!’
She went to help Amandine with clearing the table. Amandine glanced at her; their eyes met for a moment. Célie saw the fear in her. There was nothing to say which would make it any better. Lies would not help. She smiled at her, and slipped her arm round her for an instant as she passed. She felt a moment’s answering pressure, then moved on.
She then asked permission to draw water from the pump in the yard. The guardsman stood in the doorway watching her, and keeping an eye on everyone in the kitchen at the same time.
She returned and went over to pour half the water into the sink for Amandine. Everyone else remained around the table.
‘Do you think they’ll find the knife?’ Amandine whispered. ‘If they do, it won’t prove anything!’
‘Of course not,’ Célie agreed under her breath. The same thoughts must have been racing through Amandine’s mind too. She looked at her and could see the doubt in her face as she bent over the vegetables, trying to sort the good ones from the rotten, her mind not on it. Was she at least entertaining the unthinkable—that St Felix was guilty, because he knew Bernave had betrayed them—and she was preparing to defend him?
‘It won’t mean anything,’ Célie repeated. ‘Unless it’s somewhere only one person could get to.’
Amandine did not look up. ‘Like where?’ she asked, cutting the bad out of a potato and throwing it into the rubbish.
‘Like the Lacostes’ rooms upstairs, the children’s rooms,’ Célie replied. Anyone outside the family would have been seen there.’
‘If Madame is here while they search the kitchen, she may notice the food is low,’ Amandine said anxiously. ‘What did you take for Georges yesterday?’
‘Chocolate. I bought the bread and onions. Oh ... I took cheese as well, the day before.’
‘Damn!’ Amandine swore under her breath and threw away another potato.
The guard shifted his position, feet shuffling on the floor.
‘She may not notice the chocolate,’ Amandine went on. ‘I don’t suppose she knew how much was in the tin, but she remembered the cheese. Said we’d have it today. She wouldn’t believe me if I said it went off and I threw it out.’
‘Hardly,’ Célie agreed, trying to make more work out of piling the dishes, to justify remaining there. ‘When did you ever throw cheese away? Even if it were green, we’d have eaten it.’
‘No talking!’ the guard said loudly. ‘Get on with your work!’
They obeyed, Amandine standing over the bowl, Célie washing the mugs and putting them away. There was no sound in the room but the chink of crockery and an occasional squeak as Célie rubbed the cloth too tightly on the smooth surface.
Menou returned. It was obvious from his expression that he had not yet found the knife. He started to search the kitchen, looking in every cupboard and flour bin, every bag, box and tin himself, running his hand through the few dried peas and lentils they had, tipping out the chocolate on to a plate, and the coffee, lifting the cheese cover, taking the lid off every pan.
He found nothing of interest, and no hidden food.
Next he looked through Célie’s laundry supplies.
‘You haven’t much soap,’ he commented. ‘No starch? No blue?’
‘I used the last of the starch the day before yesterday,’ she answered. ‘It’s hard to get blue any more.’ Actually she had swapped it for coffee for Georges.
Menou returned to the kitchen table, his face creased with irritation.
‘One of you murdered Citizen Bernave.’ He looked round them slowly. Marie-Jeanne was still holding the baby, who was now asleep. Madame Lacoste watched Menou, her face pensive, full of shadows. Fernand drummed his fingers silently. Monsieur Lacoste fidgeted, biting his lip. St Felix was completely motionless, his shoulders slumped. He looked as if he were bowed down with a weight of grief so heavy it crushed him.
Fernand’s fists were clenched and his shoulders were high and rigid.
Menou faced him squarely.
‘You have no right to say that!’ Madame Lacoste replied at last, her voice cold. She sat very straight, with a dignity that did not lie in status or power, but simply in her own belief in herself. She was the wife of a man who laboured for his living, but she could have been of the old nobility as she faced Menou in her kitchen.
A flicker of admiration showed in his eyes, unwilling perhaps, but quite real.
‘We cared for Citizen Bernave,’ she continued gravely. ‘And we grieve for his death. He was one of our family, and a true fighter for the freedom and prosperity of all France, and for justice which will last.’
‘All of you, Madame—’ He realised his mistake and corrected himself quickly. ‘Citizeness?’
‘I don’t know about Citizen St Felix,’ she answered, deliberately not looking at him. ‘Bernave was hard on him.’
‘So it seems,’ Menou nodded. ‘So, indeed, it seems.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘Remember: you are being watched! The revolution owes Citizen Bernave justice ... and he will have it!’ With that he went to the back door, opened it and went out, closing it with a bang behind him.
Marie-Jeanne rose to her feet, stiff from having sat so long. The baby in her arms had not woken. She walked past them and out into the room beyond.
Fernand looked at St Felix, who was white-faced, then he turned and followed his wife.
Amandine stared at Célie.
Madame Lacoste said nothing, but her eyes were brilliant with tears.