CÉLIE INVENTED AN EXCUSE for going out, for Madame Lacoste, should she ask, and for the guard in the courtyard. It cost her dearly because she felt self-conscious and foolish, but it was the only one she could think of which was ordinary and common to all.
‘A lover!’ Amandine said with a smile, looking up from peeling vegetables.
Célie’s mind flew to Georges, for no reason at all, and she felt the heat burn up her face. ‘The guard might let me go for that,’ she said defensively. ‘Please help! I’ve got to see if I can find Renoir.’
‘Only one way to discover,’ Amandine replied. ‘Although the only other likely reason would be to buy something on the black market, which is illegal.’
‘I haven’t any money anyway,’ Célie said ruefully, smiling herself, happy to change the subject. ‘There was some in Bernave’s desk, but I didn’t take it.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ Amandine agreed. ‘Anyway, if the soldiers didn’t take it themselves, Menou will know how much there was. The last thing either of us needs is to be thrown out for thieving.’ She put her hand in her pocket under her apron and brought out a gold Louis. ‘I wish I had more to give you, but most of mine was spent ages ago. This is the best I can do for Georges. You’re the one running all the risks ...’ There was admiration in her face, and a swift warmth of affection. ‘I do appreciate it. He is the only family I have. But even if he were not, he’d still be one of my dearest friends. Thank you—and for heaven’s sake be careful!’
Célie laughed a little to break the tension. ‘I will! Now let me ask the guard if he will allow me to go and see my lover! I wish I were a better flirt!’
‘So do I!’ Amandine said ruefully. ‘Don’t try too hard. You’ll make him suspicious.’
Célie wrinkled her nose at her. She pushed the coin down her blouse between her breasts and fastened the buttons again.
‘Don’t flirt now!’ Amandine said with a flash of her old lightness. ‘You could have a disaster!’
‘Cat!’ Célie retorted. ‘I’ll leave you to think of a good answer if Madame asks where I am.’ And before Amandine could complain, she went through the back door, taking her cloak off its peg, carrying a shawl, leaving her hair loose.
The guard stopped her as soon as she was in the courtyard.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded. ‘No bread at this hour, Citizeness.’
She smiled at him, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I have an hour or two off, away from the Citizeness’s eye. I. ... To tell you the truth, Citizen, I have a lover. I have not been able to see him since Citizen Bernave was killed. I am only human ... so is he!’ She shrugged very slightly. ‘All I want is a little time with him ... please?’
He considered her appreciatively for a moment, his eyes on her cheeks, her throat, the pale silk of her hair. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t have anything hidden. Citizen Menou’ll have me punished if I don’t.’
‘Of course.’ Her fingers shaking a little, she opened her cloak and invited inspection.
He looked up and down lingeringly, his eyes bright. He smiled and lifted his hands.
Her heart sank. The shiver of revulsion she felt was secondary to her fear that somehow he would feel the coin and ask what it was for, or worse, take it from her. She forced herself to smile back at him. It felt sickly. He must see how artificial it was.
His hands touched her body.
She wanted to hit him as hard as she could. It took all her strength to control the impulse and look at him sweetly instead. She must think of something to distract his attention.
‘You must be cold standing out here by yourself, Citizen,’ she began. What a senseless thing to say!
‘Perishing,’ he agreed.
‘And bored,’ she added. Keep talking, his mind is on what you are saying, not the search. ‘Have you always been a soldier?’ That was it—make him talk about himself—most people liked to talk about themselves. ‘It must be a hard and dangerous life. Perhaps we don’t value you enough—until there’s danger.’
He looked at her with a flash of a different kind of appreciation. ‘That’s certainly true, Citizeness. Hardly anyone sees that.’ His hands patted her skirts, not too closely. He was looking for a knife, not money.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked quickly.
‘Faubourg St-Marcel,’ he replied.
‘Is that where you grew up?’
His face lightened a little, memory awakening. ‘Oh no, I was born in Nemours.’
‘Is it beautiful?’
‘Better than Paris!’ he said with feeling.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘Then we are in your debt that you stay here to serve the revolution. Tell me about Nemours. I’ve never been there.’
He did, haltingly at first, then with increasing ease as memory found the words for him.
She listened, and his search was thorough, but not so intimate as to find the coin. He was not looking for anything so small.
When he had finished she smiled at him again, meaning it this time.
‘Thank you, Citizen.’ Then she hurried out under the arch into the street. She had a considerable way to walk along the Boulevard St-Germain, across the river and along the Rue St-Honoré to where the Jacobin Club was. She went briskly for several reasons: time was short and it was far too cold to dawdle, but also she did not want to attract any attention to herself or seem to be without purpose.
She stopped at a small shop and bought a few dried lentils and a couple of small onions. Of course no one had bread at this hour of the day. This would have to do. It fitted quite easily into the pockets of her skirt.
She thanked the storekeeper and left.
The Jacobin Club, like many other buildings in Paris, had originally belonged to a religious order. It had begun its secular life as a social club for deputies from the provinces and other ‘friends of the revolution’ to spend time together. They enjoyed one another’s society and spent endless hours in talk of ideals, and plans for a glorious and virtuous future. Robespierre, who had no appetite whatsoever for pleasures of the flesh, was to be found there on most evenings. The rooms were ideally suited to the building’s present purpose, and the situation was excellent. Robespierre lodged close by in the house of the carpenter Duplay. The Place de la Révolution, where the guillotine did its bloody business, was only a few hundred yards away.
From such small beginnings the club now had three hundred members who were deputies in the Convention. Other members controlled the Commune and the Paris mob. Recently it had set up affiliates all over France. Its influence was enormous, and its power was growing week by week. During the debates that were held in its rooms the ideas were born which later became the rallying cry for the masses as far afield as the borders with Belgium and Germany in one direction, and the Mediterranean shores in the other.
Certain parts of the club were open to the public if they wished to listen, and in her browns and blues Célie appeared an ordinary enough young, working woman to cause no suspicion as she made her way quietly into the chamber. With a look of great respect in her manner and lowered eyes, she said a discreet ‘Excuse me, Citizen’ and ‘Thank you, Citizen’ as she passed.
She chose a mild-faced young man wearing a woollen jacket and a leather apron to speak to first.
‘Pardon me, Citizen,’ she said politely.
He turned to look at her. A flash of approval lit his face for her fair skin and generous mouth.
‘Yes, Citizeness?’
‘Do you know Deputy Renoir, from Compiègne?’
‘Not to speak to, but I’d recognise him,’ the young man replied. ‘Are you looking for him?’
‘I have a message for him.’ Célie always told the truth if possible. Too many lies become difficult to remember.
‘He’s probably in the chamber,’ he said with half a smile. ‘Camille Desmoulins is speaking. He’s usually worth listening to.’ There was an ambiguous expression in his eyes, as if his opinion jarred with his words, but he had more sense than to say so. Most people thought twice about frankness these days.
She thanked him with an answering smile, and followed him in the direction he led.
There was already a buzz of excitement in the chamber when she squeezed her way in behind him. She found a place to stand, elbow to elbow in the crowd. The room was wood-panelled, which darkened it, and the grey January light from the windows made the candles look yellow. Only the press of bodies warmed it.
A young man with a passionate countenance and the careless dress of an artist was speaking from the rostrum. His words flowed easily, full of grand ideals and hope for a marvellous tomorrow. He praised the virtues of others and seemed convinced of their general goodness. This was Camille Desmoulins, the writer and ardent friend and admirer of Danton.
Célie looked at the faces around her. Everything that Camille was saying she had heard before and could have predicted. Perhaps many of the other people here could as well, but these were the things they wished to hear, and they gave him unqualified approval. She could see him basking in it, his dark eyes glowing, his cheeks flushed.
She dared not ask for Renoir once a speaker had taken the floor. Any interruption would be resented, and she could not afford to incur dislike.
Camille was followed by another equally ardent young man, but he had not spoken for long before Célie realised he had about him a greater pomposity and even less humour. Discreetly she searched the faces around her one after another. Everyone seemed to be listening with total attention. Their expressions were deadly earnest. Perhaps what Bernave said was true: the revolution had taken away everyone’s appreciation of wit.
Was it really necessary to be humourless in order to be good? Could one not possibly bring about social change for the better, and still keep the ability to see the absurd, and to laugh at it?
To judge from those around her, apparently not.
‘Who is he?’ she whispered to the man who had directed her here and who now stood barely a foot away.
‘Fabre d’Eglantine,’ he answered without turning. ‘He is a great poet. He won the Eglantine Laurel a while ago.’
She had never heard of it, but it would obviously not be prudent to say so now. Presumably he had taken his name from the event.
‘How wonderful,’ she replied, knowing he would not understand she meant it was wonderful that anyone so mediocre should win anything.
A middle-aged woman in front told them to hush, and Célie obeyed reluctantly. Almost any conversation would have been more interesting than the tangled nonsense being spoken from the rostrum. If Danton was really this man’s friend, then that fact said more for his loyalty than his political sense, or his literary judgement.
There was no time to waste. If Renoir was not here, where else could she look for him? It would be justifiable to ask further. After all, he was Bernave’s business partner. He had a right to know of Bernave’s death. No one could complain of that.
Fabre came to the end of his speech to enthusiastic applause and his place was taken by a young man with a smooth brow, classic nose and chiselled lips. He would have been beautiful had he shown the slightest warmth or animation. As it was he stared out across the room with the impassivity of a statue, perfectly carved, so flawless as to lack humanity.
‘The vessel of the revolution can arrive in port only on a sea reddened with torrents of blood!’ he cried with ringing fervour, his voice vibrating but his face still curiously impassive. ‘We must not only punish traitors, but all people who are not enthusiastic. There are only two kinds of citizen, the good and the bad. The republic owes the good its protections. To the bad it owes only death!’
Célie looked at the people next to her to see how this extraordinary statement was received. She saw one man wince and his eyes widen. Perhaps he felt the same chill in the stomach and involuntary tightening of muscles that she did. How could all these people stand passively and hear such hysterical words without protest? Did they not have the sense to be frightened? It was as if something in them had died, some laughter and humanity, a sense of proportion to know what was sane, or excessive and absurd.
Except the words were not hysterical in any usual sense. The man who had spoken them remained marble cold as the words poured out of his mouth. There was no ranting, no waving of arms, not even any rise in the pitch of his voice.
‘We will build a new France,’ he went on. ‘Virtues will be paramount. We will sanctify ourselves by our battles, we will be washed clean of vice by our blood. Weakness shall be done away with and we shall rise from the dead in pure, clean power. We shall show the rest of mankind the way forward.’
‘Virtue!’ an old man beside Célie spat the word under his breath, his face creased, the skin rough as if with constant exposure to wind and rain.
She shuffled a trifle to stand closer beside him.
‘Why do you say that, Citizen?’ she whispered.
‘Don’t you know who that is?’ he asked her bitterly.
‘No. Who is it?’
‘Louis Saint-Just,’ he replied with a tiny shiver. ‘He knows anything I would recognise as virtue about as well as I know the King of Spain. He robbed his mother of all her jewels, and ran away to become a worshipper of the Marquis de Sade. He wrote a long, pornographic poem which disgusted even me, and I’m no prude.’
‘Perhaps he’s changed?’ she suggested, not because she believed it, but to see his response.
‘He once wrote to Robespierre telling him “I know you as I know God,” whatever that means,’ the man retaliated with deep sarcasm. She had the conviction that if he had been outside he would have spat on the stones.
‘Not at all, by the sound of it,’ she said, and then wished she had held her tongue, as he looked at her with sudden widening of his eyes, and a flash of warmth, almost hope. That was exactly what Bernave had told her not to do. She realised with a spasm of pain how much she missed his irony, and his courage. She must hurry and find Renoir.
Saint-Just was propounding his plans for the citizens of the future.
‘All boys over five years of age will be taken and cared for by the state,’ he said with humourless determination, gazing out at his silent listeners. ‘They’ll be raised in battalions as soldiers ... or farmers.’
Obviously he had never had a child, never loved it, held it in his arms and felt that protecting it was the most important thing in his life, or he could not have imagined such a world except in nightmare. Célie wondered about girls, but he did not mention them. Perhaps in his world they were not worth it.
‘We shall all wear simple clothes made of coarse cloth, every man alike, ruler and worker and soldier,’ he continued, lost in his dream. ‘We shall sleep on straw mats. He who does not conform must be driven from the gates of the city!’
Célie thought the idea appalling. If that was freedom, then slavery might well be better. At least it allowed for a little individuality, a little colour. She would like to have said that aloud, to see if anyone else felt the same way—claustrophobia closing in on them, the slow sick fear of something terrible and inescapable—but she dared not. No one around her moved or spoke. Disagreement, even questioning, would be seen as counter-revolutionary, and that was a crime.
Bernave had spoken of the danger of this kind of oppression: uniformity, colourlessness, loss of all warmth and passion and laughter. What was the point of life without them? She remembered his face as he had spoken, the power of emotion in him, as if in that moment he had relived some splendour of the soul which had illuminated and made precious all his life since.
She looked at the cold face of Saint-Just and was overwhelmed by the burning need to save the King’s life. He might be stupid, fat, autocratic and totally ineffectual, but he was human. He loved his wife and his children. His weaknesses were those anyone might possess, however profoundly they deplored them. There was a fear in the unknown which was too vast to find the strength to face. Everything precious and familiar was being engulfed in a spiritual void.
Was she as alone here as she felt? Or did any of these people packed around her, with their overcoats steaming, boots sodden, feel as horrified as she did by Saint-Just’s vision? Could it possibly be what they wanted? Or thought they wanted?
She remembered Madame de Staël, her wit and conversation, the endless vivid discussions that would go on all night, full of energy and great bursts of laughter. Perhaps they were unaware of the cold and the hungry thousands shivering only a few hundred yards away on the streets beyond their beautiful houses. But were Saint-Just and his like any more aware?
Célie looked back at the rostrum. Saint-Just was talking about blood again. He seemed obsessed with it. It was disgusting.
But part of her revulsion was because she understood the craving for revenge too hideously well. She would not be here now if she had not betrayed Georges to the National Guard for what she had imagined he had done to cause Jean-Pierre’s death. She could remember the emotions she had felt very clearly, the white-hot hatred, the tireless energy even when her body ached and her mind was exhausted. Nothing had been too hard, if it had served the cause of Georges’ destruction.
Now she was even more ashamed of it. It was not what she wanted to be: a destroyer, consumed with rage and hatred, who damaged everything she touched and spread misery all around her, like someone who carried the plague. Such people incurred hatred in return, or fear, or pity ... never love. They created nothing, gave nothing.
Saint-Just seemed the embodiment of it all as he finally stepped down to tumultuous applause. He did not smile even now.
His place was taken by the huge figure of Danton, who was as unlike him as any man could be. There was nothing cold about him, from his expansive gestures, his volatile temper, his laughter, his appetite, to the plainness of his choice of words. He was as homely as a farmyard, and just as immediate in his impact.
Célie wanted to get out, go and search the other rooms for Renoir, but she could not move without treading on someone’s foot. She would cause a stir if she forced her way. People would notice her and perhaps remember her afterwards. She could not afford that.
She might as well stay here and listen. She studied Danton and wondered what he was like as a person, a friend, even a husband. Bernave had said that he adored his wife, who was a gentle, pretty woman, an innkeeper’s daughter, and a devout Catholic. She remembered the softness in his voice as he had said that, as if she reminded him of someone else. Danton had two sons. Remembering that made him seem more reachable, someone who could speak of realities, not the arid dreams of St-Just or the flowery rhetoric of Fabre d’Eglantine.
The people around her seemed to have relaxed also, as if this was a man they could understand. The room had grown more comfortable. People felt free to glance at each other and exchange a moment of understanding, even a smile. They were no longer afraid of their own thoughts.
Célie could not help wondering what Danton really felt about the King. Had he tried to save him? Would he still, if he could do it without risking his own head? He was not talking about torrents of blood, but rather about real, sensible things: food and boots, and guns for the army in Belgium.
Someone mentioned Marat’s name, and there was a murmur of anger, but it was impossible to tell at whom it was directed. There was a restless energy again, and even the bold sanity of Danton’s voice could not override it. Several people stood rigidly, shifting from one foot to the other as if impatient to move. It was growing hot and airless with the press of bodies. Célie was hemmed in. It was hard to breathe.
Danton was pouring scorn over the ineptitudes of the Girondin government, which had left the armies hungry, half clothed and weaponless. His anger was mounting; his great face twisted with outrage. His voice bellowed. He raised a fist like a ham, clenched as if to shake someone like a rat. If he had punched with it, he could have felled an ox.
All around Célie there were murmurs of uneasy anger. Did the crowd even begin to understand that he was talking about war against France, real violent war with soldiers dead and Belgians or Prussians or Austrians marching unhindered on to French soil, into French towns? Did they see the looting and the burning, the refugees, the dead? Danton had seen it. He had been in Belgium in the midst of war until only a day or two ago.
Didn’t anybody realise that if they executed the King, they would have the English navy down on them as well, and possibly Spanish soldiers on the southern borders?
Without realising it, Célie was clenching her fists too.
Danton finished and she turned and tried to move towards the door, pushing her way without speaking. But before she reached it, the neat, meticulous figure of Robespierre was on the rostrum in Danton’s place, and again she was trapped.
Instantly the shuffling and fidgeting ceased. Robespierre began softly. Around her people strained to hear him. His voice was hoarse, a little whispery, as if he were speaking not to a crowd, but to a few friends in his own salon. Yet his language was pompous and completely impersonal. Célie could not imagine using such a manner towards anyone she knew.
She watched as he leaned forward a little over the rostrum, pushing his green-tinted spectacles up into his head and peering around the room.
‘My friend Danton speaks of food and clothing for our armies in Belgium, and rightly is he concerned for them, as we all are,’ he began. ‘And I defy any man here to prove his interest is in the slightest way shallow, unworthy or dictated by selfish concerns, or the desire for personal gain, the love of indulgence of the fleshly appetites or of beautiful possessions. All who say so are liars, and worse, are blackguards desirous of bringing into disrepute one of the staunchest allies of the revolution, one of the architects of the great new republic we shall build upon the ashes ...’ He hesitated, blinking.
Everyone let out their breath, presuming he had finished.
Then suddenly he went on, a continuation of the same prolonged sentence.
‘... of all the sin of the past, washed clean in the baptism of blood.’
He drew in his breath, his little, nail-bitten hands fluttering. ‘Those who say Danton is carousing with loose women, camp-followers and the like, do not know him as I do.’ He poked the air. ‘I challenge them to put forward their names, and repeat such villainous charges here, from this stand, where we can all judge the worth of them.’ Again he stopped. He stared around the room. No one moved or looked away from his mesmeric gaze. ‘You see!’ he said triumphantly. ‘No one dares repeat such a slander in front of me ... in front of us!’
Silence. Not even a rustle disturbed the room. Beside Célie an old man breathed in raspingly.
‘But we must not lose sight of the real goal, which is a pure, new society,’ Robespierre suddenly went on again. ‘Built upon the virtue of the people, those hard-working men and women who have placed their trust in us ...’ He poured out endless, convoluted sentences, so abstruse and full of hesitations that it was impossible to follow his meaning, but again and again he used words like ‘virtue,’ ‘blood,’ ‘purity’ and ‘hope’.
Célie had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling that for all his protestations of loyalty and admiration, he had planted more suspicion of Danton’s motives than any he had allayed. Was that clumsiness, or intent?
At last he finished. Célie was free to leave. Before anyone else could reach the rostrum and begin she turned to the man who had brought her in.
‘Have you seen Citizen Renoir?’ she asked him.
‘No.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘No, he does not seem to be in here.’
‘Then I must go and look in the rest of the rooms. If you would be good enough to tell me where else I should try, I would be most grateful.’ She must find him. He might have known Bernave long enough, and well enough, to be certain where his loyalties lay. They had trusted each other with money and judgement of business, perhaps Bernave had also trusted him with the plan. She could not help the surge of hope that Renoir would know who was to take the King’s place. It might even be himself.
The man she’d asked was leading the way out and she followed him, elbowing her way through the throng and out into the corridor where it was cooler, and far less suffocating. Which way now? She looked at her guide.
‘I need to see Citizen Barbaroux,’ he excused himself. ‘But you should try that way.’ He indicated, and she thanked him and turned.
Ahead of her a little group of men were huddled close together, talking in voices so low she had to concentrate to hear.
‘I’ve just come from the north,’ one of them said urgently, his thin face pinched with worry, fair hair straggling over his brow and collar. He moved agitatedly from one foot to the other. ‘The news from Austria is bad. I saw soldiers in a terrible state, ragged, boots worn to bits. They said it’s chaos up in the battle lines. Mud everywhere.’ His voice was sharp. ‘Nobody knows what they’re doing. They’re desperate for news from Paris and can’t understand why we don’t help them.’
Another man gave a bitter laugh, but no one answered. It was the truth and there was nothing to say.
‘What about Danton?’ one of the group asked, looking at each of the others in turn. ‘He’s been up to the battle front in Belgium. He knows what it’s like. None of the rest has any idea.’ He sniffed hard. ‘Couldn’t we prevail on him to do something?’
‘Battle front!’ The first speaker almost spat the words. ‘He went to Brussels to loot the palaces and churches. There are bloody great wagonloads of plate and tapestries and linen coming back to Paris! There’s nothing to loot on the Austrian or Prussian battlefields. We’re losing. It’ll be the Emperor Francis’s soldiers and ministers coming to take France’s gold and silver back to Vienna soon.’
They fell into an abrupt silence as a couple of deputies appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Célie approached the group who had been talking.
‘Excuse me, Citizens,’ she said tentatively.
They all turned to look at her, their faces wiped clean from the anger of a few moments since.
‘Are you lost, Citizeness?’ one of them enquired.
‘In a way.’ She forced herself to smile, hoping she did not look as nervous as she felt. ‘I am looking for Citizen Renoir, from Compiègne. I have a message to give him.’
‘Don’t you know him?’
‘No. It is a message from someone else ... who is ill and cannot come themselves. Do you know where I can find him?’
‘What does he look like?’ the fair man asked.
She had no idea. She made a guess, more prompted by hope than knowledge. If he were indeed the one Bernave intended to take the King’s place, then that description would fit.’
‘He is about fifty or so, not very tall, a little ... heavy ...’
‘Yes, yes, I know who you mean.’ The man held his hand up. ‘Obviously not Charles Renoir, he is very tall. You mean the other Renoir.’
‘Yes, Henri Renoir,’ Célie agreed. ‘Do you know where he is, please?’
He directed her round the corner and up a steep flight of stairs. In the dark-panelled room at the top she found a group of men in close conversation.
‘Excuse me, Citizen Renoir?’ she asked.
One of them turned. ‘Are you looking for me?’
‘Citizen Henri Renoir?’ Her heart plunged into disappointment. He looked very little like the pictures of the King she had seen. His heaviness was a breadth of shoulder and chest, not corpulence, and his features were blunt and powerful. No one would have mistaken him for the long-nosed, flabby Louis Capet.
‘Yes.’ He turned and came towards her. ‘What can I do for you, Citizeness?’
‘May I speak with you privately? It is a delicate matter I have been asked to tell you.’ She saw the look of alarm in his face. ‘It is not personal, Citizen!’ she assured him. ‘It is an issue of business, but I expect you would rather speak in private. I work in Citizen Bernave’s house, on the Boulevard St-Germain.’
His anxiety cleared.
‘Oh! Yes, I see. Of course. I am sure we can find a more discreet place.’ He excused himself to the other men and led her out of the room and along the corridor to a stretch where there was no one else. ‘Now, what is it, Citizeness?’
She searched his face as well as she could in the wavering light from the torches on the wall. She saw no sign of grief, or of fear, but he was guarded. There was no trust in him. She did not imagine his patience was long. There was a scar down his left cheek which looked as if it had been made by a blade. A soldier or a street fighter?
‘Citizen Bernave is dead,’ she said simply.
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘Bernave dead? I didn’t know. The last I heard he was quite well. I’m sorry.’
It was not the reaction she had expected. Why was he not shocked, distressed, even alarmed?
‘He was murdered,’ she said abruptly.
Now he was startled. ‘Poor Bernave,’ he said, his voice dropping. He bit his lip. ‘I should have seen that coming.’
‘Why?’ Then as soon as she had said it she realised it was too forward. She had told him she was Bernave’s servant. That gave her no right to ask such questions. Perhaps he would assume that she spoke from shock or fear. She should try to look a little more distressed and vulnerable.
He shook his head. ‘Dangerous times,’ he replied.
That answer was of no help. She blinked, as if to control tears.
‘Then we could all be murdered!’ she exclaimed. ‘Citizen Bernave was stabbed in his own house! By someone living there.’ That should shake him out of his philosophical mood!
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Was he?’ But still he did not seem amazed. ‘Poor Bernave,’ he repeated.
She stared at him, trying to understand.
‘I’m sorry to bring you such news, Citizen.’ She must go on, give him the excuse she had worked out. ‘Madame Lacoste has the business papers. I don’t know what you may need, but until they have arrested someone, the National Guard are in the house and will not let any of us out, except Amandine, the cook, sometimes, or me, to do the shopping.’
This time he looked at her more closely. There still seemed little dismay in him, but there was something which might have been sadness. He shook his head. ‘What an ironic way to end.’
She went back to the only thread she could think of that could justify her. ‘Madame Lacoste is sorting through the business papers,’ she said again. ‘His part of the business belongs to Marie-Jeanne now.’
‘Of course—his daughter! Naturally.’ He nodded, the light flickering on his blunt, powerful face. ‘But it is all of the business, not part of it. I ceased to have any share over a year ago.’
Now it was she who was startled. ‘Did you? I ... I didn’t know.’ Her mind raced. ‘Is there someone else I should tell?’
He seemed amused. ‘No. No one but a lunatic would take up with Bernave. A madman, but clever. Knew the trade inside out by then.’
‘And you ... don’t mind?’ It was an impertinent question, but she tried to make it sound like concern, and to keep the bitter disappointment out of her face. She realised how much she had hoped from him, and it seemed none of it could be true. Certainly he could not replace the King for an instant, and it appeared he had broken with Bernave and would not even know anything to help. But why had he said Bernave was a madman? What did he know of him?
Now Renoir was amused. ‘Me? Not at all. We were good partners for years—ever since he got out of prison. He had the brains and the imagination, I had the money and the contacts.’
She must have misheard him. ‘I thought you said “prison”!’
He looked at her with a funny, twisted smile. Perhaps there was pity in it. ‘You didn’t know? Why should you? You are not the cook, what are you? Laundress? Well, it hardly matters now. Someone has been asking. I thought it was all out.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, when I first met him he had only been free a few days. Had nothing but the clothes he stood up in, and his brains and his nerve. Any amount of nerve.’
Célie swallowed the choking lump in her throat, her heart beating so she felt that he must see her shaking from it.
‘What was he in prison for?’ She heard the catch in her own voice.
‘Rape. Twelve years, roughly. He was out on licence.’
She did not believe it. Not Bernave. It was nothing like the man she knew. She could not even imagine it.
He must have seen the disbelief in her face.
‘He was guilty.’ He lifted his shoulder in a slight shrug and there was an expression of repugnance in his lips. ‘He never denied it. A twelve-year-old girl. Beautiful, so I heard. A rich man’s daughter.’ His voice dropped as if pity for her still moved him. ‘She had a child. It ruined her life. No decent marriage was possible after that. Family were bitterly ashamed, as if she were soiled and it was somehow a mark on all of them. I don’t know what they did with her. I think one of the convents took her in.’
Célie could not take her eyes from his face. For a few moments the passage around her ceased to exist. Everything dwindled to what she could see in the light from the torch on the wall, and Renoir telling her of a tragedy and guilt so terrible she could not even think of Bernave’s name without fury. Everything she had thought she knew of him was false, a mask behind which there was only horror.
‘Bernave went to prison,’ he continued. ‘Twelve years, roughly. I think he lost count himself. A fearful place. He was about twenty when it happened. It would have broken most men.’
She wanted to say something, but there were no words for the confusion of emotions she felt. And she was vulnerable in front of Renoir. How could Bernave, the subtle, clever, passionate man she had known—and he had been passionate about saving the King, and preventing war and the chaos and hunger it would bring; and about other things, his books, the whole world of thought and beauty—how could such a man have descended to the bestiality, the utter, consuming selfishness of despoiling a twelve-year-old child?
Renoir was staring at her. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’ There was pity for her in his face now. ‘I’m sorry. But it doesn’t matter any more. Bernave’s dead too. It’s all history.’
Didn’t matter? It mattered hideously. Perhaps everything turned on it. If Bernave would do that, he could surely do anything at all. Betraying those plotting to save the King’s life to the Commune would be nothing in comparison. That might conceivably be justified by political belief. Nothing justified raping a child.
And there was another thing. Renoir had said someone else was asking about Bernave. Who? The sudden and awful fear was that it had been St Felix. They had known each other in the past. Was this how?
‘Who ... who else was looking for him about this?’ Her voice was a little husky.
Renoir pushed his lip out in a gesture of disdain. ‘I don’t know. I only heard. People were talking. It’s all past, years ago.’
‘It doesn’t matter to you?’ she said immediately.
He smiled, his face crooked, ugly and humorous. ‘I accepted the man I knew when I knew him. That was twenty-three years ago, before he married or Marie-Jeanne was born. He had intelligence and wit. I had money and no idea how to use it to make more. We were a good partnership, and—I’ll be honest—I liked him. What he had been was none of my business. He was fair with me.’
‘But you broke the partnership!’ Célie challenged him.
‘Only when he started taking up political causes. That’s no part of trade or making money. A wise man listens and learns everything he can, and says as little as possible.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ she accused. ‘Just to listen?’
‘Yes ... and to say nothing at all, except agree with the right people.’ His eyes were mild, laughing at her.
‘Then you’d better agree with Citizen Robespierre!’ she retaliated.
‘Oh, I have, Citizeness,’ he said quietly, his voice suddenly bitter. ‘And you would be wiser to go home and tend to your laundry, or whatever it is you do, and not ask questions about the dead.’
The heat washed up her face. Now she wanted to escape. The Jacobin Club had become suffocating. Even the wind and rain of the street outside would be better. She must see Georges, tell him what had happened. This threw everything into turmoil again. No one could be trusted.
‘Thank you ... Citizen,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You have been very kind. I beg your pardon if I was rude.’
He shrugged, dismissing it, and turned away just as a group of earnest young men came around the corner from the stairs, all talking at once.
Outside in the street again the icy air was like a slap across the face, tingling the skin and making her gasp. She pulled her shawl more tightly round her neck and shoulders and started to walk as quickly as she dared, trying not to slip on the wet cobbles in the fitful light from windows and the occasional torch as people passed by. She could smell the smoke in the air, and the tar.
There were shouts. Now and again a musket fired as National Guardsmen faced sporadic violence over in the distance to the east.
She reached the river, a void of impenetrable darkness beneath her as she went over the Pont Neuf. She could hear its freezing waters sucking and swirling around the stone piers, and a hundred yards away to the east the red reflections of more torches dancing like fire on the ripples.
It was three-quarters of an hour later when Célie felt her way in the bitter darkness up the steps to Georges’ attic and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. Could he be asleep? It was early for that, but then in the cold and the dark, virtually imprisoned as he was, why not? She should have brought him some candles from the house as well as the food she had bought, but she had not dared. They were too easily counted. Madame Lacoste almost certainly knew how many there were. Apart from that, any search, even half competent, would have found them hidden in Célie’s clothes.
She knocked again, more urgently.
There was still no answer.
This could not be right. She beat on the door, using the flat of her hand to make more noise.
Silence. Nothing moved anywhere.
Her heart was thumping so wildly she could barely control herself. Her thoughts leaped ahead, far too close to panic already. Was Georges ill? Injured? If he had gone away, then why? Where was he?
Without realising it she was banging on the door again. She snatched her hand away. She was making far too much noise. She shrank back against the wall, feeling sick.
Georges! Where was he?
Had Bernave betrayed him after all? Had they come and arrested him? How would she ever know? He could be anywhere! In one of the Commune prisons already ... facing the guillotine tomorrow. He could be dead, and she would never know, never be able to help!
Where could she go? Who could she ask?
No one.
She felt the hot tears sting her eyes. It was too big a hurt to bear. He could be killed—all that life and courage, the smile, the memories, the belief ... all destroyed. How could she tell Amandine? On top of her fear for St Felix it would be more than she could bear. She had loved Georges all her life. He was her only link with everything in the past that had been sweet and good.
How could Célie herself bear it? It was as if the darkness and the cold had settled inside her, bone deep. She had never in her life been so alone. Who else could she tell about Bernave? Who else would understand, would be as shattered and wounded as she was? Who else was there for a hundred other things, if Georges was gone?
She did not know how long she sat there crumpled up on the stairs, growing stiffer, losing the sensation in her hands and feet, and not caring. All she could feel was the void inside and the terrible ache of loss. She was afraid for Amandine; she dare not ever imagine her fear for herself.
The sound of steps coming closer, the creak of wood, were almost on her before she was aware of them. Then it was too late to escape. Whoever it was must be on the same flight as she was. The National Guard, or whoever had arrested Georges, were coming back! They were coming to see what else they could find, or who else.
If they took her wherever he was, she might be able to do something!
No, that was idiotic. There was nothing anyone could do, not against the Commune. Georges was a wanted man, because she had made him so.
That was it! She would have to tell them she had lied, and why. It was the only way she could rescue him, and redress the wrong she had done. Then they would execute her instead. Maybe she deserved that.
She stood up cautiously. Her legs were tingling. She had been sitting on her feet and they had become numb in the cold and the cramped position. It was all she could do not to cry out. It was hard to remain upright.
Why was there no light? Why did they not have torches?
The wood was creaking, only a yard or two away. She could sense someone very close to her.
Were they as aware of her?
Then he was there, almost falling over her. He grasped her, holding her hard, drawing his breath in sharply with surprise. She could smell his skin, the warmth of him, the feel of his sleeve against her face, the roughness of his cheek.
‘Célie!’
‘Georges?’ She gasped and found herself choking in relief, joy, tears streaming down her face. ‘Georges!’ Now it was fury as well. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, swallowing hard and having to sniff.
He was still holding her tightly, as if she might fall over were he to let her go, and she was clinging on to him to hold herself up. Had he noticed the tears on her skin? He must not know how she had felt. That would be mortifying. It could change everything.
‘Come inside,’ he whispered back, his lips close to her ear.
She regained control of herself with difficulty. Thank goodness it would be dark enough inside and he would not be able to see her expression, or how she was shaking. ‘There is something I must tell you!’ she gasped, swallowing again.
‘What’s happened?’ He hesitated, his voice sharp with anxiety. He must have heard the tears in her voice. ‘Did you find Renoir?’ He kept his tone very level, but the rough edge was there, the knowledge of the danger. He pushed the door open and guided her in, then closed it behind them and fumbled his way over to the stub of the candle and lit it. The room was icy.
‘What is it?’ he repeated, staring at her. ‘What happened?’
‘I saw Renoir.’ She tried to steady her voice but her throat was still thick with tears. The relief of finding Georges, of hearing his voice, knowing he was here so close she could have taken a step and touched him, was almost dizzying. The words poured out with all the pain, the anger and the need to understand. ‘He isn’t a partner any more. He met Bernave years ago. He had the money and Bernave had the brains. But he broke the agreement when Bernave started getting too involved in politics ...’
‘Just a minute!’ A flame flared up, catching the wick and burning more brightly. Georges’ face was haggard. There were shadows under his eyes and stubble on his chin. He looked exhausted—beaten. ‘You’re going too quickly. It doesn’t matter about the past, what about Renoir now? Can he help us?’
‘Yes it does matter. It could change everything!’
He caught the panic in her. ‘Why, Célie? What did Renoir say?’ He had put the candle-holder down and come towards her.
She forced her voice to be steady.
‘That when he first met him, Bernave was just out of prison ... for raping a twelve-year-old girl.’ It was out; she was no longer alone with the knowledge. She could not steady her voice. ‘He got her with child. Her family abandoned her. Her whole life was destroyed.’ The tears ran helplessly down her face. ‘Georges, how could he ... how could anybody do that? Bernave wasn’t ... the man I thought I knew! But I don’t know anything!’ Her fists were clenched, her body aching with the effort of control. ‘How could I talk to him every day, listen to what he believed, carry messages for him, and see nothing of what he really was?’ She could hear her voice rising, out of control.
She wanted Georges to tell her it was not true, that there was some explanation which would make it all right. She was being a child. She stared at him, seeing the weariness in his face, the lines of strain. All the confidence and the ease had gone. He looked as tired and frightened as everyone else.
‘That’s not all,’ she said wretchedly, hating herself for having to tell him the rest. ‘Renoir said someone else had been asking questions about Bernave too. He didn’t know who.’
Georges was fighting for reason, for sense in it all. She could see it in his eyes. ‘You think it was St Felix?’ he asked, struggling for understanding.
She nodded, barely perceptibly, as if the smallness of the movement could make the reality less.
‘Don’t tell Amandine,’ he said quickly. ‘Not unless you have to.’
Célie could see how much that would hurt him. He cared for her deeply. Her pain would be his. It was there, naked, in his eyes.
She felt a hot wave of jealousy. No one cared so much for her hurt and loneliness; no one loved her in that way, with such warmth and unquestioning loyalty.
And yet if he had not cared for Amandine, Célie would have thought so much less of him. What would he be worth if he could not love, if it were an emotion he could turn on or off as was convenient to him, if he shared only laughter and good company, never the loss or the wounds?
She stifled her own feelings of loneliness. ‘No, of course I won’t,’ she answered. ‘Anyway, it may not have been him: it could be anyone.’
‘What do you think?’ he asked gravely.
She started to reply as she would have less than a day ago, then stopped. With amazement she realised he needed comfort. He had changed since the last time they had sat here talking. Some hope, some confidence in him had gone. This was a blow which was very nearly too much for him. For the first time since she had known him, Georges was vulnerable—not in physical danger but in confusion, in emotional hurt he could not overcome.
She wanted intensely to give him the right answer, one which was the truth, and yet would restore the core of belief he had lost. It made her newly alone in a different way. He was not there to support her any more, to shore up her courage. She must be the one to help him. Without even being aware of it, she moved closer to him, putting out a hand to touch his arm.
‘I would understand if it were him,’ she said gently, and with far more certainty in her voice than she felt, and more courage. ‘If that girl were part of my family, a sister, I would have killed Bernave.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ He put his hand over hers. She felt the touch of his fingers, gentle, but as cold as she was. ‘I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t,’ she said quickly, answering his grip. ‘But it would have been fair enough if you had.’ It was the only time he had mentioned her revenge for Jean-Pierre. She had more than deserved it, and yet it had been only a slip of the tongue, not intended. She wanted to cover it quickly, not let the moment lie. It was Amandine and St Felix who mattered—and Georges.
‘If that is what happened, we shall have to help ... protect him if we can.’
Georges said nothing.
‘I know it would be hard for Amandine,’ she went on, leaning a little forward, studying his face, searching for anything that would give him hope or comfort. ‘But if that’s what happened, she may find she can understand it. It would not be impossible for her to reconcile with what she believes of him. She’ll want to understand.’
‘I know ... I know,’ he agreed. ‘But how can we protect St Felix?’ His face tightened. ‘I’m saying “we,” as if I could do anything. I mean, how can you? Do you know what happened to the knife?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But there must be places in the house it could be. The rooms are full of loose floorboards, and cupboards with holes in them. Whoever it was could have put the knife close by at the time, and then moved it later.’
‘Or gone over the roof as you did,’ he added. ‘If they had the nerve!’ There was admiration in his voice and in what she could see of his exhausted face in the guttering candlelight. There was no pretence in it, no deliberate flattery or charm. She saw it like a sudden blossoming of warmth inside her.
‘Menou searched the roof,’ Célie answered. ‘And there were men all around the streets. But not finding the knife is only half the answer.’ She hated being so miserably practical. ‘He isn’t going to let it go. I wish I knew of some way of getting him out of the house, giving up on the case—or even thinking he had some other kind of answer ...’ She trailed off, knowing that there was no other. Menou would only rest when he knew and could prove who had killed Bernave.
Georges did not argue or bother to point that out to her. He knew she already realised it.
‘Be careful!’ he said softly, searching her eyes. ‘He’ll be watching you. Don’t take food. Madame Lacoste will know what’s in the larder. I’ll manage some other way.’
‘If there was another way, you’d have done it already,’ she said drily. She took what she had bought him out of her pocket and passed it across.
He accepted it, half hiding a smile. It was the first time the tension and misery had left his face since he had come back, and she had seen in the candlelight how bad he looked.
‘Thank you,’ he accepted. ‘But don’t run any more risks.’ He put it on the table near the stove. The room was so small he did not have to stand to reach.
‘It’s not a risk,’ she answered. ‘But I’ll be careful.’ She saw the disbelief in his face. ‘It isn’t! Amandine gave me the money, but in future she and I can just eat a little less. Madame Lacoste isn’t mean, she doesn’t run the rations short. I think she’s terrified either Fernand or her husband killed Bernave.’
‘Why?’ Georges asked, his eyes wide. ‘If they knew he was trying to save the King they would all have had a motive. They’d disagree with it morally and politically, but if they turned him in, then the house would be confiscated and they’d lose their home. But if they didn’t know, then St Felix was the only one with any cause.’ His face was pinched again with pain and the bitter hurt of disillusion. All the confidence, the laughter and the ease were stripped from him, leaving him completely unguarded. He was in half-shadow as the candle burned almost to the bottom, the tallow running over.
‘What about the King?’ he said. ‘Can we still try?’
‘Because of St Felix?’ she said. ‘If he killed Bernave, it doesn’t mean he would betray us. He’s no Communard.’
He frowned. ‘I could understand it ... but why couldn’t he have waited just a few days more? It must have been thirty-five years—what would a few days matter?’
‘Perhaps he only just found out. Perhaps ...’ she trailed off. He did not need it spelled out.
He pushed his hand through his hair, dragging it back off his brow. ‘If they execute the King it will take a miracle to save us from war.’ There was black laughter and anguish in his voice. ‘And since there is now no God, that is unlikely! There’s only one good thing about the official end of deity. At least Robespierre cannot claim divine approval for what he does, or that he speaks the will of God. There’s nothing left now but human reason and human acts. What we don’t do ourselves will not be done.’
She closed her eyes. ‘What a terrible thought!’ She meant it. It was as if an abyss had opened in front of her, bottomless, and there was nothing to safeguard her, or anyone, from being sucked into it.
She felt his hand close over hers, warmer now. He did not say anything. They were simply together on the brink, not each alone. He bent forward and for a moment his lips brushed her cheek.
Then she took a step backward, before the moment could linger too long, or be explained away. She wanted to keep it exactly as it was, to remember that touch as if it were for ever. ‘I’ll try to get you a candle,’ she promised huskily. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night, Célie,’ he whispered.