ST FELIX FOUND IT almost beyond bearing to remain imprisoned in the house on the Boulevard St-Germain. He was helpless to do anything either for himself or for the cause. He had not even the comfort of manual work as Fernand or Monsieur Lacoste had. He could not concentrate his mind to his usual solace of reading.
Célie had gone out to see the last two drivers, and of course to shop for the household daily portion of bread and whatever else she could find. She looked exhausted; her thick, pale hair always had a kind of beauty, but her skin was now so pale her eyes were shadowed around and her lips almost colourless. There was an energy, a passion in her that St Felix found uncomfortable. Amandine was gentler, easier to be with. But there was also something in her which reminded him of Laura, and that he could not bear. Even a year after her death she was never far from his mind. She had been the core of his life, the reason for everything—good and bad.
Now she was gone, and all their years together were irretrievable, and that was the true agony of his life which consumed all else, like a darkness that took the light.
He looked out of his bedroom window. Of course the soldiers were still standing around outside and he could see their blue uniforms and the cockades of their hats. Two of them had muskets. They came and went. Sometimes there were more, sometimes fewer, but always at least one. Menou seemed determined to find out who had killed Bernave.
St Felix knew he was Menou’s prime suspect. Every time Menou asked questions he made that more and more apparent.
What was the guillotine like? He knew the ritual well enough. The condemned person was taken from the Palais de Justice to the Salle des Mortes—the hall of the dead—until the executioner came, Charles-Henri Sanson. Your hair was cut and, if you wanted it, one of the juring priests still allowed would hear your confession.
Did he want that? He still did not know. Yes ... and yet it terrified him. Perhaps. Afterwards it was too late.
Then your shirt or bodice was slit at the neck, your wrists were tied behind your back, and you were taken to the courtyard, and then your name was called out and the crowd jeered at you. Half a dozen at a time, you were loaded into the red tumbrels escorted by mounted guardsmen, and set out for the Place de la Revolution, and the scaffold.
Once there you were all lined up in rows, backs to the blade itself, until your name was called again. Then you mounted the steps, your legs were bound together, you were laid on the bascule, the leather strap buckled round your body to hold you down. The bascule was levelled, your head put in the lunette, the two halves closed together—ready for the knife.
Was it really quick, almost no pain at all—no time for it? Or was it, as some people said, that you went on living afterwards, for minutes, in indescribable agony? There were stories of heads that had moved, eyes, tongues ... It was also the things before death that terrified. The pain, the terror, the humiliation of losing control of bodily function.
Was death annihilation, a black, endless silence, and peace at last? Or was it something else? Was there judgement, a reliving of all the cruel, cowardly, or selfish things one had ever done, condemned to see oneself in ugly and pathetic nakedness? That was the truly awful darkness that he could not look at.
There was a knock on the door. Please heaven it was not Amandine. He had not the strength to be kind, and she did not deserve to be hurt.
The knock sounded again. He was sweating, his stomach sick.
‘Come in.’
It was Monsieur Lacoste.
‘Yes?’ St Felix said abruptly.
Monsieur Lacoste looked anxious, his eyes narrowed, his face tense. He pushed past St Felix into the room and pulled the door closed behind him.
‘Menou has been here again, asking more questions.’ He spoke very quietly, as if he were afraid of being overheard, even here in the house.
St Felix felt his stomach clench. ‘He will—until he knows what happened,’ he replied, struggling to keep his voice level. ‘He has to have some answer to take back to the Commune.’
‘I know that!’ Monsieur Lacoste agreed, nodding very slightly. ‘He won’t give up. His job depends on it. If I were he, I wouldn’t want to go back and tell Marat and the Commune that someone had killed a loyal revolutionary, but I couldn’t find out who—would you?’
St Felix swallowed hard. His heart felt as if it were choking him, beating too high in his chest. It was difficult to catch his breath. He had seen Menou watching him, heard the direction of his questions. Was that what Monsieur Lacoste meant now?
‘It’s—it’s nothing to do with the Commune!’ he protested.
‘True,’ Monsieur Lacoste said with a harsh laugh, cut off with anger. ‘But when did that ever stop Marat?’
‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ St Felix said, despair engulfing him.
Monsieur Lacoste moved half a step closer to him. ‘Yes there is. Bernave treated you abominably, sending you out at all hours, in all weathers. He abused your loyalty to the cause. We all saw that. No one blames you.’ He held up his hand to silence St Felix’s argument. ‘I don’t know whether you killed him or not, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. But I know what Menou thinks, and if you are honest so do you.’
Everything he said was true. And no one would bother with a trial now, of all times. It would be prison one day, crammed in with a dozen others, then at dawn the short ride to the guillotine, the great triangular blade with its scarlet edge. The last thing on earth you would hear would be the scream of the knife falling—then what? Oblivion? Or not? Perhaps you did not go instantly, but faded, seeing your own head in Sanson’s basket, and your soul, your self, would make a slow journey ... where? Into darkness—darkness for which there was never again any light.
St Felix felt sick.
Monsieur Lacoste was staring at him. His face seemed very close.
‘You all right?’ His voice was curiously echoing. ‘Look, if you want to make a run, I’ll keep the guard distracted. There’s only the one right now.’
He did not really need Lacoste to tell him. He had seen it yesterday, and had simply refused to recognise it.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you.’ It crossed his mind that Lacoste was doing this to get rid of Menou as much as for St Felix. Perhaps he was guilty himself, or he was afraid it was Fernand. Maybe one of the Lacostes knew about Bernave’s plan for the King. None of that mattered any more. It couldn’t succeed anyway. But it was important to take the travel passes with him, so Menou would not find them. He would discover a way of getting them to Célie somehow. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Just give me a moment. The picture of my wife ... a few things, not much ...’
‘Hurry!’ Lacoste urged. ‘When he comes back it may be too late.’
‘I know ... a minute ... just one.’
Monsieur Lacoste stepped back and went to the far side of the door.
St Felix picked up the painting of Laura, and the passes, and followed after him.
Georges woke cold and stiff, the grey light coming in through the window. This was the last day of the King’s life. This time tomorrow he would be dead, the people’s decision irrevocable, and everything that would follow from it. They had less than twenty-four hours to do everything that was left.
He turned over, pulling the thin blanket with him, and realised just how cold he was. There was no fuel left, and that had been the last candle. He should get up. At least movement would warm him to some degree.
He thought of Célie. Then he remembered last night, and what she had told him of Bernave and the child he had raped. His body was locked so tight with misery that now he ached all over as if he had been beaten. He could hardly feel his feet. All sorts of fears had filled his mind about Bernave—about who had killed him and why, about his loyalties, or his betrayals—but his wildest thought had never created anything like this.
He remembered when he had first met Bernave. It had been September, hot and suffocatingly still. The Marseillais, the rabble army who had poured out of the dockyards and prisons of Marseille and Genoa, and marched on Paris, were everywhere. Crowds milled around the streets, the smell of fear in the air. Célie had betrayed him to the National Guard ... and then risked her life to warn him before it was too late.
Something she had seen in Madame de Staël had changed her. But Madame de Staël belonged to the past, gone, like so many of the old values and the old dreams. Gone, like the rich, gentle land of his home. Georges had not realised how much the place was woven into the fabric of his identity until it was lost. He could not bear to remember the spoiling of it, the ignorance and stupidity that had destroyed centuries of nurture.
September, with its horror and madness, was different, an eruption of hell into everyday life, rather than the violation of his home, the heart of what made him.
The arrests had begun on 29 August—all manner of people, mostly ordinary: shopkeepers, traders, artisans, petit-bourgeois, not only to be imprisoned but to be robbed. Many old enmities were satisfied. Men with money were chosen, and, of course, in the rage against the Church—priests, scores of priests.
Then early in the morning of Sunday, 2 September, the news had come that the Duke of Brunswick had broken through the French defending forces at Verdun and was marching on Paris. The Commune had sounded the tocsin, and salvos of gunfire had added to the general panic. Notices had been posted around the city reading ‘The people themselves must execute justice. Before we hasten to the frontiers, let us put bad citizens to death.’
What followed then had drenched Georges’ waking thoughts and made nightmares of his dreams. The streets were teeming with people crushed together, sweating in the heat. Georges had been within a quarter of a mile of the prison at the old Abbey of St-Germain-des-Prés. A group of men had been singing that tune which was now more terrible than any words. Even a few bars of it still knotted his stomach.
Then in his mind he was back in the prison of the Carmes again, the smell of dust, closed air, the sweat of terror. Like a tide the rabble had swept in, shouting, bursting open the cells, and gone through and down the fine, curved steps that descended on the other side of the shallow railing into the garden. He saw the marbles above the graves. Even in the stifling heat the white statues were like cold flesh.
It was there, inside the Carmes, that he had seen Bernave for the first time. He must have been caught up by the crowd as well, because he was obviously also a prisoner. He was sitting on the bench opposite, but unlike those to either side of him, he did not betray his fear. He sat upright, hands by his sides, and stared impassively straight ahead, although he appeared to see nothing. His mind was turned totally inward.
Two of the Marseillais had come and hauled away one of the priests. One of those left had crossed himself, his hand shaking.
A moment later another priest had been taken away.
Bernave had turned to Georges, his thick, black hair, unmarked by a tonsure.
‘Are you a Catholic?’ he had asked.
Georges had been startled. ‘No,’ he had said honestly. He was born Catholic, of course, but had long since ceased to believe. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. If you want absolution, or someone to pray with you, ask one of the others.’ He had jerked his arm to indicate the dozen or so priests still left.
‘It’s a little late for that,’ Bernave had answered. ‘What I want is to get out of here alive, and not be executed for something I didn’t do.’ There had been a curious bitterness in his voice as he’d said that, as if it had some dreadful double meaning. ‘I will swear for you as a loyal supporter of the Commune, if you will do the same for me?’ He had made it a question, spoken under his breath—not that the priests with closed eyes and prayers on their lips had been taking any notice of either of them.
Georges had seized the opportunity. He had had no idea who Bernave was, and didn’t care.
‘Of course. My name is Georges Coigny. What’s yours?’
‘Victor Bernave.’
They had exchanged more information hastily, whispering so low it was beyond the ears of the others in the room. More priests had been taken out. None had come back.
Eventually it had been Bernave’s turn. He’d been led away.
Georges had sat waiting, his mouth dry, his body shaking.
Then the soldiers had come for him. He’d been led into a passageway where a fat man had been sitting behind a table, his belly resting against the edge. His sleeves had been rolled up and his arms stained with blood.
‘Who are you?’ he had demanded.
‘Georges Coigny,’ Georges had stammered.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work for Citizen Bernave, of the Commune,’ he had lied instantly. If Bernave was as good as his word, he might be allowed to live; if not, he had nothing to lose anyway.
‘And what does Citizen Bernave do?’ the man had asked with a sneer.
‘Keep the good citizens of the Commune informed on the actions of their enemies, the enemies of the people and of the revolution and the liberty we are all fighting for,’ Georges had said boldly.
The man had looked sceptical.
Georges had waited, his heart pounding so violently he’d felt as though his whole body were jerking with it.
The man had relaxed at last. ‘So he says. Told me he was a friend of Citizen Marat! Is that true?’
‘Of course,’ Georges had lied again, despising himself for it. How could anyone willingly claim friendship with Marat?
The man had turned to one of the guards. ‘Take him out through the garden ... and let him go. I mean it! He may be a friend of Citizen Marat. Let him go into the street, you hear me?’
‘Yes, Citizen!’
Wordlessly Georges had followed the guard out and down the flight of steps into the garden. The sight that had met his eyes was beyond imagination. Bodies had been lying in heaps, mangled, beaten to death, the dead and the dying together. Some had literally been torn apart. Dismembered limbs had soaked the grass with blood. Entrails had lay on the steps. Already in the heat the flies had begun to gather.
Georges had floundered through it.
He had found Bernave outside in the street, waiting for him. Together they had walked back dazed, in a silent companionship of horror. Near the river they had met a young man, elegantly dressed but his jacket slightly awry, his hair ruffled, his cravat a little to the left. In the strange evening light he had looked like a bedraggled bird. He had regarded them curiously, two men walking side by side, staring ahead, not speaking and yet in some way very much together.
‘Have you had an accident?’ he had asked. ‘There’s blood all over you!’ Then he had looked beyond them at the sky. ‘What’s that?’
Bernave had turned towards the glare, his features lit by it for a moment, showing his clear, almost brilliant eyes. ‘The light?’ he’d asked. ‘Bonfires. They have lit them to see what they are doing, I suppose.’
‘Doing?’ The young man had had an innocent, pleasant face. He’d probably been about twenty-four. ‘At this hour? I say, are you sure you are all right? You look terrible!’
‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ Georges had said hoarsely.
The young man had blushed. ‘Me? To the theatre, and then a party. Why?’
‘To the theatre ...’ Georges had repeated vacuously, hysteria welling up inside him. He had started to laugh and had felt Bernave’s hand like a vice on his arm. He’d stopped suddenly, the pain making him wince.
‘Why? What are they doing?’ The young man had still seemed undisturbed.
‘Do you see that?’ Bernave had pointed downwards. ‘There, running in the gutter?’
The young man had bent forward, his eyes following Bernave’s finger.
‘They are killing all the prisoners,’ Bernave had said, his voice shaking with anger and pain. ‘That is blood you can see. The gutters of Paris are running with human blood.’
From that night had begun the friendship between Georges and Bernave. They had gone back to Bernave’s house in the Boulevard St-Germain and drunk wine together in silence until they’d fallen asleep. The following day they had eaten the last decent food Bernave had in the kitchen, and talked of all manner of things that were good and sane and beautiful, it did not matter from where or when. Gradually they had mentioned other things, regret for the loss of loveliness.
Georges had spoken instinctively of his land and his home, always swift to his mind, the loss raw. They had both mourned that ease of friendship was gone—trust in the passing stranger or the turn of good fortune. Bernave had said something of the quiet certainties of faith no longer being there, in the eye or in the heart. Georges had thought from the shadow of laughter in his eyes that he meant faith of others, but from the sorrow in him, perhaps it was for himself also.
Lastly they had spoken of the King: what a fool he was, and what greater fools were those who would destroy him without the least idea of who or what would take his place.
At the kitchen table, with the sunlight streaming in through the long windows, had been born their determination to try to avert the disasters they’d seen ahead for France.
Now Georges was sitting in the grey daylight, shivering and wretched, and all that certainly was shattered, and Bernave himself was dead, whoever, whatever he had been.
He might not be back again. He took the last of his bread and wine and went out into the winter day to check for a last time on the crowd for storming the King’s carriage tomorrow. Then he must get the travel passes. Célie had said St Felix had them. If he waited she would almost certainly come out—she always did, to queue for bread. He would see her and ask her. There might be no other chance. He wanted to see her. It mattered with a breathtaking sharpness he was unprepared for. It was worth the risk, even in daylight, even with Menou’s men in the streets.
He did not say so in words, even to himself, but since they had not found Briard, for whom the fourth pass was intended, it would be the last time. That hurt more than the knowledge of what the crowd would do to him, which would be violent, terrible, but quick, all over in a minute. But he would never be able to say to Célie all the things he wanted to, needed to. They had shared so much that was hard, but the laughter and the gentleness would be denied them, the time to learn the little things that make pleasure unique, to explore joy and pain together, to grow old.
And that was what he wanted, time with Célie, to share anything and everything.
He must not think of it. It was the one regret which would break him. He forced it out of his mind and walked faster.
When he was in the Rue de Seine almost opposite the Bernave house on the Boulevard St-Germain, he saw a man climb out of the window of the front room on to the street. Very carefully peering both ways as if to make sure he was unobserved, he then hurried east, as fast as he could go without actually running.
For a moment Georges had seen his face in the light: a fine, sensitive, intelligent face, about Bernave’s age. Neither his look nor his manner were those of an artisan. There was an innate elegance in him in spite of his very ordinary brown and grey clothes. It must be St Felix. Georges saw instantly why Amandine would be drawn to him.
As St Felix turned into the Rue des Tours, Georges broke into a run himself and went after him. What had happened to panic him into leaving the house? Surely he must realise it would instantly mark him as guilty?
Even as he saw St Felix disappear, Georges heard a voice behind him, sharp with anger. A moment later a shot rang out. However, no bullet passed him. The shot was an alarm rather than an intention to hit anyone.
St Felix was going towards the river and the Île de la Cité. He was crazy. He was going right into the open. He must have lost his head completely to do something so utterly stupid. In the Cordeliers at least he would have a chance.
Georges could see him ahead, moving with a swifter pace now. He could not keep that up for long. From what Célie had said, St Felix was unused to much exercise, a scholar rather than a man of action. He was racing down the Rue Dauphine towards the Pont Neuf and the open river.
There was more shouting behind and the clatter of running feet.
Just before the road end, St Felix dashed across between two carts, was yelled at by drivers, and disappeared into a gateway.
Georges slowed down. Following him would only give away his direction. He looked around quickly. There were half a dozen other people on the pavement but all seemed busy with their own affairs.
A National Guardsman in a torn uniform came up to Georges, panting and clasping his side.
‘Seen a man in a brown coat running, Citizen?’ he asked between gasps.
‘Yes,’ Georges answered unhesitatingly. ‘He went down towards the river, the Île de la Cité.’
The guard raised his hand in thanks and then increased his speed, calling over his shoulder to his men to follow him. Half a dozen others set off at a run, fanning out to cover both sides of the street.
Georges turned back as if going to the Boulevard St-Germain again, still holding his wine and loaf of bread. He cut across the Rue Christine, in the same direction as St Felix had gone. If St Felix had continued moving, he should come out somewhere near the Rue Seguier. If he didn’t, then he had gone to ground. Perhaps he knew someone who would hide him. After dark it would be easier. He might get out of the district altogether.
Georges walked quite slowly down towards the river. The street was quiet. An old man lounged in a doorway. A woman sold coffee, her head wrapped up in a shawl which almost hid her face. Two children quarrelled over who had won a game, and a young man with black hair read a copy of L’Ami du Peuple.
Georges waited ten minutes and was just about to leave, satisfied that St Felix had found a place to hide, when he saw him step out of an alley entrance, glance up and down the street, and then come towards him, walking too quickly.
The young man with the paper looked up at him curiously. Both children stopped their argument and stared.
Georges stepped forward. ‘Oh! There you are!’ he, said boldly. ‘Thought I’d missed you!’
St Felix stopped abruptly, his face white, eyes wide.
Georges pushed the bread into his pocket and strode the last few paces to him and clasped his hand, putting his free arm around his shoulders.
‘Good to see you, my friend,’ he said loudly, then added under his breath, ‘For heaven’s sake pretend to recognise me. It’s your only chance!’
‘Hello!’ St Felix gulped. ‘Yes ... sorry. I went the wrong way. How are you?’ He looked terrible; his body was shaking and his breath rasped in his throat.
‘I’ve been on the run since September,’ Georges said softly. ‘I’m a hell of a lot better at this than you are. Come with me.’ As he said it he started forward, linking his arm in St Felix’s and half pulling him along. ‘We’ve got to get back into the alleys of the Cordeliers. They couldn’t find Marat there, even with three thousand soldiers. We might be just as lucky.’
St Felix kept up with him. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t know me. Why should you care if they catch me or not?’
‘St Felix,’ Georges replied. ‘They want you for killing Bernave.’
St Felix snatched his arm away, his face ashen, the fine lines around his eyes deep-etched. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Georges Coigny, Amandine’s cousin,’ Georges replied. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t draw attention to us! Keep your head down.’
St Felix obeyed, but more from alarm than compliance. Together, almost in step, they hurried across the Boulevard St-Germain and into the alley behind the Rue Monsieur le Prince.
‘We’ve got to go west,’ Georges said urgently, ‘otherwise we’ll end up in the Luxembourg Gardens. They won’t be looking for two men.’
‘Why do you bother?’ St Felix asked, but he kept up with him, his head forward, eyes down on the rough stones of the pavement.
A cart rumbled by them, followed swiftly by a high-wheeled single-seated carriage driven at considerable speed. An old woman swore as a spurt of mud sloshed against her. There was a National Guardsman standing at the far corner where Georges and St Felix had passed a few minutes before.
‘Hey you! Stop!’ he bellowed. ‘You in the brown coat!’ He turned sideways to someone out of sight. ‘Michelet! Up here!’
Georges grasped St Felix again and half-dragged him under the archway into a courtyard.
‘We can’t get out of here!’ St Felix accused him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘We’ll be trapped!’
‘Up the steps,’ Georges ordered, waving at the flight of stone stairs that led to a door in the second storey. ‘Come on—hurry!’
‘Where to?’ St Felix demanded desperately, pulling away. ‘We can’t get in!’
‘Yes we can ... get on with it!’ Georges slapped his back hard. ‘Run!’
There was nowhere else to go. They lurched forward and all but collided, stumbling up the steps to the door. Georges beat on it with his fist, still clutching the bottle in the other, and then threw his weight against it. The catch burst and they overbalanced inwards just as a large woman in a grey dress came out of the room beyond.
‘We mean you no harm, Citizeness,’ Georges said, forcing himself to smile at her dazzlingly. ‘Some drunken louts abused my friend here, and when he answered back they set on us. Flight is the better part of valour.’
The woman looked at St Felix’s pale face with its poet’s mouth and terrified eyes. He seemed to be holding his arms over his chest as if he had been hurt. Actually he was a little winded, but she was not to know that.
‘Please?’ Georges urged, offering her the bottle of wine and the bread.
She closed her eyes and waved an arm in the general direction of the room behind her.
Georges took it for permission, and put the bread and wine on the table. He yanked St Felix forward through the doorway, past a couple of chairs and a table set out in quiet domesticity, into the next room, up a short flight of stairs and threw open the window.
‘Out!’ he ordered.
St Felix swung around, eyes wide. ‘What?’
‘Out!’ Georges repeated sharply. ‘On to the roof. We’ll be out of their sight. They won’t know where we’ll come down. Don’t stand there! Do you want to be shot?’
There was shouting in the street below.
St Felix scrambled through the window and slid down the roof slates awkwardly, only regaining his footing when he was almost at the bottom of the valley. He straightened up and started along towards the nearest divide, quite quickly gaining some skill.
Georges went after him, feeling his feet slip on the wet slates and banging his elbow as he tried to get his balance.
St Felix was already disappearing around the corner of the valley into the angle of the next row of houses. There were more shouts from the street below and half a dozen bullets shot into the air.
Georges let go and half rolled down into the guttering. He landed on hands and knees, then went forward as fast as he could, on all fours, keeping as low as possible. At the corner he saw St Felix ahead of him, crouched, undecided which way to go next.
Georges caught up with him. ‘Keep going west,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t let them drive us into the open.’
‘We can’t help it,’ St Felix replied with desperation. ‘We can’t go round and round these roofs for ever! This is only one block. We’ll have to cross a street, and then they’ll catch us.’ His eyes were wide, his face blotched where wind and exertion had whipped the blood into his cheeks. Georges could almost smell his fear, and he understood it. He had fled just as wildly with the National Guard baying at his heels like dogs, and in less open places than this—places he knew, and where he had friends among other fugitives. He felt a surge of pity for St Felix, a scholar and dreamer caught up in events that were little of his choosing—especially if he were not the one who had killed Bernave.
‘Which way?’ St Felix repeated. ‘They won’t take long to work out what we did.’ His voice shook. He gulped air.
Georges pointed ahead. ‘That way, until we get the chance to go down towards the west. We’ve got to get closer to St-Sulpice. There are warrens around there where they’d never find us.’
‘Why? Why are you doing this?’ St Felix demanded with disbelief. ‘For all you know I could have killed Bernave. I didn’t, but I can’t prove it.’
‘I don’t care whether you did or not,’ Georges answered honestly. ‘But this is not the place to debate it.’ He pushed him, feeling the rigid resistance of his body. ‘We’ll argue the issues of justice later, if there is a later. Just move!’ Now his voice too was rising, panic close beneath the surface.
St Felix obeyed. He seemed to have caught his breath. He clambered along the valley with considerable alacrity, Georges close behind him.
About twenty yards along they found a window Georges was able to lever open. They scrambled in and shut it after them just as there was a clatter on the roofs behind, and more shouting. A shot ricocheted against the slates with a sharp whine.
St Felix let out a gasp of terror.
Georges could feel his own heart pounding. He had joined St Felix spontaneously, without weighing what the cost to himself would be if they failed to give the Guards the slip. He was just beginning to realise it now, when it was too late.
He went across the bare floor of the room at the far side, hesitated a moment, wondering what would be beyond it. St Felix was at his back, breathing hard. Whatever was before them, there was no retreating. The roof was impossible now, and any minute the Guard might look through the window and see them.
He opened the door with a creak. There was a small room leading into another slightly larger one. He went in and St Felix came on his heels.
‘Close it!’ Georges whispered sharply.
St Felix obeyed, his hands fumbling on the door latch.
‘Down!’ Georges hissed. ‘We don’t want to hurt anybody, but if we have to give them a swift blow to keep them silent, it’s better than the guillotine.’
St Felix swore under his breath.
But no one disturbed them as they tiptoed rapidly down the stairs and out of a first-floor window on to a ledge. Then they dropped rather awkwardly on to the yard below. It was filled with piles of wood, some of it sawn, some not. It afforded excellent concealment as the two men moved towards the entrance to see if the street were clear.
Georges went first, looking around carefully. He felt a cold thread of fear when he saw the white and blue of Guards’ uniforms at the far end. He withdrew quickly, turning to St Felix.
St Felix was ashen.
‘Change coats!’ Georges ordered.
‘What?’
‘Change coats!’ he started to take his own off. ‘Hurry up!’
St Felix understood. He almost tore his sleeve in his haste. He started to say something, then changed his mind. He did not take his eyes from Georges’ face.
Georges took the brown coat and put it on, passing over his own blue one.
‘Thank you ...’ St Felix began.
Georges smiled briefly. ‘Hide behind the wood here, then when they’ve gone after me, cross the street and head towards St-Sulpice,’ he commanded. ‘You’ll be safer there than anywhere else this side of the river. Good luck.’ Then before he could lose his nerve, he sidled out into the street and began walking rapidly away from the Guards at the end. He hoped to cross the Rue Mazarine, then the Rue de Seine and disappear into the maze of buildings around the Church of St-Germain-des-Prés. If he threw them off there, he could eventually get to St-Sulpice himself.
He was almost to the end and around the corner into Rue Dauphine when he heard the yell. He started to run. There was a shot fired, and an answering shot somewhere to the north, near the river. Footsteps sounded behind him as if there were a whole detachment of men thundering down the street.
He swung round the corner, almost colliding with a fat woman holding a mug of coffee. It spilled all down his jacket, soaking him through. She screamed and cursed him as she overbalanced against the wall.
He shouted an apology over his shoulder and kept on running. The Rue Dauphine was full of traffic: wagons, coaches, a public diligence so overloaded someone was leaning half out of the door. It was beginning to rain again and everyone was hurrying, their heads down, collars up. The cobbles were slippery.
Georges dodged between a wagonload of firewood and a miller’s cart half full of grain. He almost banged into a standing horse at the far side and stumbled up on to the pavement. There was an alley opening ahead. He ran into it, praying it was not a dead end.
There were shouts in the street behind him. Someone let off another shot.
At the far end of the alley was a wall with a gate in it. Georges threw himself against it, and it held fast, locked.
His first intention to help St Felix had been to draw the Guard off. When they caught up with him they would know he was not St Felix.
Now he realised how stupid that idea was. They would be furious with him, and take him in anyway, simply out of revenge. Someone would know who he really was and just as wanted as St Felix, if not more so! He was an idiot!
Now the gate ahead was locked and the Guard were behind him. He could hear their angry shouts on the Rue Dauphine, and people’s responses, indignant and sharp with their own fear.
He must find a way out, any way. He looked upward. Was there anything to climb?
Nothing.
What about down? Cellars? One might lead to another. The shouting was closer. He had no alternative. He went through the nearest gateway into a kitchen yard, in through the back door and across the stone-flagged floor. There was no one there. It was mid-afternoon; too late for luncheon, too early for dinner. He looked around him frantically. There was the cellar door. He opened it, closed it behind him and fumbled down the steps, feeling the wall for the way. He felt along the ledge and his fingers closed over candle and flint. He struck the light, hand shaking. It was a cellar stocked with wine, root vegetables, a sack of grain and several bales of firewood. There was no other way out. If they found him here he was cornered.
He was shivering. They would be in the kitchen any moment. They might think he had gone up on to the roof again, but one of them would be bound to try the cellar as well. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. Better to be caught trying, than run down like an animal.
He bent and with an apology to the householder, he set the candle on the ledge and picked up one of the bales of firewood. He went back up the steps, bent double, and pushed open the door. His heart lurched. There was a Guardsman standing in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the firewood had not been on his back he would have dropped it. As it was it slithered precariously and he had to grab at it to prevent it falling.
‘Yes, Captain?’ he said helpfully, his voice hoarse.
‘Have you seen any strangers around here?’ the Guard asked. ‘We’re looking for a fugitive who murdered a good citizen, a good revolutionary. He came this way, then disappeared.’
‘What does he look like?’ Georges asked, keeping his back bent and his head down. The wood helped, it gave him an excuse not to meet the man’s eyes.
‘Quite tall, taller than you, I’d say,’ the Guard replied. ‘On the lean side, about fiftyish, with brown hair.’
‘Not lately,’ Georges answered thoughtfully. ‘I’ve just been down in the cellar to fetch up wood. Going to sell a bundle to my neighbour.’ He hesitated. How far should he take it? Too far and he could raise the man’s suspicion, not far enough and he would not escape.
‘But when I was down there I heard noises.’ He took the plunge. ‘Thought it might have been someone at the door, but maybe it wasn’t.’
‘In the kitchen?’ the Guard said quickly.
‘Maybe ...’
The Guard swivelled around and went back to the door. ‘In here!’ he shouted. ‘Went up on to the roof again, by the looks of it. Watch the street! You two, go and watch in the Rue Mazarine! You take the Rue Guenegaud! Quickly!’ He looked back at Georges. ‘We’re going up to your roof.’ That was a statement not a request. ‘Thank you, Citizen.’ And he went over to the further door and into the next room.
‘Good luck, Citizen!’ Georges called after him, then with shaking legs, went out of the back door as half a dozen National Guards made their way past him.
He walked as quickly as he could, bent under the wood, then as soon as he was out of sight of the house he dropped it and ran up the Rue de Tours, across the Boulevard St-Germain and into the first of the alleys on the further side. He stopped, leaning against the wall, breathless. His heart was in his throat, beating so violently his whole body shook and his knees would hardly bear him up.
He was still there when he saw St Felix come out of the Rue de Seine a few yards along. He recognised his own blue coat before he knew the face. There were two national Guards on the corner, standing idly, muskets slung casually, and not at the ready. They were not hunting anyone, simply bored.
Georges stiffened, his hands clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. ‘For God’s sake, just walk!’ he said under his breath as St Felix hesitated. ‘Don’t stop! Don’t give them any reason to notice you!’
One of the Guards had a copy of L’Ami du Peuple stuffed in his breeches pocket. His shoes did not match. He looked at St Felix expectantly, a sneer on his face.
St Felix stopped.
‘Go on!’ Georges said between his teeth.
St Felix seemed rooted to the spot, as if terror had paralysed him.
‘You a stranger round here, Citizen?’ the other Guard asked him.
‘No!’ St Felix said quickly. ‘No, I live here.’
Georges shut his eyes in anguish. If only he’d said ‘yes,’ it would have explained his behaviour and they would not have suspected him!
‘You sure?’ The Guard peered forward. ‘I don’t know you! You look lost to me!’
‘Lie!’ Georges said desperately. ‘Tell them you’re ill! Anything to explain dithering!’
‘Don’t I know you?’ the other Guard asked. ‘What’s your name?’
‘St ... St Just,’ St Felix stammered.
As if he could smell fear, the first Guard was suspicious now.
‘Oh, yes? Where are your papers, Citizen? Where do you live?’
St Felix swung his arm wildly. ‘That way ... number forty-eight!’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For ... for a cup of coffee,’ St Felix replied.
Half a dozen National Guards came out of the Rue de Tours.
St Felix spun round, saw them, and started to run.
Georges watched in agony of foreknowledge, as if in his mind he had already seen it happen. The Guards at the Rue de Tours saw the movement and shouted. The Guard who had been talking to St Felix spun around.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘You! Stop!’
St Felix dived into the alley, almost colliding with Georges, stumbled and ran on.
Shots rang out.
St Felix was fleeing in panic, his arms and legs swinging wildly, foundering, feet sliding on the wet stones.
The Guards filled the entrance. Another one yelled for St Felix to stop.
He kept running, straight ahead, not weaving or breaking his stride.
A volley of shots ricocheted all around.
St Felix lurched forward, slipped and fell face down. He moved a little, once, then lay still.
The Guards crowded round him, not even having noticed Georges. One of them bent and turned the body over.
‘Dead,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Is that him?’ He looked up at the man nearest him.
The man peered down. ‘Yes. Funny though, I could have sworn he was wearing a brown coat. But that’s him all right. I know his face.’
‘Better take him, then. Citizen Menou’ll be pleased. This is the one who murdered Bernave, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s him. Saved the guillotine a job.’
Georges backed further into the shadows and waited until they were gone, carrying St Felix’s body with them. Then when the street was silent, shivering with cold and heartsick, Georges went across the Boulevard St-Germain and walked, head down in the rain, towards Bernave’s house.
Once he put his hand into his pocket, St Felix’s pocket, and pulled out a wad of sodden paper, dark-stained with coffee. Four passes, illegible now, and a picture, only partly damaged, of a beautiful woman with a cloud of dark hair and a gentle mouth. With a murmured word of apology he let them fall into a heap of refuse. They were no use, and too dangerous to keep.
Georges had to wait half an hour in the cold before he saw the last of Menou’s men leave, then it was simply a matter of going through the courtyard to the kitchen door.
Except, of course, nothing about it was simple at all. He had to tell Amandine that St Felix was dead. Her grief would be unbearable, except that one had to bear it. Thank God Célie would be there—she would be able to help. She understood grief. That would be no comfort—nothing would be—but at least Amandine would not be alone.
He knocked on the door, then without waiting, pushed it open. At first glance he thought the kitchen was empty, then he saw the light on Célie’s hair as she stood in the corner by the stove, a flat iron in her hand. She had her back to him. She was changing one iron for the other, replacing the cold one on the hob.
‘Célie ...’ he said quietly.
She turned round, then saw him. Her eyes widened in horror and she almost threw the iron down, running over to him. ‘Get out of here!’ she said wildly. ‘You’ll have to go over the roof! Are you mad?’
He caught her by the arms, holding her hand. ‘No! Menou’s men have gone.’
She stared at him, then saw the shock and misery in his eyes.
‘What’s happened?’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘St Felix ...’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. They got him ...’
Her face was white. ‘Which prison?’ As if it mattered.
‘None,’ he answered. ‘He was running. They shot him. I’m sorry ...’ There was no need to tell the details, that St Felix had panicked. ‘I did what I could, but there were Guards all over the place.’ Why tell her even that? She would not blame him. He blamed himself. He should have been able to do better, somehow to keep St Felix out of their hands. He had managed to save himself for over five months!
‘He’s ... dead?’ She breathed the words painfully, searching his face, longing for him to deny it.
‘Yes. It was quick.’
Tears filled her eyes.
He pulled her close to him and held her in his arms, feeling the misery rack her. It was as if he were holding Amandine as well, and all the hurt and fear that was in him also. For a terrible and urgent moment they were as one body, one wound.
They were still clinging to each other when Amandine came in. He saw her immediately, the shock in her face, the fear for him, then the understanding that he brought dreadful news.
She tried to speak but her voice refused to come.
Georges let go of Célie and, feeling him move away, she realised what had happened and turned to Amandine. She went to her without hesitating, holding Amandine as Georges had held her.
‘They shot him,’ she said simply. ‘It’s all over. He probably didn’t even know it.’ She could not know if that was true but she said it with total conviction.
Amandine looked at Georges.
He nodded.
Amandine was so white it was as if she herself were dead. She said nothing. It was a bereavement so complete she could not even weep. There was no anger, no questioning, just despair.
Georges and Célie stood by helplessly, there was no comfort to offer, and no explanation mattered.