For the King (14 page)

It was Father de Clorivière who had told his nephew Joseph of the scene. That afternoon the good priest, disguised in the coarse trousers and jacket of a workman, stood in the midst of the crowd. His eyes shifted from the approaching carts to the guillotine, a few dozen yards away.

Some around Father de Clorivière were jeering, some cheerful. Before his eyes the business of death proceeded briskly. Several decapitated bodies were already piled in a waiting cart when his sister, her graying hair cut short on her nape, climbed in turn the steep stairs to the scaffold. Her step was steady, but Father de Clorivière’s courage failed him. He felt light-headed and had to close his eyes now. His lips were moving silently in an ardent prayer for the repose of her soul as he heard the dull thud of the machine.

When Father de Clorivière opened his eyes again, he recognized his niece Angélique. He had not seen her in years, since the time when she was barely more than a pretty child. The crowd quieted all of a sudden. It went very fast. The young headless body too was thrown into the cart. Her skirts, caught on the uprights, revealed pink stockings and white thighs.

“A pity,” said a buxom woman, standing next to Father de Clorivière, to a friend of hers. “Look how fair this one was. An’ youn’ too. She couldn’t be much more’n twenty!”

But Father de Clorivière no longer heard the conversations around him. He watched as his elder brother, who had been waiting patiently, was tied last to the plank. It swung forward and the blade hit. It was all over. Blood, the blood of the martyrs, Father de Clorivière had told Joseph, was streaming on the cobblestones.

In Joseph’s mind a patient, tenacious hate and the passage of time had given these images the vivid colors of memories. They now seemed more real than any of his true recollections of his father, gathered during the few weeks spent at the Château of Limoëlan every summer, when Joseph came home from the Oratorian Friars’ school in Rennes.

And there was his father’s last letter to Marie-Thérèse and her sisters, written from his jail cell:

Marie-Thérèse had shown this letter to Joseph, urging him to forgive, as their father himself had wanted them to do. But how was that possible? Joseph could not drive out of his mind the image of a man being led, helpless, his hands tied behind his back like those of a criminal, to the scaffold.

The elder Limoëlan had been arrested during a meeting of Royalists at his sister’s château in Brittany. They had been betrayed, for the policemen knew the exact spot where to dig in the garden. There were found, buried in a jar, weapon inventories, lists of the King’s supporters in the region, leaflets calling for an insurrection against the Republic. More than enough evidence for the Revolutionary Tribunal to sentence the elder Limoëlan, his sister, brother-in-law and niece to death.

Against those who had betrayed his father and kin, against all traitors, against the Revolution and its howling mobs, against the people of Paris, Joseph’s anger had simmered for those seven years.

20

R
och was pacing the dingy bedroom above the Five Diamonds. Just before the appointed time, he recognized Blanche’s step, light, hurried, on the stairs. He went to open the door, and she threw herself into his arms. He moaned as they kissed hungrily.

She tossed her bonnet on a chair, undid the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, her fingers reaching down his chest toward his belly. For the first time, he felt more pain than pleasure at her touch.

He had hoped Blanche’s hold on his mind was enough to dispel the darkness that engulfed him, to take him far away from a world where his father was in jail, awaiting deportation, and assassins were roaming the streets of Paris, ready to kill again. But even with Blanche so close to him, those things would not go away. What business had he to seek his own happiness at this time?

Roch seized both of Blanche’s hands in his. He sat on the bed and pulled her next to him.

“I may not be a very lively companion today,” he said.

“But I know of a way to make you lively enough, my love.” She pouted. “If you will let me, that is.”

“No, Blanche, no one, not even you, nothing can cheer me much now. My father was arrested.”

Blanche covered her mouth with her hand. “Arrested? But what for?”

“It’s that horrible Rue Nicaise business.”

Blanche’s face had become very grave. “But your father had nothing to do with it.”

“No, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

“You work at the Prefecture, after all. You will be able to clear up things and have him released very soon.”

“So I thought, but I was wrong. Guilt and innocence don’t matter anymore. Think of all those poor people slaughtered on Rue Nicaise. Of what were they guilty? I saw them, Blanche, the dead, the dying. I saw them with my own eyes. They were innocent, and yet they died. It is the same with Father. How can his innocence protect him? And I can do nothing. Not only am I unable to secure his release, but now he faces deportation.”

Blanche shuddered. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Roch, I had no idea . . .”

He stroked her black hair, closed his eyes and breathed in her lily of the valley and carnation fragrance. She wrapped her arms around him. He could not think of any greater solace than this, having her so close. They remained silent for a long time, locked in a quiet embrace.

Blanche was the first to speak. “Roch?”

“What is it, dearest?”

“If I asked you for something, would you give it to me?”

“Of course, if it were in my power to give it to you.”

“I would like a present from you.”

He felt a twinge of guilt. True, he brought her tiny bouquets, ribbons, fans, trinkets she could wear without attracting her husband’s notice, but he knew that he could afford not anything approaching the beauty of the jewels Coudert had given her. That set of pearls she had worn on the night of the musical party at her home had to be worth more than 100,000 francs, many times his yearly salary. Still, he should have brought her small gifts of jewelry once in a while.

“So, my Blanche, what would you like?”

“A ring.”

“What kind of ring? How about an emerald?” He caressed her fingers, long, white, thin. “A green stone would look so lovely on your hand.”

She looked straight at him. “No. I want a plain gold ring.”

He drew back, startled. “Like a nuptial ring?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. You already have a nuptial ring.”

“But I want one from you.”

He turned away and stared out the window. She had just spoiled that brief moment of respite. Why did she need to remind him of her marriage at this moment?

“Is your husband’s ring not enough for you?”

She frowned. “Are you jealous, Roch?”

“I don’t like the thought of Coudert being your husband, that’s all. I know that it sounds ridiculous. So yes, I guess I am jealous.”

“You shouldn’t be. There is nothing anymore between my husband and me. There hardly ever was, in fact.”

Roch bit his upper lip. He realized that she had told him almost nothing of her life with Coudert, beyond cursory mentions of the shows and entertainments they attended together. Roch thought again of the musical party at her house, of his brief meeting with her husband.

“Why did you marry that man, by the way?” he asked. “Were you in love with him?”

“No, never.” She too stared straight ahead now. “I had fallen in love with another man, and given myself to him. Then he left me. Once Mama found out, she was very angry, and she said no respectable man would have me anymore. About that time Monsieur Coudert, who was a longtime friend of hers, proposed. So I accepted.”

“Because you thought no one else would marry you? It was silly, Blanche. So this is why you agreed to marry Coudert?”

“I was grateful to him. I liked him. I was too young to know any better. Now I regret it, but it is too late.”

“Why do you say that? You are so young. It is not too late.”

“Oh, yes, Roch, it is for me.”

Blanche seemed lost in her thoughts. He wondered about what could have happened if she had not married Coudert. Would she have wed Roch? He chided himself. He was the son of a tavern keeper. He was not rich enough, not refined enough. He could never afford the luxuries to which she had been accustomed.

He thought of her Paris mansion, her army of servants, her jewels, her horses, her country houses, her carriages, her parties. Now he tried to picture her in his lodgings on Rue de Jouy, with their dull yellow upholstery, and his maid for sole company. No fine society friends would ever call on her there. No, loath as he was to admit it, she was meant to be Coudert’s wife.

Roch shook his head sadly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have no right to be jealous of your husband. It should be the reverse, in fact. But about that ring, what would you do with it, really? Wear it next to your other nuptial ring, on the same finger?”

“No, I will wear yours, only yours. It will be our secret, and no one but us will ever know the difference.” There was a tremor in her voice. “But if it upsets you, let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Poor Blanche,” he said. “No, of course it doesn’t upset me. I will buy you that ring.”

He bought her hand to his lips. She meant so much to him, especially at this time.

21

A
lready two weeks had elapsed since the Rue Nicaise attack and winter was now entrenched in Paris. The current month of the Revolutionary calendar,
Nivose
, was named after the Latin word for snow, and snow it did. Not the dazzling snow of the mountains Roch remembered from his childhood, but dirty city snow that mixed with the filth of the streets, melted into a gray slop and then froze at night.

He continued searching for any trace of Saint-Régent and François Carbon. He had all the usual haunts of the Chouans watched. Descriptions of Short Francis’s flattened mug and Saint-Régent’s weasel face were now posted all over Paris, and all policemen, all
mouchards
were on high alert. In vain. And only twenty days of the time allotted by Fouché remained to arrest them. How would one find two men who had crawled into a hole in a city of 700,000?

Roch was leaving the Prefecture in the evening of the 18th of Nivose, the 7th of January in the old calendar, when he heard his name called. He turned around and saw a clerk ran after him. The man was out of breath, and from his look, something must be amiss.

“The Prefect’s been asking for you, Citizen Chief Inspector.” The man, panting, shook his head. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

Roch sighed. What scheme was Dubois hatching now? He steadied himself before knocking at his superior’s door. The clerk had been right about the Prefect’s mood. Dubois scowled at Roch. “So, Miquel, you are indeed a disgrace to the force. Harassing good citizens to pursue your ridiculous fancies.”

Roch raised his eyebrows. He thought at first of Citizen Roger, the porter on Rue de Paradis. But no, they had parted good friends, her eyes aglow with the prospect of the reward.

“Which good citizens am I accused of harassing, Citizen Prefect?”

“Citizen Gillard, the proprietor of the Mayenne Inn.”

Roch’s lips formed a silent whistle. That Gillard was certainly an impudent fellow to complain to Dubois.

“Well, Citizen Prefect, I have had all of the Royalist haunts in Paris watched. That includes the Mayenne Inn. I have placed an Inspector nearby to watch it discreetly. What is Gillard’s complaint?”

“Do you think law-abiding citizens like to be watched by the police? Your Inspector must be less discreet than you think. I know Citizen Gillard. He is a perfectly respectable man, a Captain in the National Guard. And what if the patrons of the Mayenne Inn were all former Chouans? Pray who told you to watch the Royalists in the first place?”

“But, Citizen Prefect—”

“Enough. You will pull all of your men from there. I do not want to hear another word of complaint from Citizen Gillard. Is it clear?”

Roch simply nodded. He was wondering about the Prefect’s motives. He had long surmised that the Chouans had infiltrated the ranks of the police. Even Piis, for all his friendliness, was a
ci-devant
aristocrat. Now was the Prefect himself only displaying his usual imbecility, or deliberately hindering the investigation?

“Be careful, Miquel,” added Dubois as Roch was turning around. “I will not tolerate any more insubordination.”

Now Roch would have to follow the Prefect’s orders and pull his men from the vicinity of the Mayenne Inn. But, with less than three weeks left before Old Miquel faced the horrors of deportation, it was out of the question to leave the place without surveillance. Pépin, the little beggar, might again prove helpful.

22

R
och had settled on red velvet seats by the large iron stove at the Pinecone Café. He was watching his colleague Sobry, who was engaged in a game of
dames
, or “ladies,” with a thin, elderly man. Roch tried to watch a few moves of the black and white pawns on the checkerboard, but his mind kept drifting off the game.

He seized a copy of the
Journal des Débats
lying on a nearby table and began to read. The men held for their participation in the Conspiracy of Daggers were going to stand trial. That indeed was news. It meant that the plot was no longer deemed a buffoonery concocted by the Prefect. Also the paper reported that, as predicted by Fouché, the Senate had given the First Consul the power to order the deportation without judgment of any individual deemed a threat to the safety of the Nation. And the newspaper printed the list of the first seventy Jacobins who were to be shipped to the Colonies.