For the King (16 page)

“I am so glad to see you, Roch,” she said in the Roman language. “See, I just finished today’s accounts.”

“And I am glad to have this opportunity to thank you.” He hesitated. “I came here tonight to fetch some things of Father’s upstairs.” He looked around. Something familiar was missing.

“Where is Crow?” he asked at last.

Alexandrine shook her head sadly. “I sent you a note at the Prefecture, but you must have left before it arrived. Poor Crow died this afternoon. He had refused to take any food over the past few days. Oh, he was as sweet as ever, but he wouldn’t even drink. He just lied here quietly at my feet. It broke my heart when he would raise his head and prick his ears every time the door opened, and then whine when he realized it wasn’t your father.”

Roch looked down. He remembered Crow as a puppy, a ball of black fur in Old Miquel’s pocket, and as a very old dog, when the shaggy, slobbery hair around his muzzle had turned all white, like a wise man’s beard.

“I am sorry, Roch,” continued Alexandrine. “I know how your father will miss Crow when he returns.” She paused. “Speaking of his return, what do you think of my offer to manage the Barrel in the meantime?”

Roch shook his memories away. “What do I think? You are right, of course, this place should be kept open and in good order. I am sure it is what Father wishes. Thank you so much for offering to do this.”

He wanted to say more, but words did not come easily. “Alexandrine?”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me for the other day. I was horribly rude when you told me of Father’s arrest.”

She was staring at the floor. “I understand how you must have felt. I couldn’t believe it myself when I heard it. I still have trouble believing it.”

“You are a true friend, Alexandrine.”

Her face was still lowered, but he would have sworn that she was blushing to the roots of her hair. He looked away and noticed a basket full of blue and white hyacinths on the table. The fragrance of the blossoms, both sweet and earthy, was powerful enough to overcome the tavern’s reek of wine and tobacco. He felt transported back to the mossy woods of his childhood in the mountains of Auvergne, far from the Mighty Barrel and Paris.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.

“Oh, this must be Fraysse,” said Alexandrine. “It is time for me to go home.”

Roch frowned. Then a sudden inspiration struck him. “Do you think your father would mind if I walked you home? And, more importantly, would
you
mind?”

Alexandrine smiled. “Of course not.”

Roch went to open the door to Fraysse, a hulking fellow with grizzled hair. The man had been in Vidalenc’s service as far as Roch could remember. In spite of his age, he retained a fearsome figure.

“Good night to you, Fraysse,” said Alexandrine. “Citizen Miquel here has kindly offered to walk me home.”

Fraysse cast a look of deep suspicion at Roch. “All right then, I’ll jus’ walk one hundred yards behind you youn’ people.”

Outside a chilly wind was blowing shreds of clouds very fast in front of the half-moon. Roch offered Alexandrine his arm. Though Fraysse walked too far behind to hear them, his presence seemed to stifle any attempts at conversation. Alexandrine was content to huddle against Roch in silence as they walked. Yet there was no awkwardness in her silence. She seemed to be simply enjoying the quiet of the night.

“You must be very tired after a day and evening spent in the noise and smoke of the Barrel,” said Roch.

“Oh, I am fine. But I am not used to the odor of tobacco. This is why I brought the hyacinths.”

“Did you grow them yourself ? It is quite a bit of trouble to get them to bloom in this season, isn’t it?”

“No, no trouble at all. I love flowers, and it’s such a joy to see them bloom in the dead of winter.” He could hear some amusement in Alexandrine’s voice. “I didn’t know you were interested in hyacinths.”

Roch tried to imagine her, keeping her father’s house. He and Old Miquel had often been invited to dinner there. It had been built over a century earlier, at the eastern point of the Isle of the Fraternity. Then, during the Revolution, its noble owner had emigrated, it had been sold at auction and Vidalenc had purchased it at a bargain price. It remained a very fine, old-fashioned mansion.

“I love to grow roses too,” continued Alexandrine, “but all I have is a tiny enclosed garden. There’s too little sunlight for them. They grow all mildewy and leggy. So I am content with the hyacinths.”

Roch realized that he had never given any thought to Alexandrine’s everyday occupations at home, her likes and dislikes. “Doesn’t your bedroom have a small balcony?”

He immediately regretted his words. This was hardly a suitable topic with a proper young lady, especially one he was still expected to marry.

But Alexandrine did not sound flustered. “Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully, “I have a bit of room for potted flowers there in spring and summer.” Her pace slowed down, and her eyes seemed to look away in the distance. “Do you know, Roch, what I would really like? I know it sounds selfish and childish, especially now, in the middle of all this sorrow . . . What I would like is a garden of my own. A country house by the river, maybe a league or so from Paris. A garden full of roses. Pink ones, white ones, all fragrant. It would be so beautiful in the fair season.”

“One could easily find a house like this, around Charenton maybe. I am sure your father would move there if you asked him.”

“I know, Roch. This is why I would never dream of telling him. He would do it to please me, of course. But he wouldn’t like it at all there. He likes to keep an eye on his warehouses on the Saint-Bernard Embankment from home. We used to live right there, do you remember? In those little lodgings next to the place, before Father bought the mansion on the Isle of Saint-Louis. Mama was still alive then.”

Alexandrine’s words had brought an image to Roch’s mind. He imagined her standing in a garden by the river. It was spring, and the air was still a bit chilly, but the sun was shining. She was standing under an arch over which she had trained those roses of hers, and her white muslin dress billowed in the wind that was playing with loose strands of her honey-colored hair.

They were walking under a streetlight now. He turned to her and looked at her hair more closely than ever before. He noticed pale blond streaks around her temples, and in the locks that escaped from under her bonnet, on her nape. Her hair was both flaxen and reddish, almost straight in places and tightly curled in others, a mix of hues and textures.

“I hope I don’t sound ungrateful,” continued Alexandrine. “I am very fond of Father’s house on the Isle. I even heard someone say it is, or used to be, one of the most beautiful mansions in all of Paris. You were asking about the balcony off my bedroom. Well, when I stand there, looking down at the river, I feel like I’m on the deck of a mighty ship.”

They had reached the river now. The masses of the islands, dark in the moonlight, obscured the view of the other bank. “When I was younger,” continued Alexandrine, “I liked to stand on that balcony and imagine that the house escaped its moorings, that it floated downstream like a ship towards the ocean . . . Oh, Roch, do you know I have never seen the ocean?”

“Neither have I,” sighed Roch. “But I remember the day when Father took me to the top of the towers of Notre-Dame. It was my very first Sunday in Paris.”

“I too remember that day. You and your father came to dinner that night. That was the first time I saw you, and I was very curious about you.”

“This can’t be. I was only eight. You were too little then.”

“I must have been four, but I do remember it as if it were yesterday.” She laughed lightly. “You didn’t speak much, especially to me.”

“I was overwhelmed by what I had seen that day. The whole city of Paris. I had just arrived from Auvergne with Father a few days earlier, and he took me to the towers of Notre-Dame to introduce me to Paris. We climbed more steps than I had ever climbed at a time. I remember an array of huge bronze bells, or so they seemed to me. I remember the
bourdon
was taller than Father. Then I looked around, and the sight took my breath away.”

Alexandrine was silent. Roch let the memory submerge him. Old Miquel and he, the child fresh from his mountains, were at the high point of the Cité, the largest of the islands of Paris. L’Ile Saint-Louis, now called the Isle of the Fraternity, where Alexandrine lived now, trailed behind, followed by the last and smallest of all, L’Ile Merdeuse, the “Shitty Isle,” undignified, uninhabited, huddled against the Right Bank.

On the banks, between the bridges, boatmen were busy unloading parcels and barrels. Roch’s eye wandered across the mazes of obscure, winding streets, the busy squares, the mansions of the rich, the spires of a hundred churches. And all around, the wide boulevards lined with trees formed an oval belt. Further away still, the wings of windmills and the straight lines of vineyards crossed the heights of Montmartre.

“Can you imagine, Alexandrine, that was seventeen years ago . . .”

Old Miquel had pointed at the gardens of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg, still filled with greenery on that sunny September day, the golden dome of the Invalides, the huge medieval fortress of the Bastille to the East, the square tower of the Temple, with its four turrets crowned with pointy slate roofs. This brought Roch back abruptly to the present.

“Yes,” said Alexandrine, “so many things have changed: the names of the streets, bridges and buildings. The statues of the Kings were overthrown, the Bastille was demolished . . .”

“But the Tower of the Temple still stands,” said Roch bitterly. “When Father and I looked at it that day, we never thought someday he would be locked there. It was not even a prison then.”

“Well, Roch, I am sure you will set your father free. I am not saying this to soothe you, but because I trust in you.”

Without thinking of it, they had crossed over to the Isle of the Fraternity and found themselves in front of Vidalenc’s stately home.

“Here we are already,” Alexandrine said softly. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank
you
.”

Roch bent slightly to let his lips brush against her cheek. Of course proper manners forbade such familiarities with a young lady, on a street too, but now these things did not seem to matter anymore.

25

J
oseph de Limoëlan was hurrying under the sleet. In spite of the weather, he wanted to speak to Saint-Régent. The two men had a few remaining things to discuss, and Saint-Régent, by the looks of it, might not last much longer. The street was unpaved, and the gutter overflowing, turning it into a torrent of mud. A man in clogs and a patched green jacket had installed a wide plank, fitted with wheels at an extremity, atop the flow. This device allowed passersby to cross without soiling their shoes and clothes.

Limoëlan walked across the plank and put a copper coin in the man’s palm. But the rascal begged for more in a heavily accented, guttural voice. Limoëlan shrugged and went his way. Another Auvergnat. Those scoundrels were little better than beggars, and the whole city was infested with them. A few feet away a woman, unable or unwilling to pay the man’s toll, unceremoniously rolled up her skirts and piggybacked on her companion.

At the Guillou house, Limoëlan was taken aback when he saw his comrade sitting in an easy chair in his bedroom. Saint-Régent was still pale, but his gaze was steady. The man, in spite of his light build, was resilient. He had been wounded on many occasions before, in the King’s Navy before the Revolution, and in skirmishes during his years as a Chouan. Limoëlan frowned. This unexpected recovery might complicate matters.

“You look well,” said Limoëlan thoughtfully. He paused. “I have bad news.”

“You mean
more
bad news?”

“Francis had a note from Gillard this morning. A man, an Auvergnat, came to the Mayenne Inn last night. And he asked about you and Francis by name.”

Saint-Régent swore. “Francis is still living with his sister and niece, isn’t he? Snug and comfortable, ensconced in that filthy hole.”

“Come, Saint-Régent, you never liked Francis, but this is hardly the time—”

“I don’t see what’s to like in that fellow. And you could think of nothing better than to send him to Bourmont to offer his services as a valet. Bourmont, that traitor who now visits Bonaparte daily at the Tuileries!”

“Precisely. George wanted me to keep an eye on Bourmont. And Bourmont had been Francis’s General before the Pacification.”

“Then unless he is a complete fool, he must have seen through Francis all along. How could you expect a man like Bourmont, who has a young wife, to keep Francis as a servant under his roof ? All the scoundrel got was to work in Bourmont’s stables. The result is that Francis learned nothing about Bourmont, but Bourmont may well have learned the address of Francis’s sister.” Saint-Régent glowered at Limoëlan. “And what if Bourmont tells his new friends about Francis? If arrested, Francis will talk. Don’t try to deny it, you know it as well as I do. You may be willing to take that risk, but I am not.”

“So what do you propose?”

“Bring Francis under some pretext to the Bois de Boulogne tonight. Any secluded spot will do. I guess you are too fond of him to deal with him yourself, but I am feeling better now. I will be waiting for the two of you and make sure he gets what he deserves. A bullet between the eyes.”

Limoëlan flushed with anger. “It is out of the question. I am in charge of this, and I want you to leave Francis alone. At least until I receive George’s instructions.”

Saint-Régent’s breathing became more rapid. There was fear, and anger too, in his eyes. “You really don’t understand, Limoëlan, do you? This is an emergency. There’s no time to wait for George’s orders. Francis is a danger to all of us, to the cause. Why are you always protecting that piece of filth?”