For the King (2 page)

Limoëlan left to post himself at the intersection of Rue Nicaise and Place du Carrousel. Soon he saw a cortege of carriages leaving the Palace and heading his way. He shuddered. At last. He had waited so long for this moment. A few more seconds, and it would be all over. He knew he had to signal to Saint-Régent, but somehow his heart stopped and he was unable to raise his hand. He was still frozen, overcome by an emotion he could not define, when the first carriage passed him by and turned onto Rue Nicaise.

The girl looked up when she heard the rattling of wheels and the noise of hooves. She gaped at the squadron of dragoons in splendid uniforms surrounding the procession of elegant carriages. One of the guards of the escort, saber drawn, galloped ahead to the cart and shouted to move it out of the way. His horse shoved Saint-Régent against the wall of a house. The girl, her mouth still open, held on to the nag’s bridle. She was staring at the gold braid on the dragoon’s green jacket, at the horsetail that flowed down his back from his shiny helmet, at the claws of the spotted pelt that served as his saddle blanket. In her entire life she had never seen anything so strange and beautiful. She paid no attention to Saint-Régent, who had swiftly recovered his balance and reached under the tarpaulin.

But the coachman of the first carriage had noticed it all. He swore at the top of his voice, whipped his horses and drove away at a gallop. A blinding burst of light tore at the night. Thunder shook the air. The horses of the guards reared up, neighed wildly, slipped and fell. Cobblestones, roof tiles, parts of walls, entire chimneys, shards of glass, shreds of flesh were raining down on the street.

All that was left of the nag was the head, intact like a trophy, one front leg and one side of the chest and rump. Straw poked out from the remaining half of its leather collar.

2

C
hief Inspector Roch Miquel would never forget what he was doing on the evening of the attack. He had left the Police Prefecture earlier than usual to reach the tavern of the Mighty Barrel, located on Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, in time for dinner. That establishment belonged to his father. Old Miquel now acknowledged the old holidays again, in his own way. He liked to share a roast goose with his only son and a few friends on Christmas Eve.

When Roch pushed the door open, he was greeted by the mixed smells of lentil soup, roasting meat and tobacco. The voices of the patrons, calling to the waiters, mingled with the dull noises of the mugs hitting the wood of the tables, polished by years of spills. Through billows of smoke Roch saw his father, leaning against the counter, surveying the room. Old Miquel, in the manner of a peasant, wore a wide-brimmed hat and leather leggings that buttoned from his knees down to his hobnailed shoes. A shaggy mongrel, his black hair streaked with much white, was crouching at his feet. The dog rose stiffly and, wagging his tail, went to nuzzle Roch’s leg. Old Miquel’s eyes gleamed with pride at the sight of his son. Roch seized his father’s hand and kissed it. The older man slapped him on the shoulder.

Miquel
père
, a former rag-and-bone man, had seen his son rise to the rank of Chief Inspector, with a salary of 6,000 francs, and Roch was barely twenty-five. Such a feat would have been unconceivable before the Revolution, and it gave Old Miquel a singular satisfaction to have seen Roch achieve such early success. The years of struggling to afford a decent education for his son had been amply rewarded.

The two men addressed each other in the Roman language, the tongue of their native Auvergne. They spoke it for the pleasure of remembering the mountains of the old country, where they had not visited in many years. Also, it was not understood by most of the tavern patrons, and allowed for more candid talks.

Roch tried to keep the conversation away from politics, a topic that was sure to infuriate his father these days. Unfortunately Old Miquel’s eyes fell on a copy of
The Free Men’s Journal
lying on one of the tables. He seized the newspaper and brandished it in Roch’s face.

“
The Free Men’s Journal
!” he snorted. “As if we had any free men left in France! I just buy this filthy rag because I need something to put in the latrine. All I read about is our glorious Bonaparte. It’s his victories in Italy here, the pacification of the West there. Well, let’s talk about their
pacification
. Those Royalist bandits, those
Chouans
, ask them if they are
pacified
. They’re still attacking stagecoaches out there.”

Roch opened his mouth to protest, but Old Miquel was not to be stopped so easily. “No, son, don’t tell me it isn’t so. You think I’m a fool? Even in the so-called
Free Men’s Journal
, they say that from now on all the stagecoaches going west’ll be escorted by five soldiers. Pray what’s that for, if it’s so quiet, so
pacified
there? But in the same article, they tell you that all the Chouans have laid down their arms. They’re all agape with admiration at Bonaparte, they say. That’s just the kind of drivel you should expect from the papers that’re still open nowadays. Those that told the truth, they had their presses seized, their journalists arrested.”

Roch shook his head. “You are right, Father, those newspapers had been useful to spread the ideals of the Revolution. But now they had to be closed because they excited the populace against the Royalists. Everyone is ready to forget the old hatreds. I agree that the Revolution brought us great things, the equality of all before the law, the abolition of the old privileges, all that. But now people are tired of the chaos, of the bloodshed, of the corruption. They want order, they want to unite behind a strong leader. That’s why they like the First Consul.”

Old Miquel’s palm hit the table. “A strong leader all right! Did you know they’re going to demolish the statue of Liberty on the Place de la Révolution? To replace it with one of your strong leader, of course! They say in the paper they can’t decide if they’re going to have him on horseback, in his uniform, or standing in a toga, like a Roman Consul. I wish they’d ask me. Have Bonaparte up there stark naked, I’d tell them. It’d make it easier to kiss his ass.”

Roch frowned as he looked around uneasily. Old Miquel’s rants, even in the Roman language, might be understood by some of the patrons. That would create trouble for both of them. And the name
Bonaparte
was certainly easy to recognize in any idiom. He had to admit that his father had a point: it was imprudent to criticize the First Consul in public.

“When you think that Bonaparte owes the Revolution everything!” continued Old Miquel. “Without it, he’d still be a piddling lieutenant in some small-town garrison, and his greatest title to glory’d be to belong to a family of penniless Corsican nobles that no one—”

To Roch’s great relief, shouts drowned his father’s voice and the din of the room. All conversations stopped as two fellows in workmen’s caps rose from their benches, facing each other across the table.

“Don’t you ever say again that Eugénie’s a whore!” one of them cried, rising his fist. “Else I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, for sure, she’s a whore. She bedded you, and me, and Leriche too, and half of the people in here.”

The first man roared and caught the other by the lapel of his jacket. “Then I’ll kill you. And I’ll go kill her too after that.”

Old Miquel swore as he walked to the combatants. He grabbed both by their collars, pulled them from the table and threw them out onto the street.

“Enough!” he shouted in French. “Go kill each other outside, you drunkards. A big loss that’ll be.”

Old Miquel had large muscular arms and a broad chest. A heavy oak wood staff, fitted with an iron tip, hung by a leather thong from one of the buttons his jacket. Like Auvergne peasants, he also carried in his pocket a folding knife, ready to open with one flick of his thumb. Though past the age of fifty, he was more than a match for disorderly patrons.

“Scoundrels,” he said as he walked back to Roch. “Where do they think they are? I’ll have no foul language here, specially tonight. I invited Vidalenc, and Alexandrine of course, for the
réveillon
.” He wagged his forefinger at Roch. “Now here’s a girl who’d make a good wife, dutiful and hardworking. Though not as good as your dear mother, may her soul rest in peace.”

Roch was not surprised to hear of the choice of guests. Vidalenc was a wine merchant and his father’s oldest friend in Paris. As for Alexandrine, Roch did not dislike her at all. He had, when they were both children, treated her with the condescension owed a girl, a younger one at that. She had received some education and had pleasant, unaffected manners. He would not have minded spending the evening in her company but for his father’s repeated hints.

“But then,” continued Old Miquel, “you wouldn’t find a wife like your poor mother nowadays, specially in Paris. Still, Alexandrine’s a good girl. Pretty too, which can’t be too much of a hindrance. And she’s Vidalenc’s daughter, not any stranger whose parents you wouldn’t even know. As it is, she has a dowry of 50,000 francs, and she’s an only child. She’ll get all of Vidalenc’s money when—”

Old Miquel paused when Vidalenc, a stocky man with white hair and piercing blue eyes, entered the common room. Alexandrine was on her father’s arm. Roch had to admit that she looked pretty, even elegant, in a white taffeta dress, embroidered in blue around the hem and sleeves. A cashmere shawl, also blue, was modestly draped around her shoulders, but the swell of round breasts could be guessed underneath. She had expressive gray eyes and her honey-colored hair, with just a hint of red in it, fell in large curls on firm, broad shoulders. Predictably, she blushed when she saw Roch, which made him all the more uncomfortable.

Old Miquel showed his guests into the private dining parlor behind the tavern’s common room. The mongrel followed and settled stiffly in front of the hearth. Within moments he was whining in his sleep, his hind legs twitching. Perhaps he was dreaming of the faraway days when he would run away from the Mighty Barrel to pursue amorous adventures through the neighboring streets.

Alexandrine pulled from a basket on her arm a crown-shaped object wrapped in an immaculate towel, and presented it to Old Miquel. It was a
fougace
, a traditional Christmas cake from Auvergne. Roch breathed in its delicate aromas of orange blossom and dried fruit before they were overwhelmed by the smell of the goose, already golden brown, roasting on a spit in the fireplace. Old Miquel, beaming, removed his hat and kissed Alexandrine on both cheeks.

“Thank you, dear,” he said. “Still warm from the oven, I see. There’s no finer gift for the season. For any season, in fact.”

“I know you are so fond of it, Citizen Miquel,” said Alexandrine, smiling. “I baked it myself for you.”

“Then it’ll taste still sweeter. We’ll have it for dessert, with some fine Sauternes wine.”

Old Miquel placed the
fougace
at the center of the table, between two uncorked bottles of wine, one red, one white. They were coated with dust, not the gray dust of neglect, but the brown, sticky dust acquired during years of careful aging in a cellar. Roch surmised that, unlike the dubious beverage served to the tavern’s patrons, these bottles did not come from Vidalenc’s warehouse. On the walls of the dining parlor, copper basins reflected the light of the fire, next to a framed copy of the
Declaration of Rights of Man and of the Citizen
in gold letters against a black background. The table was set with plates painted with bright images of the storming of the Bastille, ten years earlier, and other patriotic motifs of the young Republic.

Old Miquel pulled a chair for Alexandrine to sit by his side, facing his son. Still standing, he poured red wine and raised his glass. “Some say that all things get worse with time. Not true. Like they say in Auvergne:

He raised his glass, looking at Vidalenc. “To old friendships!” Then he winked at Alexandrine and Roch. “And to new love!”

Roch glanced at Alexandrine. Her cheeks were flushed and she kept her eyes fixed on the tricolor flags that decorated her plate. Maybe she fancied him. He was generally reckoned handsome. Well, not quite so. His nose was too long and aquiline for that, but it did not seem to bother women. They seemed to like the direct gaze of his brown eyes. He was unusually tall, just under six feet, and well built without being heavyset, with a mass of dark curly hair, cropped short. He very much looked like his father twenty years earlier, except for the fact that Roch was now dressed as a gentleman, in an immaculate linen shirt, black velvet coat and waistcoat, bronze-colored breeches and fine leather boots.

But, for all the attention he paid to his own appearance, he was not conceited. On second thought, he was not sure at all that Alexandrine liked him. Perhaps she was simply embarrassed by the naïve scheming of their respective fathers. If so, that was all to her credit. For all Roch knew or cared, she might be madly in love with some other man.

Vidalenc, grinning, had now risen in turn. He cleared his throat, his glass in hand. Roch cringed at the idea of more talk of young love, but he never heard Vidalenc’s words, cut short by a tremendous blast. The entire room seemed to be lifted off its foundations and brutally dropped back down. A wine bottle toppled on the table. The framed
Declaration of Rights
crashed to the floor with a cling of broken glass.

Old Miquel, swearing, straightened the red wine bottle before much of its contents could spill. Alexandrine, silent, was very pale. Vidalenc was still standing, holding his glass aloft, words frozen on his lips. The dog rose and began barking furiously.

“Quiet, Crow!” shouted Old Miquel. “What the hell’s this? They disturb the peace of honest citizens, just to sound the cannon to celebrate some victory or other. All for your Bonaparte’s greater glory!”

Roch shook his head. “I doubt it, Father. This doesn’t sound like a cannon. And if this were a celebration of anything, there would have been a salvo of twenty-one blasts.” He put his napkin down on the table and rose. “You must excuse me.”