For the King (27 page)

Hiding Francis in the Convent of Saint-Michel, Limoëlan realized now, had been a mistake. In Mother Duquesne herself his trust was not shaken. She was no fool and must have suspected the truth, but betraying Francis would have been betraying Blanche, and she would never do that. But many other people might have talked: another nun, a pupil, a boarder. The thought of Blanche herself crossed his mind as well. The little hussy was becoming more unreliable by the day.

At last Limoëlan stopped before the soot-colored building that bore number 1336. He pushed the door open. His boot hit crumpled papers and vegetable peels as he ran up the creaky wooden steps, worn hollow in the middle, to the fourth floor. The furious yapping of a small dog answered his knock at the door. “Who’s this?” asked a tremulous female voice.

“A friend of Monsieur Pierrot,” said Limoëlan. “Open, please. I know he is here.”

There was a pause, the noise of hurried steps, hushed voices, more barking. Limoëlan knocked again, harder. Saint-Régent, pale and sullen, opened the door himself. Limoëlan, as soon as he entered the front room, was taken aback by the rancid smell of manure. A makeshift cage of wood and wire was propped against one of the walls. There half a dozen adult rabbits, oblivious to his arrival, jumped leisurely over one another. Many more young ones lay half-hidden in the litter of straw and cabbage leaves that covered the bottom.

Standing in the room were two women, an elderly one and a pretty, freckled, red-haired girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Limoëlan looked with curiosity at her dress, obviously new, white with pink flowers. It seemed at odds with the brownish colors of her surroundings. The girl was holding a growling pug dog, its tiny fangs bared.

“Can we talk, Pierrot?” asked Limoëlan impatiently.

Saint-Régent, still silent, led him to a second room and closed the door behind them. A sheet hung from a clothesline in the middle, as a makeshift partition.

“You don’t ask how I found you here?” said Limoëlan. “I must admit I was rather surprised when the Guillou woman told me you had left for good.” He paused. “Seriously, we need to talk. I heard from Bachelot at the Prefecture. Francis was arrested this morning.”

Saint-Régent cursed and stamped his foot. “I was right!” he said between his teeth. “This is your fault! I told you Francis needed to be killed. But no, you had to put us all at risk to protect him.”

“Well, I waited for George’s orders in your case as well, did I not? Imagine how easy it would have been to kill you right after the attack, when you were wounded. Instead I brought my uncle to hear your confession.”

Saint-Régent sneered. “You thought I was dying. Why go through the trouble of killing me?”

Limoëlan shook his head in exasperation. “Enough, Saint-Régent. We need to leave right away.”

Saint-Régent looked around.

“No time to pack anything,” said Limoëlan. “Let’s go.”

The two men went back into the front room. On his way out, Saint-Régent stopped to take the pug from the girl’s arms. She tried to hold on to it.

“Come, Toinette,” he said. “We had an agreement, remember.”

Saint-Régent seized the animal in spite of the girl’s resistance and its frantic barks. Limoëlan pulled roughly on his comrade’s sleeve. “What are you doing? We have to go.”

At last the two men hurried down the stairs, the pug tucked tightly under Saint-Régent’s elbow. Once on the street, Limoëlan cast an unfriendly glance at the growling animal, which was struggling to escape.

“This thing is meant as a gift for
her
, I suppose?” asked Limoëlan. “How can you worry about such nonsense at this time?
You
are putting us all at risk.”

Saint-Régent made no response.

“Where will you be going?” asked Limoëlan.

“Do I ask where you live now? I suppose you decamped from your room above the pastry shop already. You know where to leave word if you need me.”

“Fine. Perhaps it’s better this way now.”

Saint-Régent turned on his heels and disappeared around the corner of Rue des Saussaies. Limoëlan could now return to the new hiding place Father de Clorivière had secured for him.

This business with the pug worried him. He was sure that it was a gift for Blanche. She must have recently met Saint-Régent without Limoëlan’s knowledge, and given the man encouragement enough for him to present her with the stupid dog.

41

F
or Roch, the 18th of January had been a busy and fruitful day. Following Fouché’s instructions to arrest dozens of Royalist leaders, all of the Police Commissioners in Paris, with all of their men, and all twenty-four Inspectors had been ordered to report for duty. Detachments from the regular army, more than 300 cavalrymen and foot soldiers, had even lent their assistance for the arrests. Old Miquel would have much company at the Temple.

Roch returned to the Prefecture shortly before nine that evening. He had not slept the night before, and was beginning to feel light-headed, but he went to Piis’s office to hear the results of Carbon’s questioning.

“Oh, he did not display any of his sister’s spirit,” said Piis. “He answered the Prefect’s questions meekly.”

“Did he confess?”

“No, he maintained that on the 3rd of Nivose, at the time of the attack, he was walking on the boulevards. By himself.”

“No alibi, then?”

“None. He denied everything at first. Then he reconsidered and admitted to purchasing the horse and cart, and renting the shed, all upon the request of a man he didn’t know.”

“A likely story! And what does he say he did with the horse and cart?” asked Roch.

“He brought them to that same stranger in the afternoon of the 3rd of Nivose. Then the fellow in question gave him six francs and left.”

“And then, what else?”

“Nothing else. The Prefect announced all of a sudden that the questioning was recessed.”

Roch stared at his colleague, his eyebrows raised.

“I was surprised myself,” added Piis. “The questioning had only begun at four in the afternoon, which I thought was late enough, and it stopped twenty minutes later.”

“Why give Carbon time to recover whatever wits he has?
That
was the moment to press for information.”

“Well, I am sure that the Prefect has a plan.”

“What plan? We need to arrest Saint-Régent and the man with the gold spectacles right away, before they learn of Carbon’s arrest. How is it that the Prefect fails to see that?”

A guard knocked at the door and announced that the questioning of the suspect was going to resume. Roch followed Piis to the peepholes.

The Prefect took his seat behind the table. Short Francis was fully clothed, and his face bore the mildest of expressions.

The Prefect cleared his voice. “Witnesses have seen two men with you in that shed you rented on Rue de Paradis. Who are they?”

“One’s Monsieur de Saint-Régent, but we call him Monsieur Pierrot between ourselves. Back west, he’s a Commander in the Catholic and Royal Army. The other man’s My Lord the Chevalier de Limoëlan. He’s George’s First Major General.”

This was fast. Roch had heard of that man Limoëlan, a notorious Chouan leader. He must be George’s chief representative in Paris, the head of the conspiracy. During the first session of the questioning, a few hours earlier, Short Francis had seen only one man, and had no clue as to his identity. Now there were two of them, and he perfectly remembered their names. Roch wondered whether Carbon had been granted a private interview with Bertrand during the recess. Yet it did not appear to be the case. His hands seemed normal, not horribly swollen as those of some suspects Roch had seen during the investigation of the Conspiracy of Daggers.

Short Francis proceeded to describe both of his accomplices. It was clear that Limoëlan, tall, thin, long-faced, handsome, “weak in the eyes,” was the man with the gold spectacles described by Captain Platel and other witnesses. Roch now expected the Prefect to ask Short Francis for the addresses of his accomplices before it was too late. But no, instead the questioning rambled on the details of Carbon’s past service in the Catholic and Royal Army. Roch, his eye still stuck to the peephole, began to kick the wall impatiently. He wanted to walk into the interrogation room, shove the Prefect out of his chair, seize Carbon by the lapels of his coat and wrench from him the addresses of the other assassins.

“Yes, Sir, I’d served in the Catholic and Royal Army for seven years,” said Short Francis proudly. “I left with the rank of Captain aroun’ the time of the Pacification. After that I came to Paris.”

“Under which chief did you serve in the Catholic and Royal Army?”

“Under My Lord the Count de Bourmont.”

“Have you seen Bourmont in Paris?”

“Yes, Sir. He gave me thirty-six francs, and let me work as a groom in his stables. That’s the way he is, Monsieur de Bourmont. A good master, always kind-hearted.”

“Did Bourmont discuss with you the plan of the attack on the First Consul?”

“Oh, no! Monsieur de Bourmont’d never do that. He used to be a Chouan, but now he’s full of admiration for the First Consul.”

Roch nearly snorted in derision. At least that rascal Bourmont was now behind bars, thanks to Fouché’s initiative, but Saint-Régent and Limoëlan were still free. Where were they? Why was not the Prefect asking about that
immediately
? No, instead he dwelled at his leisure upon the happenings at the shed during the days that preceded the Rue Nicaise attack. Short Francis was happy to oblige and rambled on cheerfully.

“And then,” he said at last, “we left the shed, me, Monsieur de Limoëlan and Monsieur Pierrot, all three of us. No, Sir, I didn’t know what was on the cart, ’cause the cloth covered everything. Monsieur de Limoëlan was the one leading the horse by the bridle. Then we arrived at Place des Victoires, and Monsieur Pierrot asked Monsieur de Limoëlan,
We don’t need Francis no more, do we?
And Monsieur de Limoëlan said:
No, for sure we don’t. Go your way, Francis. I’ll meet you tomorrow at the shed.
So I left them right there, and I went home to my sister’s.”

“And did you meet Limoëlan at the shed the next day?” asked the Prefect.

“Yes, Sir, I did.”

Another obvious lie, thought Roch. Short Francis had surrendered the key to the shed to Citizen Roger, the porter,
before
the attack. But who cared? The only thing that mattered right now was to capture Saint-Régent and Limoëlan.

“So you are completely ignorant of any plot to kill the First Consul?” continued the Prefect.

“Oh, yes, Sir. That is, I
was
ignorant of it till I read ’bout it in the papers.” Carbon sighed and shook his head sadly. “A terrible, terrible thing that was. Then, a few days later, Monsieur de Limoëlan met me at the shed again, and he said,
My poor Francis, you can’t stay with your sister no more. It’s not safe. I’ve heard some evil-minded people blaming the Chouans for the attack.
Imagine how upset I was when I heard that! So Monsieur de Limoëlan said,
Go get your things, Francis, and meet me in front of Saint-Sulpice at eight o’clock tonight. I’ll take you to a safe place, a place where they’ll treat you well
.”

“So did you meet him there?”

“I waited over twenty minutes for him, Sir. In the rain, and it was freezing, almost. But at last he came, and he took me to the Convent of the Sisters of Saint-Michel. He told me to be sure to stay quietly there till the police found the real culprits.”

Short Francis entered, with obvious relish, into the details of his life at the convent. His room was small but well heated. His bed was comfortable, the food the Sisters brought him tasty, the wine plentiful. All free of charge. What else could a man wish for?

“Was Limoëlan alone when he took you to the Convent?” asked the Prefect.

“Yes, Sir. It was jus’ the two of us.”

“Yet a woman was seen with you that night. Who is she?”

Francis gaped for a few moments before answering. “A woman, you say? Ah, yes, I was going to tell you all ’bout that. Just when Monsieur de Limoëlan met me, three ladies came out of a house nearby and joined us. And me, the three ladies, and Monsieur de Limoëlan, we went to the Convent together.”

“And who are those three ladies?”

“I don’t know them, Sir. And it was dark, so I couldn’t tell you what they were like.”

The Prefect pulled the note that began with
PLEASE KEEP VERY QUIET, DEAR FRANCIS.

“Who wrote this?” he asked.

“Oh, that?” Short Francis blinked and seemed to hesitate again. “It’s from Monsieur de Limoëlan. The Mother Superior brought it to me, jus’ the day after I’d arrived.”

“Where are Limoëlan and Saint-Régent?”

At last! Roch held his breath. He had almost abandoned hope of the Prefect ever reaching this point.

“Monsieur de Limoëlan has lodgings on Rue Neuve-Saint-Roch. Above the pastry shop, at the corner of Rue des Moineaux. And his mother has a house in Versailles. I don’t know where exactly.”

“And Saint-Régent?”

“He has a room on Rue des Prouvaires, with a Guillou family. It’s the fifth alley to the right, when you come from Rue Honoré, third floor. It’s easy to find, because the alley door has an iron gate. And he also has lodgings on Rue d’Aguesseau, Number 1336, on the third floor, with a Widow Jourdan.”

Roch exhaled deeply. It was now four in the morning. Almost twenty-one hours had already elapsed since the arrest of Short Francis. Where had his accomplices gone now?

42

T
he Prefect lost no more time. He launched his men immediately in pursuit of the suspects. It fell to Roch’s lot to go to Rue d’Aguesseau, where, according to Short Francis, one might find Saint-Régent. “Remember that the man is extremely determined and dangerous,” added the Prefect. Roch needed no such warning and ordered three of his Inspectors, Bachelot, Alain and Bertier, to accompany him. Saint-Régent’s arrest was now the only remaining obstacle to Old Miquel’s safety, and Roch did not want to give the man any chance to escape.