For the King (31 page)

Behind them an Inspector let out a cry of triumph. He pulled from under her bed a cloth bag, with the mention
Paupers’ Purse
written in a spidery handwriting on a paper label. It held five coins of six francs. Another bag, marked
Gentlemen’s Purse
, contained 102 francs in silver coins and, in a smaller silk bag inside, five gold
louis
of twenty-four francs. Quite appropriate, reflected Roch. A pauper’s purse is always leaner than that of a gentleman.

“Who are the
gentlemen
in question?” Roch asked Citizen Cicé.

“I keep in this purse the proceeds of a collection for the priests and the paupers of La Salpêtrière.”

“You did not answer my question. Who are these
gentlemen
?”

“I cannot answer. It would offend my delicacy.”

“Would it? Your delicacy is not so easily offended when it comes to aiding assassins like your nephew Limoëlan and his friends.”

“Monsieur de Limoëlan is not my nephew, Sir, nor any relation of mine. I only know him.”

“How so?”

“Again I cannot answer.”

“What about Saint-Régent?”

“I cannot tell you more.”

“Then you are under arrest, Citizen. You will be questioned at the Prefecture. Would it also offend your delicacy to empty your pockets, or must we search you?”

Citizen Cicé pursued her lips and pulled a prayer book out of her pocket. Roch held it by a corner of the cover and shook it. A book-mark fell to the floor. He squatted to pick it up. It bore the image of the Sacred-Heart-of-Jesus in bright red against a white background and the motto
La victoire ou la mort
. Victory or death, the emblem and motto of the Chouans.

There was a timid knock at the door. One of the Inspectors went to open. A middle-aged woman, her hand to her mouth, stood on the threshold. The Inspector posted at the front door of the house had instructions to let anyone come in and no one go out. He had been discreet enough not to be noticed by this woman.

“Police,” said Roch. “Please state your name and place of employment.”

“Marie Danjou, Sir. I am a lady’s companion, but have no place now.”

“What business have you here, Citizen Danjou?”

“Mademoiselle de Cicé is a friend, a very good friend, I must say. I was calling on her.”

Roch did not feel kindly disposed towards any friends of the old maid. “Perfect. You will keep her company then. I am placing you under arrest too.”

The woman stared at Citizen Cicé in mute horror.

It would take a while to collect, inventory and seal all of the evidence to be seized. Inspector Bertier was left to watch both females. Roch, with his remaining man, proceeded to search the rest of the house. Those tenants whose names had been written on Citizen Cicé’s envelopes were arrested. Also, a man from the western town of Poitiers was found in possession of a valid passport, but he had failed to have it stamped at the Prefecture upon his arrival in Paris. He protested that it was an innocent omission, that he was only visiting an aunt in the capital for a few days. He nevertheless was arrested.

From a narrow window in the attic, barely a slit in the roof, a gray eye was watching the scene. Mademoiselle de Cicé, in the midst of a small group, was waiting on the street below. Father de Clorivière blessed himself. The policemen had failed to notice the entrance to his hiding place. Thank God it was cleverly disguised in the paneling of the attic. His lips formed a silent prayer for dear Mademoiselle de Cicé. This was not her first arrest. She was brave. She would not speak.

46

R
och hailed two hackneys to take the suspects to the Prefecture. He invited Mademoiselle de Cicé, the man from Poitiers and the lady’s companion to step into the first one before he settled across from them with an Inspector. The fellow with the unstamped passport sat in a corner with a look of perfect imbecility on his face. The two women were holding hands. Citizen Cicé kept her eyes turned upwards, in the direction of the heavens and, more directly, the shabby roof of the hackney. Now she must fancy herself some sort of martyr for
the cause
.

Roch was watching her. In spite of her charities, did she like the poor, the
paupers
, as she called them, very much? Of course, they were necessary to her as grateful recipients of her kindnesses. But she probably saw them as devoid of true feelings, indeed barely above animals. Her comment about Roch’s inability to understand her love for her mother rankled.

For Roch did remember his own mother’s love, and he remembered loving her as well. He remembered suckling at her breast, and later watching his sister and brother do the same. She had fed all of her children until they reached the age of four. They were by then old enough to stand on a stool by her side. She would smile and, without bothering to sit down, unlace the top of her bodice for them to latch onto her nipple.

While his father was away in Paris for nine long months, Roch, his sister and brother would all sleep in their mother’s bed in the only room of the cottage, and she always kept the place next to her for him, her firstborn. Roch remembered the warmth of her body through her chemise as he nestled against her under the fat down coverlet, with its red silk envelope, that had been all her dowry. During the day he, as the eldest, would graze their tiny flock of sheep along lonely mountain lanes, and, once in a while, try to catch a few hurried hours of study on the benches of the parish school.

Then, in June, Old Miquel walked home from Paris, in time for the hay harvest. He had not much hay to harvest himself, but he earned a few
sols
helping more fortunate neighbors. Upon Old Miquel’s return, the mood at the cottage changed. The children would cast cautious glances at their father, and Roch’s mother smiled less. During meals, she never sat in her husband’s presence. She stood behind his chair, ready to serve him and obey his commands. Such was the custom among peasants in Auvergne.

In fact, Old Miquel was less harsh to his wife than most men of his class. Whenever he was displeased with her, he simply glowered at her and reached for his staff, which was enough to make her cower. He never actually beat her, in spite of the many proverbs that advised a man to correct his wife, hard and often, if he wanted to remain the master of his own house.

Old Miquel called her
fenno
, which means both “woman” and “wife” in the Roman language. Again, that was the usual way in Auvergne. But on occasion, when he was in a cheerful mood, after dancing a
bourrée
at the sound of the bagpipes, or drinking a few glasses of wine, he used her Christian name, Augalio, which translated as “Eulalie” in French. That always seemed to startle her. She blushed and looked up at him. Then, when she saw him grin at her, she would smile back with shy pride, as though he could pay her no greater compliment than to speak her name.

When Old Miquel returned home every summer, Roch would have to surrender his place in his mother’s bed, and instead share with his sister and brother a straw mattress on the dirt floor of the cottage. For many nights afterwards, though the other children dozed off quickly, he could not sleep. He lay awake, his eyes wide open in the dark, attentive to the sounds behind the closed curtains of the bed.

It all began with barely audible words, whispered in a hoarse man’s voice. Soon followed the rhythmic creaking of the old frame, slow at first, then more and more urgent, and his mother’s moans, his father’s grunts, and finally inarticulate, muffled cries. The bed fell into silence at last, until the process was repeated. Roch would learn later that Old Miquel did not touch women during his nine months in Paris, and he returned to Auvergne with a ravenous appetite for his wife’s body.

To Mademoiselle de Cicé, all of this would have been disgusting, a reflection of the beastly immodesty of the poor, of the coarseness of their feelings. Yet this was how Roch had first learned about lust and love, a mother’s love, a wife’s love.

But then what kind of love had Blanche in mind when she had asked for a ring? Lovers’ love. Blanche herself, like the women he had bedded before her, had been a poor teacher in this regard. He realized that he had wanted from her things, such as loyalty and truthfulness, she could never give him or any other man. Yet her loss left him empty.

47

A
t the Prefecture Roch sat down with Piis to review the letters seized at Citizen Cicé’s lodgings. There were a great many, written by different hands, but in some ways they were all alike: unsigned and full of cryptic references to the
Little Painter
, the
Hermit
, the
shop’s main agent
, the
flow of commerce
,
our dearest Julie
, and the like.

“Now look,” said Roch, pointing at a sheet he was reading, “in this one, there is a mention of
S__t Francis
.”

Piis jumped in his chair. “And about this one! Listen:
The Little Painter has a few good companions. We hope that it will all happen very soon now. I look forward to giving you in person more ample details that you will find satisfactory.
This could be a reference to Limoëlan, Carbon and Saint-Régent. It seems that Mademoiselle de Cicé was aware of the preparations for the Rue Nicaise attack.”

Roch frowned. “I suspect she provided, and may still provide, active support to the assassins.”

“And, Miquel, what if she were the
lady
that schoolgirl saw accompanying Carbon to the Convent of Saint-Michel?”

Roch shook his head. “I don’t think so. That girl Pulchérie mentioned that the lady in question wore a gown with elegant gold embroidery at the hem. This hardly matches the Cicé woman’s clothing. You have not seen her yet, but her attire is very austere, almost like that of a nun.”

“Maybe that Pulchérie girl was mistaken, or perhaps Mademoiselle de Cicé dressed differently for that occasion.”

“Both highly unlikely,” said Roch, seizing another letter from the pile on the desk.

All of a sudden he sat up. The new letter was written in a bold hand he had not seen before.

Roch handed the letter across the desk to Piis. “Gideon is one of George’s war names, and this can only be from Limoëlan. Who else could be so closely involved in the Rue Nicaise attack, and so keen on blaming Saint-Régent?”

“I agree,” said Piis after reading the letter. “But who is this
For the King
character?”

“Well, Piis, it can’t be Limoëlan, who wrote this letter, nor Saint-Régent, who is mentioned here as
Pierrot
. Short Francis has to be the
associate
seized by the competition, which must mean the police.
For the King
is a fourth conspirator, entrusted with a mission to spy on us. So that could be Bachelot, or some other traitor within our ranks. There could be more than one at the Prefecture.”

“Not necessarily,” said Piis. “Nothing in the letter implies that
For the King
works here. He could be spying on us from the outside.”

Roch looked at his colleague in a more pointed manner. The man seemed very anxious to exonerate their colleagues. “True, Piis. Then
For the King
might be a woman. The woman Pulchérie saw taking Francis to the Convent, for instance. Or the
lady
for whom Saint-Régent purchased the pug.”

“Also,” said Piis, some of the letters mention a
Little Painter
. Who is that?”

Roch, lost in his thoughts, stared out the window. He was reminded of a little painter he had met recently.

“Say, Piis, do you know a Madame de Nallet?” asked Roch abruptly. “She studies, or pretends to study flower painting in David’s studio.”

“Madame de Nallet? I have known her for years. A lovely lady.” Piis scoffed. “You are not implying she could have anything to do with this Rue Nicaise business, are you?”

“This lovely lady could be
For the King
. She has ties to the Royalists through her émigré brother.”

“But the same is true of hundreds of other society ladies in Paris. And the letter implies that
For the King
has something to do with forwarding the correspondence between Limoëlan and George. I can’t imagine Madame de Nallet doing such a thing. But that could fit Mademoiselle de Cicé. Look at those reams of letters you seized at her lodgings. She could be
For the King
.”

“Come, Piis, let’s be serious. Would Limoëlan want to drown a woman he considers his aunt?”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to wait until she is questioned by the Prefect.”