For the King (34 page)

“I will remain what I am.”

“What choice will you have? I heard of your father’s arrest. I am very sorry. I do hope things turn out better for him than for Topino.”

Mulard put his hand on Roch’s shoulder. “Listen, Miquel, don’t take it amiss if I ask you to stay away from me. I don’t hold you responsible for what happened to Topino. I know that this conspiracy business wasn’t your idea, that you had nothing to do with it, but I don’t trust you anymore. Good-bye then.”

He left in the direction of the Right Bank. Roch remained still, listening as Mulard’s footsteps resonated in the chilly night air. This friendship was one of the many things he had lost in the course of a few weeks. He shut his eyes tight, took off his hat and wearily ran his hand through his hair.

52

R
och slept poorly that night. In all fairness, after the conclusion to the Conspiracy of Daggers, he could not blame Mulard for wanting nothing to do with anyone linked to the police. But still more ominous was what the verdicts implied for Old Miquel. Anyone could be sentenced to the guillotine on the flimsiest of evidence.

In the morning, the only topic of discussion at the Prefecture was the outcome of the trial. Roch was attending to some routine correspondence when the guard announced a visit from Pépin. The boy removed his cap and remained by the door, at a safe distance. Yet he was grinning proudly.

“Got what you wanted, Citizen Chief Inspector, Sir,” he said. “There’s a coach arrivin’ from Rennes ’round noon, with that man Davignon drivin’. And the day after tomorrow, that other man, that Guillou fellow, he’ll be comin’ back too.”

“This sounds good, Pépin. Anything of crucial importance you forgot to tell me lately?”

Pépin put his hand on his breast. “Me, Chief Inspector? I’ll never do that again. Remember, Sir, you’ve my word of honor.”

“As though you had any such thing to give.” Roch paused. Instead of tossing Pépin a copper coin, as was his wont, he set it down in the middle of his desk. The boy approached cautiously and began to extend his hand, ready to retreat at the first sign of danger.

“Say, Pépin,” asked Roch, “aren’t you tired of begging?”

The boy’s jaw dropped and his hand stopped midway to the desk.

“I can’t stand the sight of your rags,” continued Roch. “And you smell like a dead skunk. I bet you haven’t washed since your last dip in the river in the summer. Listen, I could find you an apprenticeship with a good master, one who would feed you well, give you a set of decent clothes and teach you a trade.”

Pépin retreated backwards towards the door, an uneasy smile on his lips. “Like I tell th’ other fellows on the street:
Chief Inspector Miquel, he’s my favorite gen’leman in the whole police
.
Always a joke at the ready for me
.”

“I am not joking, imbecile.” Roch looked into Pépin’s eyes. “So what kind of trade would you like to learn?”

Pépin stared back. “Dunno, Sir. Never thought of that.” His voice had a quivering, high-pitched tone now. It must be beginning to break. “Really, Sir, you’d do that?”

“Are you interested?”

“Of course I’m. Thank you, Sir. It’s the first time anyone wants to do anythin’ for me. Really for me, I mean. So yes, Sir, I accept. Right away, ’fore you change your mind.”

“Not so fast. There is something you should know, little rascal. If I learned that your master wasn’t entirely happy with you, I would come after you, personally, and I would give you such a thrashing as you would never forget. So don’t take my offer unless you mean to better yourself. Think about it for a week.”

“Oh, I’ve already thought ’bout it. Thank you, Sir. Well, if I ever thought that you’d . . .”

Roch picked up the coin from the desk and threw it to Pépin. For the first time, the boy missed and squatted to pick it up.

“Now run,” said Roch.

He would talk to Alexandrine about Pépin. She would think of something suitable for the boy, perhaps at the Barrel or at her father’s warehouse. In the meantime, the coachman Davignon would soon arrive in Saint-Denis, and Roch intended to greet him there. He had grabbed his hat and was on his way out of his office when he bumped into Piis.

“Excuse me,” said Roch, “I am in a hurry.”

“Wait, Miquel, it will only take a minute.” The little man seemed distraught. “It . . . it’s about your father.”

Roch seized Piis by the arm. “My father? What do you mean? What happened?”

“Well, I just left the Prefect’s office . . . He was signing various orders and warrants, and—”

Roch shook Piis. “And what? The Prefect ordered my father’s deportation? The scoundrel can’t do that!”

“Let me talk, Miquel. No, the Prefect cannot order anyone’s deportation. But I saw him sign a memorandum ordering your father’s transfer from the Temple to Bicêtre. For tomorrow morning.”

Roch closed his eyes for a moment. All deportees left Paris from Bicêtre. Old Miquel’s transfer there meant that his deportation was now imminent. It might happen as early as the next morning. Roch shoved his colleague out of the way. “Thank you, Piis. I need to go to Fouché this minute.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Miquel, can’t you listen to me for a moment? The Prefect was not acting on his own accord. He had received his orders from Fouché himself this morning.”

Roch frowned. This was indeed the 27th of January, the very date set by Fouché for the arrests of Saint-Régent and Carbon. That of Carbon alone was obviously not sufficient to save Old Miquel. There was no point in going to Fouché before Saint-Régent was captured as well, and this needed to happen within the next twenty-four hours. Roch’s errand to Saint-Denis was more urgent than ever.

He ran out of the Prefecture and stepped into the middle of the street to stop a hackney. The driver, yelling a volley of oaths, pulled on the reins. Roch opened the door of the hackney, seized the astonished occupant by the lapels of his coat and threw him out.

“Police!” shouted Roch over the driver’s curses. “To Saint-Denis, and whip your horse.”

53

T
he guards at the city gates waved the hackney through when Roch showed his Prefecture Card. He jumped off before the vehicle had stopped in front of the Inn of the Golden Lion, the point of arrival and departure in Saint-Denis for all the stagecoaches to and from Rennes. Yet at this time there was no carriage in sight.

Roch rushed into the Golden Lion and grabbed one the waiters by the elbow. The man swore, recovered his balance and steadied the tray he was carrying. “Eh, you, can’t you be careful?”

Roch slipped a coin into the man’s palm. “Sorry. Did the coach from Rennes arrive yet?”

“Oh, that’s why you almos’ knocked me off my feet? Your sweetheart’s on it? Well, the coach’s a bit late today. You never know, with all those brigands on the roads. So what can I serve you to keep you nice an’ warm while you wait for your youn’ lady? A mug o’ wine, maybe?”

Roch thanked the man and went to wait outside. The inn’s wine, for all he knew, might come from Vidalenc’s warehouse, and he doubted that he could he muster the patience to sit still for long.

A rooster, all brilliant russet and green feathers, and a few hens pecked at the dirt with satisfied clucks. A mongrel, seated on his rump, was scratching his ear with vigorous strokes of his hind leg.

After a while other people joined Roch in front of the inn. Among the small group Roch noticed a man, large, tall and fairly young. A low forehead, long matted hair and thick eyebrows gave him a brutish expression. He was dressed in trousers of coarse canvas and a goatskin jacket. Of course, this was a small suburban town, not Paris itself, but the man’s apparel seemed oddly rustic here.

Soon Roch heard the rumbling of wheels and the rhythmic sound of hooves. The coach was approaching at a walk, its horses covered with white patches of sweat. The driver pulled on the reins, set the brake and climbed down stiffly from his seat. Rubbing his lower back, he opened the door for the travelers to alight. Deep lines cut into his face, between his cheeks and his chin, and locks of white hair stuck straight, as though half frozen, from under his hat. This must be Davignon, whose wife, unbeknownst to him, was housed in the prostitutes’ coop at the Prefecture at that very moment.

The coachman, once all the passengers had alighted, looked on as two Auvergnats joking in the Roman language proceeded to unload the luggage from the roof and back of the carriage. The travelers claimed their belongings and went inside to stretch their legs and partake of some refreshments before taking hackneys to Paris. Davignon cleared the reins from the leaders while grooms freed the horses from their harnesses. Roch had retreated into a corner next to the stables entrance to watch the scene.

Once there was no one else left around the stagecoach, the goatskin man approached Davignon. They did not greet each other, nor did they appear to exchange a single look or word. Yet Roch saw the driver reach under the leather cover of his seat and hand the other man a sort of portfolio, which promptly disappeared inside the vastness of the hairy jacket.

So this was how George corresponded with his associates in the capital! There must be yet another trick to get the letters past the guards at the barriers, for they had strict orders to search every cart and carriage coming in and out of Paris.

The goatskin man walked away at a brisk pace. Fortunately no horse, hackney or carriage was waiting for him. He passed the massive walls of the Basilica, where the Kings and Queens of France had been buried before their tombs had been destroyed during the Revolution. Roch, thankful for the dark, narrow, winding streets, followed the suspect closely. But soon the man left the boundaries of Saint-Denis, headed towards the countryside, away from Paris. The cry of a rooster could be heard in the distance. Without the cover of the streets and their many recesses, Roch had to give him more headway and worried about losing sight of him.

A fourth of a league from the city limits, on a hillside, was an isolated white stone house, in the style of the aristocratic châteaux built before the Revolution. The goatskin man walked through the gilded gates of its park.

54

R
och avoided the front entrance and followed the wall that enclosed the grounds. It was in good repair, smooth and too high to allow for easy climbing. After walking a few hundred yards to the west, he found a gate, three feet in width. This would do. He put on his leather gloves, settled his foot on the iron bar at the middle and seized the sharp spikes at the top with both hands. Careful to keep his groin clear of them, he pulled himself up and jumped to the other side.

To avoid detection Roch had to rely on the scant protection offered by the park’s clusters of shrubs and trees in the English style. Half crouched, he hurried across the lawns that led towards a terrace at the back of the château. He hoped that no hounds were loose in the park at this hour and regretted the absence of his father’s staff. All he had was Old Miquel’s folding knife in his pocket.

At last he reached the flight of stairs that led to the terrace. It offered a beautiful perspective of Paris. Roch, without pausing to admire the view, stepped onto the terrace. Sheltering his eyes from the pale glare of the winter sun, he peered into a vast oval room, the windows of which opened to the floor. It took him but a moment to break one of the panes with his gloved fist. He pushed on the handle inside and let himself into a room paved in a checker pattern of black-and-white marble. The furniture comprised a large mahogany table, twelve cane chairs and sideboards displaying heavy silver ewers and platters. Two sets of double doors were decorated with painted allegories of the seasons.

Behind the panels representing Spring, crowned with flowers, and Summer, holding sheaves of wheat, he heard the ringing of tiny bells, mingled with the yelps of a small dog. With bated breath he flipped his knife open inside his pocket. So this was the home of Saint-Régent’s
lady
. He would discover her identity, and the man himself would be within his grasp. Old Miquel would be free at last.

Roch, still holding the knife in his right hand, opened the door with the left one. He found himself in an elegant salon, draped in silks patterned with roses and daisies. A pug ran at him as fast as its bow legs allowed and bit his boot. But Roch was not paying the animal any heed.

What arrested his attention was the sight of Blanche, standing in the middle of the room. She was very still, as pale as her white dress. Her black hair was tied by wide scarlet ribbons in the Greek fashion. She stared at Roch in silence, and he could not keep his eyes off her.

The dog’s renewed attacks on Roch’s boot brought him to his senses. If Blanche rang for her servants, he would be easily overpowered. He placed himself between her and the bell pull.

“It’s over,” he said in a quiet tone. “We are surrounded by a squadron of gendarmes, ready to storm the house. It is too late to escape now.” He pointed at a chair. “Have a seat. You will forgive me if, under the circumstances, I take the liberty of giving you orders under your own roof.”

Blanche slowly sat down, her eyes still fixed on his face. He slipped his foot under the belly of the pug and seized it by the scruff of the neck. He turned the silver medal hanging from its collar between his fingers. The dog, shaking with rage, snapped at the air in an attempt to bite his hand.

“
To My Lady
,” Roch read aloud. “So this friendly animal must be Mirza. In truth, whose lady are you?”

She was still staring at him in silence. He let go of the dog, which, growling, jumped onto her lap.

“Listen, Citizen Coudert,” he said between his clenched teeth, “if you wish to avoid the guillotine, talk, and fast. First you are going to tell me about Saint-Régent. Where’s the bastard? In this house?”

She took a deep breath and spoke at last. “No. I don’t even know where he is, Roch. I swear.”