For the King (37 page)

56

A
so-called Letter from Topino-Lebrun to the Jury was circulating in Paris. It was in fact an anonymous pamphlet about the inanity of the evidence and the unfairness of the death sentences in the trial of the Conspiracy of Daggers. The Prefect instructed Roch to discover and arrest promptly its author, or authors, and printer. Roch, though convinced that Mulard had a hand in it, chose not to share his suspicions with his superior and indeed displayed little zeal in that investigation.

In any event, the pamphlet served no purpose. Topino-Lebrun and his supposed accomplices were duly guillotined once their appeals were rejected, on the 30th of January. Their fate elicited no sympathy, for public opinion still blamed them for the Rue Nicaise attack in spite of the arrests of Carbon and Saint-Régent.

Yet all the usual Chouan haunts, including now the Mayenne Inn, were under close surveillance. Roch had also posted some of his informants to watch Madame de Cléry’s gaming salon and the mansion of Madame de Nallet, the half hearted flower painter. He put little stock in Blanche’s assurances about the innocence of her mother and friend.

Saint-Régent remained steadfast in his refusal to speak. Of Limoëlan there was still no trace. Roch was beginning to worry that the man had managed to slip out of Paris. He looked up from his work when a messenger brought him a note, and frowned when he recognized Blanche’s handwriting. What could she possibly want from him now? He tore the seal open and began to read.

Roch flushed with anger and crumpled the piece of paper. Blanche was trying to draw him into a trap, as she had done with Saint-Régent. Only this time she was acting at Limoëlan’s behest, in an attempt to regain the trust of her accomplice. And by the same token the little minx would rid herself of the only policeman aware of her part in the plot. She would kill two birds with the same stone. And who was that uncle of Limoëlan? Did he even exist? If so, this was yet another thing Blanche had been hiding.

Roch frowned. There was another possibility. He straightened out Blanche’s note and reread it, pondering each word. Unlikely as it seemed, what if she told the truth this time? After all, Limoëlan was her most determined foe. Maybe the trap was indeed destined for him, not for Roch. With Limoëlan dead, she could hope to recover her former standing with the Chouans. She was clever enough to dispel George’s suspicions as to Saint-Régent’s arrest. Roch shook his head in exasperation. Who could ever hope to disentangle Blanche’s skein of lies?

The only prudent, reasonable thing was for him to inform his superiors of the fact that Limoëlan might be at the Champs-Elysées tonight. He could even avoid naming Blanche by claiming that he had received the tip from some anonymous informer. The Champs-Elysées would be surrounded by dozens of policemen, waiting to arrest Limoëlan.

But then if Blanche came to the Champs-Elysées, she too would be arrested, then tried, maybe executed. Roch realized that he could not reconcile himself to that prospect. He would go, alone, and take his chances.

57

A
boveground, in the Church of Saint-Laurent, monuments and long-winded inscriptions recalled the titles and virtues of the priests, deacons and aristocratic donors buried below, but down in the crypt only plain stone slabs covered the tombs. Joseph de Limoëlan shuddered. Not that the closeness of the dead disturbed him in the least. These days the dead bothered him far less than the living. But it was dreadfully cold.

Certainly there could be no safer hiding place than the crypt of this deserted church, and he was grateful to his uncle Father de Clorivière for thinking of it, but he was used to the outdoors. He liked the swift, daring attacks on the Republic’s troops in the Brittany countryside, the wind whipping his face, the fragrance of the sea, the crash of the waves on the pink granite shores. Now he felt trapped like a rat in that dark, dank, musty, silent hole.

Limoëlan, by the light of a tallow candle affixed to a tombstone, was reading a letter from his uncle, Father de Clorivière.

Limoëlan had not been overly worried for his mother. He had been sure that, thanks to Fouché’s protection, she would be released after some perfunctory questioning. What was far more disturbing was Blanche’s note, folded within Father de Clorivière’s letter and written in a hurried scrawl.

He sneered. Blanche must take him for a complete imbecile. He had already suspected her at the time of Francis’s arrest, but he had given her the benefit of the doubt then. Now there was but one person who could have lured Saint-Régent out of hiding. For Saint-Régent was cautious, cunning, wary. Except when it came to Blanche. The fool was in love, and she had used his love to deliver him to his enemies, as Delilah had done to Samson. Blanche had clearly fallen under the influence of that scoundrel Miquel. That was why she had told Limoëlan for months that she could not succeed.
He
had succeeded with her.

And now the treacherous little whore tried to deliver Limoëlan as well to her lover. She would find some difficulty there. Limoëlan meant to live, and to live free, and he meant for Blanche to die. Without rising, he reached for a thin object, four feet in length, resting against the wall behind him. Steal gleamed in the light of the candle. He grinned as he braced the club-shaped butt of the gun against his shoulder.

58

B
lanche fervently prayed that Limoëlan and Roch would both come to the Champs-Elysées tonight. Before sending the messages she had long thought of her situation. It was hopeless.

How could have things come to this? Seducing, deceiving and then getting tangled in her own snares. Betraying the lovelorn Saint-Régent. Worse, helping kill innocents. It could all be traced to Limoëlan. Until she had met him, everything was going so well. She was helping the cause without harming anyone. Then Limoëlan had come to Paris and her life had changed. First he had asked her to seduce Roch. She could have refused that mission. Why had she accepted? She must have been yearning for the romance she had so carefully eluded since Armand’s death.

She thought she could play with Roch’s feelings without getting caught herself. When she had realized the enormity of her presumption, it had been too late to escape. She had lied to Limoëlan to continue lying to Roch. Limoëlan had sensed her betrayal and kept asking her to do more outrageous things, to seduce Piis, to give herself to Francis. Again the result had been yet more lies, less trust, and more contempt from Limoëlan. All this to keep a man whose love she was bound to lose. Now it had happened, and it was only part of the darkness enshrouding her.

Roch had been right: either Limoëlan would kill her, or he would convince George to order her execution, and some other Chouan would take care of it.

And then there was the police. Even if Carbon and Saint-Régent, against all odds, persisted in shielding her, how much longer could Roch protect her without compromising himself ? She imagined herself awaiting death in a jail cell, then stepping onto the cart under the jeers of the people, laying onto the deadly machine, waiting in terror for the fall of the blade. Limoëlan’s bullet would bring a speedier, more merciful death.

She walked to her dressing closest. She chose her finest pelisse, a white satin lined with ermine fur. It was a gift from Monsieur Coudert on her last birthday, in November. It seemed so long ago. She brought the soft, shimmering fabric to her cheek and fought back tears. It was sure to catch any glimmer of light, even in the dead of the night. Oh, she would never commit suicide, the only sin for which there was no forgiveness. But maybe tonight on the Champs-Elysées it would please God to deliver her from her earthly burden.

She slipped on the pelisse and was ready to head for the service staircase when she saw a large figure blocking the door.

“Where are you going, Blanche?” asked Coudert in a quiet tone.

“Well, Sir, Félicie sent word that she has a bad sore throat. She asked me to spend the evening with her.”

“Félicie? Again? And why did you put on your best evening pelisse to attend to a sick friend?” Coudert shook his head sadly. “I know that we agreed long ago that I wouldn’t interfere with your life, but I am becoming very worried, Blanche. You disappear at all hours without warning, you go to Saint-Denis every other day, your friend Félicie is sick every week, and now that young policeman comes here and behaves in an outrageous manner in front of the servants.”

Coudert walked to Blanche and took her in his arms. “And you look so sad, so forlorn these days. All happiness seems to have drained out of you. I hardly recognize you. What is it with you, my dearest?”

Blanche huddled against Coudert. She closed her eyes, relishing the comfort of his embrace. For a moment she was tempted to confess everything. But what good would come out of it? She pulled away gently and forced a smile. “Thank you, Sir, but I am all right. I will be fine, really.”

Coudert sighed. “I wish you would tell me the truth, Blanche. You should know you can trust me. If you have run into some kind of trouble, I will do anything in my power to help you. Is it a matter of money, dearest?”

Blanche shook her head wistfully. If only it could have been about money! “Oh, no, not at all.”

“That’s what I suspected. It is far more worrisome, isn’t it?” Coudert looked into Blanche’s eyes. “Listen, Blanche. I have rendered Fouché some very important services. I will go to him, explain that you made a mistake. You are very young, you were thoughtless. He will help if I ask him.”

“It is very kind of you, Sir, but no, not even Fouché could help me.”

Coudert looked away. “All right, then, it must be what I have been dreading for some time. Your friends have turned on you, haven’t they? What have you done, my poor Blanche?”

“Oh, please don’t ask me. If I told you, you too would be in danger.”

“So let’s both leave Paris tonight. We will go to Moriaz. Surely those so-called friends of yours can’t track us down there, in the middle of the Alps.”

“Yes, they can. Even if we were to leave France, they could still pursue me. You don’t know them, Sir. I would never again have a minute of peace. I would spend the rest of my life in terror.”

“So at least tell me where you are going.”

“I can’t. You must let me go now tonight. This is truly my only chance of escape. Please do not follow me. It would only put me in greater danger.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “If I escape tonight, Sir, I promise I will never again give you a moment of uneasiness. I will never again keep any secrets from you. You will see, we will be so quiet and happy.”

She realized that she was not only trying to slip away. She meant it. Whatever happened at the Champs-Elysées tonight, she would be free.

59

L
imoëlan was making his way towards the pier whence, in daytime, the ferry crossed the river in the direction of the Invalides. It was almost midnight now. All was silent and seemingly deserted at this end of the Avenue of the Champs-Elysées. These were the place and time appointed by Blanche in her note. Whether she would be there herself, he could not tell, but he was certain that her lover, along with many other policemen, was laying in wait nearby.

The soil was sandy in this area, and the dead leaves of autumn had long been swept away by the sharp winds of winter. One could move stealthily, an advantage obviously shared by the scoundrels of the police. The night was fairly clear, and a silvery half-moon glowed behind a film of fog. Rows of trees, planted half a century ago, under the reign of King Louis XV, provided little protection against the illumination of the streetlights, for they were barren in this season. Limoëlan sighed at the remembrance of the hedgerows and thickets of Brittany, so convenient to ambush the Republic’s troops.

As intently as he peered through the darkness and listened to any noise, he could not detect the presence of any policemen around the place. He approached the little pier and saw a figure draped in white, glimmering softly in the night. His first thought was of the ghosts whose woeful stories his nurse would tell him when he was a child. He promptly shook away those ridiculous fancies. This was no Brittany moor, shrouded in mist and legend; this was plain, prosaic Paris, and the creature was of flesh and bone. One tree at a time, he drew closer. Now he recognized Blanche. He could not discern her face or hair, because she wore some kind of white hood that covered her head. Yet, even at this distance, there was no mistaking the tall, slim figure, the grace of her movements. For she was moving, pacing the length of the pier, sometimes stopping as though to look at the far-off lights of the Invalides across the river. Sometimes she was facing the Champs-Elysées and, in the shadows, Limoëlan and his gun.