One Thing More (23 page)

‘No—not living in this madhouse, anyway. It’ll only get worse.’ He held up the bottle in a salute. ‘What the hell! Here’s to going down in glorious flames—last fire before the darkness. Who needs to live to see that?’

C
ÉLIE TIPTOED UP THE
attic steps again. She did not like coming here in daylight; she was too likely to be seen and arouse curiosity. Someone would know she did not live here and wonder what she was doing.

She reached the top and rapped lightly on the door. There was no answer, and she felt a surge of disappointment. This was ridiculous. She had known Georges could not avoid going out in daylight, now that Bernave was dead. She should not stand here with her heart in her throat.

The door opened and she saw the familiar outline of his head against the thin daylight with a surge of relief.

‘Oh! Y-you’re here,’ she stammered.

‘Célie! Come in.’ He stepped back to make way for her.

She went inside and closed the door. She should explain herself. He must have heard the emotion in her voice. ‘I thought perhaps you were still out.’

He looked at her anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Of course I am,’ she said decisively. She held out the food for him and he took it, thanking her. She launched straight away into what she had come to say. It was embarrassing to give and receive thanks every time she did a small service like bringing bread. He was dependent upon it, and she did not want the reminder any more than he must.

‘I found the passes,’ she told him. ‘They are made out in four names, I suppose to cover all possibilities. I gave them to St Felix, in case I am searched again as I go in and out of the house.’

‘Good.’ Something in him relaxed; there was a slight easing of his shoulders. With his back to the light she could not see his face clearly except in outline. ‘Did you destroy any of the other papers?’ he asked. ‘What was there?’

She breathed in deeply and hesitated a second. She was not sure if she had done the right thing or not. ‘We destroyed quite a lot—’

‘We?’ he swung round, his body stiffening.

‘Madame and I,’ she explained. ‘I was afraid that someone else might have the same ideas for different reasons, and if I were caught it would be the end of everything. They would think I was stealing.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ He was watching her intently, trying to read her face. She found it discomfiting, and yet his indifference would have been worse.

‘If she were with me then no one else—’

‘I understand,’ he repeated. She heard the edge of the tension in his voice.

‘We burned the papers we thought might arouse envy or too much curiosity, and kept only what was necessary to continue the business.’ She met his eyes. ‘That included keeping some of the trade routes and destroying the ones used by the drivers we knew, and records of the property in St-Antoine ... which seems to be still safe, as far as I can judge.’

‘You’ve been there this morning?’

‘Yes.’

His voice dropped: ‘You must be exhausted ... after last night. Have you had any sleep? Anything to eat?’

‘Probably as much as you have,’ she replied truthfully, then looked away with a little shrug. ‘And I was warmer. That’s something to thank Bernave for! I wonder how long it will last without him. I don’t think Marie-Jeanne knows or cares anything about the importing or exporting of cloth. So far it is Madame who is looking at the papers.’

‘Did she know what you burned?’ he asked. ‘Sit down. Do you want some wine? It isn’t good, but it’s better than it might be.’

She did, but she should not drink the little he had. It was far easier for her to get more, and Amandine would have hot soup on the stove when she got back home.

‘No thank you. I had some coffee in the street,’ she lied. She had spent the money on bread for him, but she did not want him to know that. It would be embarrassing, and he would feel obliged. The last thing she wanted was a sense of debt.

He did not argue. She hoped he did not see through her.

‘I met with St Felix last night,’ she hurried on to fill the silence. ‘We talked for a little while.’ She felt hot now at the remembrance of what she had told him, but there had been no choice if she were to persuade him to trust her. ‘He will do all he can, but of course he can’t leave the house until Menou allows him, and that is hardly likely to be in time to be of any use to us.’ She sat down on the chair, suddenly aware of how very tired she was. Perhaps it was quixotic to have refused the wine, but she would not go back on her refusal now.

He sat uncomfortably on the mattress opposite her, hunched up, his arms wrapped round his knees. He was cold and tired as well. The grey light on the side of his face towards the window showed the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked older than before, perhaps closer to thirty-five. It woke a sudden sense of intimacy in her, and compassion. Under the handsome face, the ease of manner, he was as vulnerable as she was, as able to be tired and frightened and hurt.

She did not need the wine.

‘He wanted to bring Amandine in as well,’ she said quietly. ‘It was his condition for continuing. I wish it weren’t necessary.’ She saw the quick lighting of his face. She knew he would hate endangering Amandine and although she hated it too, she felt a thin stab of loneliness that he did not care so quickly, so instinctively, that she should not be in danger. ‘She went to find the ship’s captain for the crossing,’ she hurried on, covering the gap. ‘That is, if they go to England. I think it would be better if they didn’t. In a way it is the most obvious route. It’s the shortest.’

‘I know,’ he answered, meeting her eyes. ‘It’s a last resort. What did he say?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t been back yet. What about the other safe houses—St-Honoré and St-Sulpice?’

‘They seem good.’

‘And the crowd?’

He nodded very slightly. ‘Working on it. It’s all right, don’t worry about that. We still need to speak with the other drivers. That will have to be you or Amandine.’

There was something else pressing on her mind with more urgency.

‘Without the man to take the King’s place, none of this is any good.’ She watched him as he spoke, not because she wanted to judge or weigh what he said, but more because she needed to believe there was still hope, and that he had some kind of answer beyond the short distance she could see. He had always had a kind of inner belief, a confidence that they would succeed. It was like light, or warmth, and she hungered for it now.

He looked down at the floor. ‘I know that. I don’t know who Bernave had in mind or where to start looking for him, and I daren’t ask. He could be anywhere.’ He lifted his eyes to hers. ‘And if any of us start searching for him, asking questions, we’ll draw everyone’s attention to him. Even if we could find him in time, we would have sabotaged our own cause.’ He bit his lip. ‘Don’t worry, Célie, I’ll find someone else.’

‘In a day and a half?’

A sudden smile lit his face. ‘It won’t be much good after that!’ Then it vanished. ‘Célie ... I heard something else.’

‘What?’ She knew from his voice it could not be good.

‘There was a royalist plan to rescue the King from the Temple.’

‘That’s stupid!’ she said in amazement. ‘It would never succeed! There are guards everywhere. The rescuers would be more likely to end up inside with him.’ The thought of the royalists in the Temple did not bother her in the slightest, but the warning they would give the guards, the Commune, the Convention, was a nightmare. ‘Georges—’

‘They didn’t try it!’ he assured her quickly. ‘They were betrayed before they could ever begin.’

‘Thank God!’ she said, engulfed by relief.

‘By Bernave,’ he finished.

‘Bernave?’ She should have expected it from his voice, but she was stunned. ‘Bernave betrayed them? Are you sure?’

‘I think so.’

‘But ... that doesn’t make any ...’ She tailed off. It made only too hideous sense.

‘You thanked God when you knew they hadn’t tried,’ he reminded her wryly.

‘Yes, but ...’ Then she understood. ‘You mean he might have betrayed them because he knew they couldn’t succeed, and would only make our job harder?’

His smile was twisted. ‘He might have. We’ll never know. There’s no one to ask.’

She did not know what to say.

Georges looked up at her, frowning now. ‘Bernave mentioned once that he had a partner in the business, someone who helped him get started. I don’t know how long ago.’

She tried to think, but she could not remember Bernave ever speaking of him. ‘Who? What was his name?’

‘Henri Renoir,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know if it would be any use finding him, but it might be.’

‘At least he would know more of Bernave than we do,’ Célie reasoned. ‘He may be able to tell us where his loyalties really lay. Bernave may have trusted him with the truth. He might even help us!’

‘I don’t know,’ he said dubiously. ‘We still aren’t sure which side Bernave was on, let alone Renoir.’

Suddenly Célie was aware of how cold she was. There was a dampness in the air, even inside the room, and it ate into the flesh till it seemed to reach the bones. For a moment she had allowed herself to forget that Bernave could have been the enemy. Perhaps she had made herself forget. She did not want to believe St Felix had killed him, not for any reason, not even because he had betrayed them all to the Commune. She could not dismiss her liking for Bernave—it had been too deep and too real. She wanted to think he was loyal to what he desired to be, and that Monsieur Lacoste or Fernand had discovered the plot and ... what? Killed him to prevent it being carried out? Rather than tell the Commune, and risk losing the house, and the business?

In that case, who was next? St Felix? Amandine? Herself! Everyone in the house knew that she ran Bernave’s errands. Did they think she was innocent because she was the laundress? Not clever enough, not trustworthy enough to be involved, except blindly?

Did they think the same of Amandine? They would not of St Felix. Or perhaps they thought that without Bernave the plotters would give up anyway. She could not afford to forget, not for an instant. One word could be enough to betray them all.

‘I’ll find Renoir,’ she said with determination. ‘Where do I look?’

‘The Jacobin Club,’ Georges replied. ‘Apparently he’s there most evenings. He certainly will be now, coming up to the execution.’

‘Is he a revolutionary?’ She would not let him hear in her voice that she was afraid. She wanted him to think she was as brave as he was, equal to anything he could ask. But she hated the Jacobin Club and the people in it. It had started out as a place for deputies from out of town to spend their evenings with other men of like mind—strangers and idealists all burning with the same dreams, longing to talk endlessly and plan the great new society. Now it was filled with the men whose names frightened her most: Robespierre, Hébert, Saint-Just, Couthon, and a dozen other allies who hung on their words and would obey anything and everything they said. ‘Why would he be there?’ she said aloud.

Georges laughed abruptly. ‘Because it is the place to be in order to listen and learn what is most likely to happen. The Jacobin Club is the tail which wags the dog of the Convention. It’s the place to be if you are a spy, an idealist, a lunatic, or simply someone who wants to know what is politically safe, and which side you should be on if you want to survive.’

She caught the bitterness in his voice and did not argue.

‘Look at Renoir and listen to him, Célie,’ he said with sudden, fierce seriousness. ‘Don’t tell him anything at all, except that Bernave is dead—which he probably knows already. Be careful!’

‘I will,’ she promised, the cold inside her thawing a little.

He leaned forward and grasped her wrist, not painfully, but too firmly for her to pull away. ‘I mean it! We don’t know who killed Bernave, or why. All that is certain is that it was someone behind him in that room. Someone already carrying a knife! It wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t in defence of themselves, or anyone else. Someone used the confusion of the crowd breaking in to move up behind Bernave and plunge that blade into his back.’

‘I know,’ she whispered, finding her mouth dry, her throat tight. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth and the strength of him, but that would be weak and stupid! And it would make him think all the wrong things about her. It was only fear and the power of her imagination picturing what had happened in that room, and what could still happen ... again.

She was tired and cold, that was all. She would be better in a little while; then she would be glad she had not given in to such idiocy.

‘I will.’ She pulled her hands away from him and stood up. Her legs ached, her feet were wet and sore and her skirt swung icily around her legs. ‘I’ll go home now and talk to Amandine and St Felix, then this evening I’ll go to the Jacobin Club and find Renoir if I can.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly, standing up also.

‘What for? I believe in this as much as you do! I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it because I want to.’

He stood still. ‘I know that. I just meant that I should be doing it.’

‘You can’t!’ She sounded cold, and hurt. ‘It isn’t safe for you, and we both know why that is.’ The moment the words were out she wished she had not said them, but they were there and it was too late to take them back. What could she say to redeem the situation?

She was at the door. In a moment it would be too late. She looked at him. He was standing with his back to the window. She could see only the side of his cheek clearly. Outside it was raining again. The water ran down the glass of the window, wavering the lines of the roofs beyond.

‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised, her voice gentler. It was wet and cold outside, but she was going back to Bernave’s house, Marie-Jeanne’s now, and it would be warm there. She would have hot food tonight. He would still be cold. She smiled at him, meeting his eyes and feeling her heart tighten. ‘I’ll find out what there is, and I’ll tell you. Don’t worry. It might still be all right.’ And before he could tell her that was absurd, she opened the door and went out on to the small landing. She closed it behind her so he could not see her creep down the stairs and she would not be aware of him watching her.