Authors: Anne Perry
And yet if he did not take the King’s place, perhaps the real parting was already accomplished. She might forgive him. She understood the failure to live up to your dreams. But he would not forgive himself. He understood, and that would be the judgement.
He must find the right clothes, the wig, the padding, whatever it required. He must take the King’s place, without telling anyone else. There were no real difficulties, only excuses.
He put his head down and walked into the wind.
C
ÉLIE INVENTED AN EXCUSE
for going out, for Madame Lacoste, should she ask, and for the guard in the courtyard. It cost her dearly because she felt self-conscious and foolish, but it was the only one she could think of which was ordinary and common to all.
‘A lover!’ Amandine said with a smile, looking up from peeling vegetables.
Célie’s mind flew to Georges, for no reason at all, and she felt the heat burn up her face. ‘The guard might let me go for that,’ she said defensively. ‘Please help! I’ve got to see if I can find Renoir.’
‘Only one way to discover,’ Amandine replied. ‘Although the only other likely reason would be to buy something on the black market, which is illegal.’
‘I haven’t any money anyway,’ Célie said ruefully, smiling herself, happy to change the subject. ‘There was some in Bernave’s desk, but I didn’t take it.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ Amandine agreed. ‘Anyway, if the soldiers didn’t take it themselves, Menou will know how much there was. The last thing either of us needs is to be thrown out for thieving.’ She put her hand in her pocket under her apron and brought out a gold Louis. ‘I wish I had more to give you, but most of mine was spent ages ago. This is the best I can do for Georges. You’re the one running all the risks ...’ There was admiration in her face, and a swift warmth of affection. ‘I do appreciate it. He is the only family I have. But even if he were not, he’d still be one of my dearest friends. Thank you—and for heaven’s sake be careful!’
Célie laughed a little to break the tension. ‘I will! Now let me ask the guard if he will allow me to go and see my lover! I wish I were a better flirt!’
‘So do I!’ Amandine said ruefully. ‘Don’t try too hard. You’ll make him suspicious.’
Célie wrinkled her nose at her. She pushed the coin down her blouse between her breasts and fastened the buttons again.
‘Don’t flirt now!’ Amandine said with a flash of her old lightness. ‘You could have a disaster!’
‘Cat!’ Célie retorted. ‘I’ll leave you to think of a good answer if Madame asks where I am.’ And before Amandine could complain, she went through the back door, taking her cloak off its peg, carrying a shawl, leaving her hair loose.
The guard stopped her as soon as she was in the courtyard.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded. ‘No bread at this hour, Citizeness.’
She smiled at him, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I have an hour or two off, away from the Citizeness’s eye. I. ... To tell you the truth, Citizen, I have a lover. I have not been able to see him since Citizen Bernave was killed. I am only human ... so is he!’ She shrugged very slightly. ‘All I want is a little time with him ... please?’
He considered her appreciatively for a moment, his eyes on her cheeks, her throat, the pale silk of her hair. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t have anything hidden. Citizen Menou’ll have me punished if I don’t.’
‘Of course.’ Her fingers shaking a little, she opened her cloak and invited inspection.
He looked up and down lingeringly, his eyes bright. He smiled and lifted his hands.
Her heart sank. The shiver of revulsion she felt was secondary to her fear that somehow he would feel the coin and ask what it was for, or worse, take it from her. She forced herself to smile back at him. It felt sickly. He must see how artificial it was.
His hands touched her body.
She wanted to hit him as hard as she could. It took all her strength to control the impulse and look at him sweetly instead. She must think of something to distract his attention.
‘You must be cold standing out here by yourself, Citizen,’ she began. What a senseless thing to say!
‘Perishing,’ he agreed.
‘And bored,’ she added. Keep talking, his mind is on what you are saying, not the search. ‘Have you always been a soldier?’ That was it—make him talk about himself—most people liked to talk about themselves. ‘It must be a hard and dangerous life. Perhaps we don’t value you enough—until there’s danger.’
He looked at her with a flash of a different kind of appreciation. ‘That’s certainly true, Citizeness. Hardly anyone sees that.’ His hands patted her skirts, not too closely. He was looking for a knife, not money.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked quickly.
‘Faubourg St-Marcel,’ he replied.
‘Is that where you grew up?’
His face lightened a little, memory awakening. ‘Oh no, I was born in Nemours.’
‘Is it beautiful?’
‘Better than Paris!’ he said with feeling.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘Then we are in your debt that you stay here to serve the revolution. Tell me about Nemours. I’ve never been there.’
He did, haltingly at first, then with increasing ease as memory found the words for him.
She listened, and his search was thorough, but not so intimate as to find the coin. He was not looking for anything so small.
When he had finished she smiled at him again, meaning it this time.
‘Thank you, Citizen.’ Then she hurried out under the arch into the street. She had a considerable way to walk along the Boulevard St-Germain, across the river and along the Rue St-Honoré to where the Jacobin Club was. She went briskly for several reasons: time was short and it was far too cold to dawdle, but also she did not want to attract any attention to herself or seem to be without purpose.
She stopped at a small shop and bought a few dried lentils and a couple of small onions. Of course no one had bread at this hour of the day. This would have to do. It fitted quite easily into the pockets of her skirt.
She thanked the storekeeper and left.
The Jacobin Club, like many other buildings in Paris, had originally belonged to a religious order. It had begun its secular life as a social club for deputies from the provinces and other ‘friends of the revolution’ to spend time together. They enjoyed one another’s society and spent endless hours in talk of ideals, and plans for a glorious and virtuous future. Robespierre, who had no appetite whatsoever for pleasures of the flesh, was to be found there on most evenings. The rooms were ideally suited to the building’s present purpose, and the situation was excellent. Robespierre lodged close by in the house of the carpenter Duplay. The Place de la Révolution, where the guillotine did its bloody business, was only a few hundred yards away.
From such small beginnings the club now had three hundred members who were deputies in the Convention. Other members controlled the Commune and the Paris mob. Recently it had set up affiliates all over France. Its influence was enormous, and its power was growing week by week. During the debates that were held in its rooms the ideas were born which later became the rallying cry for the masses as far afield as the borders with Belgium and Germany in one direction, and the Mediterranean shores in the other.
Certain parts of the club were open to the public if they wished to listen, and in her browns and blues Célie appeared an ordinary enough young, working woman to cause no suspicion as she made her way quietly into the chamber. With a look of great respect in her manner and lowered eyes, she said a discreet ‘Excuse me, Citizen’ and ‘Thank you, Citizen’ as she passed.
She chose a mild-faced young man wearing a woollen jacket and a leather apron to speak to first.
‘Pardon me, Citizen,’ she said politely.
He turned to look at her. A flash of approval lit his face for her fair skin and generous mouth.
‘Yes, Citizeness?’
‘Do you know Deputy Renoir, from Compiègne?’
‘Not to speak to, but I’d recognise him,’ the young man replied. ‘Are you looking for him?’
‘I have a message for him.’ Célie always told the truth if possible. Too many lies become difficult to remember.
‘He’s probably in the chamber,’ he said with half a smile. ‘Camille Desmoulins is speaking. He’s usually worth listening to.’ There was an ambiguous expression in his eyes, as if his opinion jarred with his words, but he had more sense than to say so. Most people thought twice about frankness these days.
She thanked him with an answering smile, and followed him in the direction he led.
There was already a buzz of excitement in the chamber when she squeezed her way in behind him. She found a place to stand, elbow to elbow in the crowd. The room was wood-panelled, which darkened it, and the grey January light from the windows made the candles look yellow. Only the press of bodies warmed it.
A young man with a passionate countenance and the careless dress of an artist was speaking from the rostrum. His words flowed easily, full of grand ideals and hope for a marvellous tomorrow. He praised the virtues of others and seemed convinced of their general goodness. This was Camille Desmoulins, the writer and ardent friend and admirer of Danton.
Célie looked at the faces around her. Everything that Camille was saying she had heard before and could have predicted. Perhaps many of the other people here could as well, but these were the things they wished to hear, and they gave him unqualified approval. She could see him basking in it, his dark eyes glowing, his cheeks flushed.
She dared not ask for Renoir once a speaker had taken the floor. Any interruption would be resented, and she could not afford to incur dislike.
Camille was followed by another equally ardent young man, but he had not spoken for long before Célie realised he had about him a greater pomposity and even less humour. Discreetly she searched the faces around her one after another. Everyone seemed to be listening with total attention. Their expressions were deadly earnest. Perhaps what Bernave said was true: the revolution had taken away everyone’s appreciation of wit.
Was it really necessary to be humourless in order to be good? Could one not possibly bring about social change for the better, and still keep the ability to see the absurd, and to laugh at it?
To judge from those around her, apparently not.
‘Who is he?’ she whispered to the man who had directed her here and who now stood barely a foot away.
‘Fabre d’Eglantine,’ he answered without turning. ‘He is a great poet. He won the Eglantine Laurel a while ago.’
She had never heard of it, but it would obviously not be prudent to say so now. Presumably he had taken his name from the event.
‘How wonderful,’ she replied, knowing he would not understand she meant it was wonderful that anyone so mediocre should win anything.
A middle-aged woman in front told them to hush, and Célie obeyed reluctantly. Almost any conversation would have been more interesting than the tangled nonsense being spoken from the rostrum. If Danton was really this man’s friend, then that fact said more for his loyalty than his political sense, or his literary judgement.
There was no time to waste. If Renoir was not here, where else could she look for him? It would be justifiable to ask further. After all, he was Bernave’s business partner. He had a right to know of Bernave’s death. No one could complain of that.
Fabre came to the end of his speech to enthusiastic applause and his place was taken by a young man with a smooth brow, classic nose and chiselled lips. He would have been beautiful had he shown the slightest warmth or animation. As it was he stared out across the room with the impassivity of a statue, perfectly carved, so flawless as to lack humanity.
‘The vessel of the revolution can arrive in port only on a sea reddened with torrents of blood!’ he cried with ringing fervour, his voice vibrating but his face still curiously impassive. ‘We must not only punish traitors, but all people who are not enthusiastic. There are only two kinds of citizen, the good and the bad. The republic owes the good its protections. To the bad it owes only death!’
Célie looked at the people next to her to see how this extraordinary statement was received. She saw one man wince and his eyes widen. Perhaps he felt the same chill in the stomach and involuntary tightening of muscles that she did. How could all these people stand passively and hear such hysterical words without protest? Did they not have the sense to be frightened? It was as if something in them had died, some laughter and humanity, a sense of proportion to know what was sane, or excessive and absurd.
Except the words were not hysterical in any usual sense. The man who had spoken them remained marble cold as the words poured out of his mouth. There was no ranting, no waving of arms, not even any rise in the pitch of his voice.
‘We will build a new France,’ he went on. ‘Virtues will be paramount. We will sanctify ourselves by our battles, we will be washed clean of vice by our blood. Weakness shall be done away with and we shall rise from the dead in pure, clean power. We shall show the rest of mankind the way forward.’
‘Virtue!’ an old man beside Célie spat the word under his breath, his face creased, the skin rough as if with constant exposure to wind and rain.
She shuffled a trifle to stand closer beside him.
‘Why do you say that, Citizen?’ she whispered.
‘Don’t you know who that is?’ he asked her bitterly.
‘No. Who is it?’
‘Louis Saint-Just,’ he replied with a tiny shiver. ‘He knows anything I would recognise as virtue about as well as I know the King of Spain. He robbed his mother of all her jewels, and ran away to become a worshipper of the Marquis de Sade. He wrote a long, pornographic poem which disgusted even me, and I’m no prude.’
‘Perhaps he’s changed?’ she suggested, not because she believed it, but to see his response.
‘He once wrote to Robespierre telling him “I know you as I know God,” whatever that means,’ the man retaliated with deep sarcasm. She had the conviction that if he had been outside he would have spat on the stones.