Authors: Anne Perry
‘It’s—it’s nothing to do with the Commune!’ he protested.
‘True,’ Monsieur Lacoste said with a harsh laugh, cut off with anger. ‘But when did that ever stop Marat?’
‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ St Felix said, despair engulfing him.
Monsieur Lacoste moved half a step closer to him. ‘Yes there is. Bernave treated you abominably, sending you out at all hours, in all weathers. He abused your loyalty to the cause. We all saw that. No one blames you.’ He held up his hand to silence St Felix’s argument. ‘I don’t know whether you killed him or not, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. But I know what Menou thinks, and if you are honest so do you.’
Everything he said was true. And no one would bother with a trial now, of all times. It would be prison one day, crammed in with a dozen others, then at dawn the short ride to the guillotine, the great triangular blade with its scarlet edge. The last thing on earth you would hear would be the scream of the knife falling—then what? Oblivion? Or not? Perhaps you did not go instantly, but faded, seeing your own head in Sanson’s basket, and your soul, your self, would make a slow journey ... where? Into darkness—darkness for which there was never again any light.
St Felix felt sick.
Monsieur Lacoste was staring at him. His face seemed very close.
‘You all right?’ His voice was curiously echoing. ‘Look, if you want to make a run, I’ll keep the guard distracted. There’s only the one right now.’
He did not really need Lacoste to tell him. He had seen it yesterday, and had simply refused to recognise it.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you.’ It crossed his mind that Lacoste was doing this to get rid of Menou as much as for St Felix. Perhaps he was guilty himself, or he was afraid it was Fernand. Maybe one of the Lacostes knew about Bernave’s plan for the King. None of that mattered any more. It couldn’t succeed anyway. But it was important to take the travel passes with him, so Menou would not find them. He would discover a way of getting them to Célie somehow. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Just give me a moment. The picture of my wife ... a few things, not much ...’
‘Hurry!’ Lacoste urged. ‘When he comes back it may be too late.’
‘I know ... a minute ... just one.’
Monsieur Lacoste stepped back and went to the far side of the door.
St Felix picked up the painting of Laura, and the passes, and followed after him.
Georges woke cold and stiff, the grey light coming in through the window. This was the last day of the King’s life. This time tomorrow he would be dead, the people’s decision irrevocable, and everything that would follow from it. They had less than twenty-four hours to do everything that was left.
He turned over, pulling the thin blanket with him, and realised just how cold he was. There was no fuel left, and that had been the last candle. He should get up. At least movement would warm him to some degree.
He thought of Célie. Then he remembered last night, and what she had told him of Bernave and the child he had raped. His body was locked so tight with misery that now he ached all over as if he had been beaten. He could hardly feel his feet. All sorts of fears had filled his mind about Bernave—about who had killed him and why, about his loyalties, or his betrayals—but his wildest thought had never created anything like this.
He remembered when he had first met Bernave. It had been September, hot and suffocatingly still. The Marseillais, the rabble army who had poured out of the dockyards and prisons of Marseille and Genoa, and marched on Paris, were everywhere. Crowds milled around the streets, the smell of fear in the air. Célie had betrayed him to the National Guard ... and then risked her life to warn him before it was too late.
Something she had seen in Madame de Staël had changed her. But Madame de Staël belonged to the past, gone, like so many of the old values and the old dreams. Gone, like the rich, gentle land of his home. Georges had not realised how much the place was woven into the fabric of his identity until it was lost. He could not bear to remember the spoiling of it, the ignorance and stupidity that had destroyed centuries of nurture.
September, with its horror and madness, was different, an eruption of hell into everyday life, rather than the violation of his home, the heart of what made him.
The arrests had begun on 29 August—all manner of people, mostly ordinary: shopkeepers, traders, artisans, petit-bourgeois, not only to be imprisoned but to be robbed. Many old enmities were satisfied. Men with money were chosen, and, of course, in the rage against the Church—priests, scores of priests.
Then early in the morning of Sunday, 2 September, the news had come that the Duke of Brunswick had broken through the French defending forces at Verdun and was marching on Paris. The Commune had sounded the tocsin, and salvos of gunfire had added to the general panic. Notices had been posted around the city reading ‘The people themselves must execute justice. Before we hasten to the frontiers, let us put bad citizens to death.’
What followed then had drenched Georges’ waking thoughts and made nightmares of his dreams. The streets were teeming with people crushed together, sweating in the heat. Georges had been within a quarter of a mile of the prison at the old Abbey of St-Germain-des-Prés. A group of men had been singing that tune which was now more terrible than any words. Even a few bars of it still knotted his stomach.
Then in his mind he was back in the prison of the Carmes again, the smell of dust, closed air, the sweat of terror. Like a tide the rabble had swept in, shouting, bursting open the cells, and gone through and down the fine, curved steps that descended on the other side of the shallow railing into the garden. He saw the marbles above the graves. Even in the stifling heat the white statues were like cold flesh.
It was there, inside the Carmes, that he had seen Bernave for the first time. He must have been caught up by the crowd as well, because he was obviously also a prisoner. He was sitting on the bench opposite, but unlike those to either side of him, he did not betray his fear. He sat upright, hands by his sides, and stared impassively straight ahead, although he appeared to see nothing. His mind was turned totally inward.
Two of the Marseillais had come and hauled away one of the priests. One of those left had crossed himself, his hand shaking.
A moment later another priest had been taken away.
Bernave had turned to Georges, his thick, black hair, unmarked by a tonsure.
‘Are you a Catholic?’ he had asked.
Georges had been startled. ‘No,’ he had said honestly. He was born Catholic, of course, but had long since ceased to believe. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. If you want absolution, or someone to pray with you, ask one of the others.’ He had jerked his arm to indicate the dozen or so priests still left.
‘It’s a little late for that,’ Bernave had answered. ‘What I want is to get out of here alive, and not be executed for something I didn’t do.’ There had been a curious bitterness in his voice as he’d said that, as if it had some dreadful double meaning. ‘I will swear for you as a loyal supporter of the Commune, if you will do the same for me?’ He had made it a question, spoken under his breath—not that the priests with closed eyes and prayers on their lips had been taking any notice of either of them.
Georges had seized the opportunity. He had had no idea who Bernave was, and didn’t care.
‘Of course. My name is Georges Coigny. What’s yours?’
‘Victor Bernave.’
They had exchanged more information hastily, whispering so low it was beyond the ears of the others in the room. More priests had been taken out. None had come back.
Eventually it had been Bernave’s turn. He’d been led away.
Georges had sat waiting, his mouth dry, his body shaking.
Then the soldiers had come for him. He’d been led into a passageway where a fat man had been sitting behind a table, his belly resting against the edge. His sleeves had been rolled up and his arms stained with blood.
‘Who are you?’ he had demanded.
‘Georges Coigny,’ Georges had stammered.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work for Citizen Bernave, of the Commune,’ he had lied instantly. If Bernave was as good as his word, he might be allowed to live; if not, he had nothing to lose anyway.
‘And what does Citizen Bernave do?’ the man had asked with a sneer.
‘Keep the good citizens of the Commune informed on the actions of their enemies, the enemies of the people and of the revolution and the liberty we are all fighting for,’ Georges had said boldly.
The man had looked sceptical.
Georges had waited, his heart pounding so violently he’d felt as though his whole body were jerking with it.
The man had relaxed at last. ‘So he says. Told me he was a friend of Citizen Marat! Is that true?’
‘Of course,’ Georges had lied again, despising himself for it. How could anyone willingly claim friendship with Marat?
The man had turned to one of the guards. ‘Take him out through the garden ... and let him go. I mean it! He may be a friend of Citizen Marat. Let him go into the street, you hear me?’
‘Yes, Citizen!’
Wordlessly Georges had followed the guard out and down the flight of steps into the garden. The sight that had met his eyes was beyond imagination. Bodies had been lying in heaps, mangled, beaten to death, the dead and the dying together. Some had literally been torn apart. Dismembered limbs had soaked the grass with blood. Entrails had lay on the steps. Already in the heat the flies had begun to gather.
Georges had floundered through it.
He had found Bernave outside in the street, waiting for him. Together they had walked back dazed, in a silent companionship of horror. Near the river they had met a young man, elegantly dressed but his jacket slightly awry, his hair ruffled, his cravat a little to the left. In the strange evening light he had looked like a bedraggled bird. He had regarded them curiously, two men walking side by side, staring ahead, not speaking and yet in some way very much together.
‘Have you had an accident?’ he had asked. ‘There’s blood all over you!’ Then he had looked beyond them at the sky. ‘What’s that?’
Bernave had turned towards the glare, his features lit by it for a moment, showing his clear, almost brilliant eyes. ‘The light?’ he’d asked. ‘Bonfires. They have lit them to see what they are doing, I suppose.’
‘Doing?’ The young man had had an innocent, pleasant face. He’d probably been about twenty-four. ‘At this hour? I say, are you sure you are all right? You look terrible!’
‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ Georges had said hoarsely.
The young man had blushed. ‘Me? To the theatre, and then a party. Why?’
‘To the theatre ...’ Georges had repeated vacuously, hysteria welling up inside him. He had started to laugh and had felt Bernave’s hand like a vice on his arm. He’d stopped suddenly, the pain making him wince.
‘Why? What are they doing?’ The young man had still seemed undisturbed.
‘Do you see that?’ Bernave had pointed downwards. ‘There, running in the gutter?’
The young man had bent forward, his eyes following Bernave’s finger.
‘They are killing all the prisoners,’ Bernave had said, his voice shaking with anger and pain. ‘That is blood you can see. The gutters of Paris are running with human blood.’
From that night had begun the friendship between Georges and Bernave. They had gone back to Bernave’s house in the Boulevard St-Germain and drunk wine together in silence until they’d fallen asleep. The following day they had eaten the last decent food Bernave had in the kitchen, and talked of all manner of things that were good and sane and beautiful, it did not matter from where or when. Gradually they had mentioned other things, regret for the loss of loveliness.
Georges had spoken instinctively of his land and his home, always swift to his mind, the loss raw. They had both mourned that ease of friendship was gone—trust in the passing stranger or the turn of good fortune. Bernave had said something of the quiet certainties of faith no longer being there, in the eye or in the heart. Georges had thought from the shadow of laughter in his eyes that he meant faith of others, but from the sorrow in him, perhaps it was for himself also.
Lastly they had spoken of the King: what a fool he was, and what greater fools were those who would destroy him without the least idea of who or what would take his place.
At the kitchen table, with the sunlight streaming in through the long windows, had been born their determination to try to avert the disasters they’d seen ahead for France.
Now Georges was sitting in the grey daylight, shivering and wretched, and all that certainly was shattered, and Bernave himself was dead, whoever, whatever he had been.
He might not be back again. He took the last of his bread and wine and went out into the winter day to check for a last time on the crowd for storming the King’s carriage tomorrow. Then he must get the travel passes. Célie had said St Felix had them. If he waited she would almost certainly come out—she always did, to queue for bread. He would see her and ask her. There might be no other chance. He wanted to see her. It mattered with a breathtaking sharpness he was unprepared for. It was worth the risk, even in daylight, even with Menou’s men in the streets.
He did not say so in words, even to himself, but since they had not found Briard, for whom the fourth pass was intended, it would be the last time. That hurt more than the knowledge of what the crowd would do to him, which would be violent, terrible, but quick, all over in a minute. But he would never be able to say to Célie all the things he wanted to, needed to. They had shared so much that was hard, but the laughter and the gentleness would be denied them, the time to learn the little things that make pleasure unique, to explore joy and pain together, to grow old.
And that was what he wanted, time with Célie, to share anything and everything.
He must not think of it. It was the one regret which would break him. He forced it out of his mind and walked faster.
When he was in the Rue de Seine almost opposite the Bernave house on the Boulevard St-Germain, he saw a man climb out of the window of the front room on to the street. Very carefully peering both ways as if to make sure he was unobserved, he then hurried east, as fast as he could go without actually running.