Authors: Anne Perry
‘Citizen Bernave was good to them!’ he said quickly.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, he was.’ She wondered if they had appreciated it.
Menou searched these rooms carefully as well, talking to the children as he did so. He was watched with curiosity by three-year-old Antoine, but guarded resentment by six-year-old Virginie, who was old enough to recognise an intrusion.
‘We haven’t got anything here,’ she said with a frown. ‘You looked before.’
Menou did not stop searching. ‘Were you fond of your grandfather?’ he asked casually.
She was puzzled. ‘Of course.’
‘And Citizen St Felix?’
‘Yes. He talked to me sometimes. He never got cross if someone cried.’ She did not look at Antoine, who was watching Menou gravely. ‘Or left toys around. But we didn’t see him very often. He went out a lot. So did Grandpapa,’ she added. ‘He was always working.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘I don’t know.’ She glanced at Célie.
‘Were you here the night your grandfather was killed?’ Menou asked curiously. His tone of voice suggested it was of no importance.
‘Yes.’
He looked up at her from where he was stooping over a chest of linens. ‘Were you awake?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘There was a lot of shouting and banging in the street. Men fighting—again. I think they came into the house.’
‘Were you frightened?’ he asked.
Again she nodded, watching him all the time. ‘Yes.’
‘And your Mama came up to look after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone else come up here? Anyone at all?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Menou smiled bleakly. Perhaps he believed her, but he still went through every cupboard and chest and stripped the beds.
Afterwards he and Célie went upstairs to the next floor to Monsieur and Madame Lacoste’s rooms. Menou did not seem surprised not to have found anything.
Célie was terrified. They were near the top of the house. There were no rooms above but her own. If Amandine had taken Georges up towards the roof, then it could only be a matter of minutes before they found him. She must do something, anything to divert Menou. But what? He already suspected something was being hidden, to protect Amandine.
What would Madame de Staël have done? Been charming, eloquent, or flirted a little.
But Madame de Staël had been sophisticated, the most brilliant conversationalist in France, perhaps in Europe! She had studied literature, politics and philosophy, held discussions with the best minds of the age! Célie knew how to talk, her parents were Girondins! But that was all empty posturing, the last people on earth to have wit! If they had known how to laugh, they would have seen their own absurdity, and they never did.
And she was useless at flirting! How could she be light-hearted, amusing, when everything that mattered most in the world hung in the balance?
Georges might be just the other side of the door. His life depended on what she did, or failed to do! Or was he in her own room? Or downstairs in Bernave’s rooms? If only she could read Amandine’s mind and know what she had done!
‘What is the matter, Citizeness?’ Menou asked, watching her with his eyes puckered.
She smiled at him as sweetly as she could, as frankly, and felt her heart almost choke her and her muscles lock as if they were cramped. ‘I suppose I am afraid you will find the knife,’ she lied. ‘And that then you will suspect one of us of having put it there—to help St Felix.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But if you don’t, then you will keep on looking, and we shall never know. I’m not sure whether I want to, or not.’
He regarded her steadily, almost unblinking. For a moment it was as if they understood each other completely.
‘Of course,’ he agreed, then turned and opened the door into Madame Lacoste’s room.
Célie stood behind him, her mouth dry, her stomach knotted.
There was no one inside. She was almost sick with relief. It came over her like a wave and she was giddy with it. But where was he? Surely Amandine could not have been so absent-minded, or so daring, as to have put him in Célie’s own room?
Or had she expected him to go over the roofs—with Menou’s men in the streets? With all the shouting and gunfire there had been, no one would let him in their house. It was more than their life was worth, and everyone knew that!
What would Madame de Staël have done now?
Then suddenly an idea came to her—be bold. Maybe it was madness. On the other hand, perhaps it was the only chance.
‘Citizen Menou ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you excuse me. Nature requires I leave for a few moments ...’
‘Of course,’ he agreed without looking around from his search through the cupboard of household linens.
‘Thank you.’ She went out as quickly as she could in case he should change his mind and follow her. Of course she could move the knife, and he must realise it.
Then she heard him stand up. He was coming with her! She froze inside. Her knees were weak. She had one chance to guess rightly. Where had Amandine put Georges? There were only two places left—her own room, or Bernave’s. Which? Her room was small. There was no place to hide. There was none in Bernave’s rooms either. Which? She must decide now! She was at the stairs—up or down.
There was no facility for the requirements of nature upstairs.
Down. If Georges was in her room she would have to try to convince Menou he was a lover she had hidden there. He might believe it—maybe? There was a bitter laughter in that—a joke on her!
She was going down the stairs. Menou was behind her. She could not stop; she was committed now. She found she could hardly breathe. She was leading Menou straight to Georges.
At least there was a private cupboard for the use of nature in Bernave’s rooms. It would not make a liar of her. She crossed the hall and stopped at the door. She turned to face Menou.
‘If you would give me a few moment’s privacy, Citizen. You may search me when I come out. I shall not be carrying a knife, I promise you. I have no more idea where it is than you do.’
He nodded. ‘I hope that is true, Citizeness. It would give me no pleasure to catch you protecting Citizen St Felix ... or Citizeness Destez.’
She forced herself to smile at him, then turned and opened Bernave’s door.
She went in and closed it behind her before she even looked up. She did not see Georges at first. He was standing in the shadows near the bookcase. He was looking towards her, his face set, white, eyes wide and almost black.
She went across to him immediately.
‘Menou is outside the door,’ she whispered. ‘I have come to answer nature. When he searches the room here there is nowhere to hide. Our only chance is to be bold.’ She ignored his horror, the rigidity of his body. ‘Bernave mended his own books when they were old and torn,’ she hurried on, softly, standing only a few inches from him. ‘Break the spines of a few, damage them—quickly. You will find his tools for repairing them in the second drawer of the desk.’
Instinctively she gestured towards it. ‘It’s not locked. When we come, you are the book repairer. I sent for you so we can sell his books for the best price. Keep working. If you can find his magnifying spectacles, wear them. They will at least cover your eyes a bit.’ She searched his face to see if he understood. It was too late to matter whether he agreed or not.
He nodded, staring back at her, then suddenly realised that Menou could open the door any instant, and he moved to the desk and pulled out the drawer.
Célie went to the cupboard and relieved herself, then came out again. Georges had the tools out on the desktop and the spectacles on his nose.
‘Break a few of these books,’ she whispered. ‘Not too many!’ Then she went to the door again.
Menou was outside.
‘Thank you,’ she said graciously.
‘I’m sorry, Citizeness,’ he apologised, and made a careful and deliberate search of her person. He seemed pleased when he found nothing.
She looked him directly in the eye. ‘Do you wish to search my room now?’
‘When I have completed the Lacostes,’ yes, I do.’
He followed her back upstairs, finished the Lacostes’ rooms, and then hers, and discovered no knife. At last they came to Bernave’s door again.
‘It must be here,’ he said with a frown. ‘Our man has nerve, I’ll say that for him! Or woman? Kill Bernave, then hide the blade in his own rooms!’ He opened the door and stopped abruptly.
Georges looked up from the desk. The spectacles reflected the light from the lamp he had lit and made him look different. The books were spread around him and the knife, glue, paper and fabric were at his elbow.
‘Who are you?’ Menou demanded, startled.
‘Good day, Citizen,’ Georges replied. ‘I am Citizen Abbas, bookbinder and repairer. The Citizeness asked me to mend the last of these books so they could be sold for a fair price. I understand the owner is recently deceased and his heirs have no wish to keep them.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Menou looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t see you come in!’
‘Nor I you,’ Georges answered. ‘You must have been here when I arrived. I charge by the book, not by the hour, but I came about twenty minutes ago, I should imagine.’
‘I see. Are there many books damaged?’ Menou was still dubious. ‘I’m surprised Bernave allowed them to be. My impression of him was he was a careful man who loved his books.’
‘Indeed,’ Georges agreed. ‘But when one is a collector one purchases books in all conditions, and then has them repaired.’
Books were something Menou had never possessed.
‘Yes ... I suppose so,’ he conceded. ‘Well, I am sorry to disturb you, Citizen, but I require to search this room.’
‘Of course.’ Georges lowered his head.
‘Including that desk!’
Georges stood up obediently, moving away. Menou began opening the drawers and going through them methodically, but there was a frown on his face, and he was obviously considering something profoundly.
Célie did not look at Georges. The silence permeated the air. Her heart was pounding and the sweat covered her body even though she was shivering.
‘Where do you live, Citizen Abbas?’ Menou asked without looking round. ‘Do you have a shop?’
Georges barely hesitated. ‘Rue des Augustins. I used to have a shop, but I cannot afford it these days. I work for other people.’
Menou finished searching the desk and went over to the bookshelves.
The invention was dangerous. If Menou were to question any of his men he would know Georges had not come twenty minutes ago. If he had been here before Menou arrived, Célie would have mentioned it. If Menou were to speak to anyone in the household, even Amandine, they would not know to substantiate Célie’s story. She must divert his attention, before he had time to become more suspicious. What would do that? What would Menou care about more than who Georges was and why he was there?
The knife. But she had no idea where it was—if it was here at all.
She must say something—now!
‘Citizen Menou—I have been thinking a great deal about what has happened.’
‘Naturally.’ He did not look up.
‘About the messages Citizen Bernave asked me to carry for him.’
He kept taking books out of the shelf and piling them on the floor, so he could search behind them. Did he imagine she had hidden the knife there just now?
‘Yes,’ she said a little too loudly. ‘Yes.’ She must be decisive, not frightened. ‘If Citizen St Felix killed him he must have had a very compelling reason. He was not a fool, and he never appeared to any of us to be even the least bit violent. He was provoked often enough, but he never lost his temper.’
This time Menou did turn. ‘What are you saying, Citizeness?’
She had to go on now, and the idea was forming in her mind. It was a high risk, but above anything, more important than St Felix’s reputation or Bernave’s, was her awareness of Georges sitting a few feet from her, his head bent over the books again, trying to look as if he were busy mending them. His fingers were unused to such work.
She breathed in deeply. ‘I am saying that the only thing I can imagine moving Citizen St Felix to such an act would be if he discovered that Bernave was not the revolutionary he claimed to be, working for the Commune, but a double spy—actually working for the royalists.’
This time she certainly had Menou’s attention. His body had stiffened and his breathing changed.
‘Why would you think that?’ he asked, frowning at her.
‘He always sent St Felix to Marat and the Commune, but he went to the royalists himself,’ she replied, inventing frantically as she went, desperately conscious of Georges listening to her with amazement, his hands frozen on the paper. ‘He didn’t trust anyone else with their names,’ she went on. ‘He didn’t even write them down.’ He had, but she was sure she had destroyed any that were not matters of public knowledge. ‘Find out if any good came of the information he gave the Commune, Citizen Menou!’ she urged him. ‘Were any plots ever foiled, anyone arrested? Perhaps Citizen St Felix realised he was being used? He was an ardent republican. He loved the principles of the revolution.’ Her voice was gathering conviction. ‘He loved liberty and brotherhood. He would have killed anyone rather than allow some royalist plot to reinstate the King, or the Comte d’Artois.’ She made her expression keener, more alight. There was nothing to lose now; everything was in this desperate throw. She dared not look towards Georges. He was moving his hands again, stretching fabric, smoothing paper, gently placing the glue.
Menou was watching her intently, his search for the knife forgotten.
‘If the King were restored to the throne,’ she went on, ‘we would lose all we have gained. We could never trust him. He has proved that in the past—over and over again. He listens to whoever spoke to him last.’
Menou said nothing for several seconds.
Georges continued mending the book, his head bent, his fingers slow and careful. Perhaps unintentionally doing nothing that would make a sound.
Very deliberately Célie walked to the desk and opened the drawers with the money. She was so close to Georges her sleeve touched his shoulder. She could sense the warmth of him, the smell of his skin. The money was still where she had seen it before. She took a Louis and a handful of sous and turned to him. ‘Thank you, Citizen Abbas, for what you have done. I think it would be more suitable if you were to come back another time. Perhaps when we have a buyer in mind we shall have the rest repaired. Good day to you.’