One Thing More (37 page)

Georges glanced at the money.

‘That was the amount we agreed, wasn’t it?’ she asked, swallowing awkwardly.

‘Yes, and thank you.’ He folded the glue, knives and papers away in Bernave’s case and rose to his feet. ‘You know where to reach me.’

‘Of course. Good day, Citizen.’ She must not be too urgent. Menou must not hear anything different in her voice.

‘Good day.’ He hesitated.

She did not say anything. Please God he thought to take the case with him!

He looked at her for a second longer, then picked up the case and went to the door and out, closing it gently behind him.

She must not listen as if she dreaded hearing the Guard stopping him, asking him who he was. She must assume he would just walk out and be free. Anything else was beyond bearing. She must concentrate on Menou as if that were all that mattered.

‘It would explain a great deal,’ she said with only the slightest tremor. Perhaps Menou would not hear it, as it was very slight.

‘It would not explain why he did not merely tell someone, instead of murdering him,’ Menou said sharply.

‘Yes, it would,’ she rejoined. ‘If Bernave went to the guillotine as a traitor, this house would be forfeit, and we should all be out on the street. St Felix would not have done that to us, particularly to Marie-Jeanne and the children. He was not that sort of man. That would be a crime to him.’

He regarded her steadily, his eyes thoughtful.

She waited.

‘You know, Citizeness, I think you are possibly right,’ he said at length. ‘That would explain much. But I wish St Felix had not run. Perhaps if he had told us his reasons ...’ His voice trailed off, realising the impossibility of such mercy. ‘No, I suppose not. The house would still have been forfeit. And one cannot rely on verdicts of justice these days.’ He flushed slightly, as if he knew he should not have committed himself to such an opinion, not aloud.

‘I can understand being afraid,’ she agreed softly. ‘I think we all are, if we are honest. These are very uncertain times.’

‘I haven’t found the knife,’ he pointed out.

‘I know. But if Amandine helped him, is that so great a sin?’

‘Perhaps not.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t really matter so much. Life is not always tidy, and I should not let my vanity assume I can find everything. Thank you for your help, Citizeness Laurent.’

‘You are welcome, Citizen Menou.’

She opened the door and held it for him while he went out, then with trembling legs and dry mouth, dizzy with relief, she went after him.

C
ÉLIE FOLLOWED MENOU INTO
the kitchen where the rest of the family were about to begin a late meal. Each one stared at Menou as he came in, the question in their eyes.

‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘I did not find the knife. I don’t know what he did with it.’

‘Does it matter now?’ Monsieur Lacoste asked, breaking his bread on to his plate. There was only that for the meal, together with a couple of onions and a little cheese. Amandine was too shattered by grief and dismay to have cooked anything, and even Marie-Jeanne could not collect her emotions sufficiently to care about it. She sat at the table now with her two elder children on either side of her, and the baby asleep in what had once been the wood-basket and now, lined with a blanket, served as an excellent crib.

Menou’s answer was prevented by a knock on the back door. He strode over and yanked it open. A middle-aged man stood on the step. He was not very tall, a little heavy-set. His white hair was ragged about his face and his skin was very pale. He had a long nose and faded blue eyes. His clothes were well cut, and had once been good, but time and constant wear had reduced them to a threadbare state.

Everyone turned to stare at him, especially Virginie, her eyes growing wider and wider.

‘Excuse me,’ the man said politely to Menou. ‘Is Citizeness Laurent at home?’

‘Who are you?’ Menou demanded a trifle abruptly.

A ghost of humour passed across the man’s face and vanished. ‘Citizen Lejeune, but she may not know my name. Is it permitted to speak with her?’

Menou hesitated. He had no reason to deny it, and perhaps not any authority, now that St Felix was dead, but he was suspicious.

Célie had no idea who the man was or what he could want of her, but she did not wish to leave him standing in the rain. He looked tired and there were lines of strain in his face, as if he were ill. She moved forward, beside Menou.

‘Come in, Citizen,’ she invited him. ‘At least stand inside in the warm while Citizen Menou considers.’

‘Thank you, Citizeness,’ he accepted, stepping past Menou with a determination that surprised Célie. He had seemed so diffident, so willing to be denied. He was dressed as if he had once been a merchant or lawyer, but had fallen on hard times and was reduced to begging. However, there was a dignity about him which marked him out from most men, even here in the kitchen waiting for a National Guardsman to grant, or refuse, him permission to speak to a laundress. He must surely have been a gentleman once, perhaps even an aristocrat. Maybe he had been a friend of Bernave’s, but the name Lejeune meant nothing to her. She could not recall having heard it before.

‘I am Citizeness Laurent,’ she said to him. ‘You look cold. May we offer you something? We have only bread and onion and a little hot coffee.’

‘Thank you, Citizeness.’ He inclined his head and she noticed again how pale he was. ‘I offer you all my condolences on the death of Citizen Bernave,’ he went on. ‘I was most sorry to hear of it by chance in the street.’

Virginie was still staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

‘What is it you want with Citizeness Laurent?’ Menou asked sharply. ‘There has been another death in this household and this is not the time to trouble them over unimportant things.’

‘Another death?’ Lejeune said softly, his voice lifting with surprise. ‘I am sorry to hear it. I grieve for you.’

Virginie leaned a little closer to her mother.

Fernand glanced at her, then at Lejeune.

Célie went to the stove to pour a cup of coffee for Lejeune. It was weak, with little flavour or colour, but at least it was hot. She brought it back and gave it to him.

He took it with a smile, warming his hands on it. She noticed they were blue with cold. He turned back to Menou.

‘Citizen Bernave requested the services of a tailor to alter a coat for a gentleman who is to leave Paris shortly ... to change his style of life ...’

‘You asked to speak with Citizeness Laurent,’ Menou pointed out.

‘And you said you knew Bernave was dead!’ Fernand added.

‘Citizeness Laurent is the laundress, is she not?’ Lejeune asked mildly. ‘I imagined she would be in charge of such things.’

‘I suppose so,’ Menou conceded. ‘But you said it was Bernave who asked for it, and he cannot need it now.’

Fernand was also staring at the man, his eyes narrow, puzzled.

‘It was not for himself,’ Lejeune said steadily, obviously uncomfortable, but refusing to back away. ‘I wished to know if the gentleman was still requiring the alteration.’ His face was very white and he looked exhausted, as if he might have walked for miles in the cold, and eaten little.

Perhaps he needed the work. Célie felt a rush of pity for him. If Bernave had offered him the job, she should see that wish honoured. The poor soul looked as if he were close to desperation. But how could she accept on Bernave’s behalf? She had no idea what he was talking about, or who the man was who wished a coat altered. She tried to remember if there had been any note of it among Bernave’s papers. But why should there be if it were merely a service for a friend?

‘What was the gentleman’s name?’ she asked.

Menou looked at her, then at Lejeune, waiting.

Lejeune hesitated. He seemed curiously undecided.

‘What was his name?’ Fernand repeated more sharply. ‘There may be something in Citizen Bernave’s papers, if we look.’

Lejeune’s hands clasped the cup so tightly his knuckles shone white.

‘I have looked through the papers,’ Madame Lacoste interrupted, moving a step forward. ‘It must have been a private arrangement, a kindness for a friend. There is no note of having a coat altered, or who it might be for. But I dare say the gentleman will turn up and ask.’ She looked at Lejeune. ‘Perhaps in view of Citizen Bernave’s death he is leaving a decent space of time before coming.’

‘I ... I thought the matter was of some ... urgency,’ Lejeune said haltingly. ‘Possibly I misunderstood.’ He looked at Célie as if imploring her to help, but she had no idea how to. She had no money even to offer him any other task. She sewed her own clothes; it was part of her job. And no one else in the house could afford a tailor, or had need for one.

‘I’m ... sorry, Citizen ...’

‘Of course.’ He bowed his head very slightly. It was a gracious, old-fashioned gesture. ‘I understand. People die unexpectedly, and plans have to be changed.’ He put the coffee cup down on the table and turned to leave, his shoulders stooped in defeat.

His words rang in her head: ‘plans have to be changed.’ He was middle-aged, thick-set, not very tall. She had looked at his eyes rather than his nose or mouth, the heavy jaw. Could it be ...

‘Citizen Lejeune!’

He turned back slowly.

How much dare she risk? Georges had said he had found someone else, not excellent, but better than no one. She was staring at the perfect man now. Everything might depend on it. She gulped, her heart beating wildly. She recalled the name on the passes she had found in Bernave’s desk.

‘Citizen Bernave mentioned something to me. Could it be ...’ she could hardly get her breath, ‘for a Citizen Briard?’

They were all watching her, even Menou, but she saw no start of recognition, no flash of understanding.

Lejeune looked at her very steadily, his blue eyes clear and bright again. ‘Yes, Citizeness. I do believe that was the name. Does Citizen Briard still plan to leave the city, do you know?’

‘Yes,’ she said, more firmly than she had intended. ‘I ... believe so.’ She prayed he would understand why she was now equivocating. She dared not appear to know more about it than she could explain. They were all looking at her. She could feel them listening, weighing what she said and thinking what she meant.

‘You know who this Briard is?’ Fernand asked, frowning at her.

She was caught. If she said ‘no,’ she would appear to be lying, because she had just said she remembered. If she said ‘yes,’ one of them would ask her, and she knew nothing at all. If she invented it Madame, at least, would know, and be suspicious.

They were waiting, watching.

Menou was frowning now also.

‘I ... I heard Citizen Bernave speak of him,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t know what it was about, except it seemed important to him.’

‘But you just said he still plans to leave the city,’ Fernand pointed out. The suspicion was bright in his eyes.

Célie wished someone would rescue her, say something—anything! But Amandine was ashen-faced, too absorbed by grief even to think, let alone help. And St Felix was dead.

She must look to her own resources now. At least she had managed to effect Georges’ escape. Perhaps, when it no longer mattered at all, when her own fulfilment meant nothing, she had at last become as charming, as quick-witted and as brave as Madame de Staël.

She turned and smiled directly at Fernand. ‘Why would he change his plans, if he had somewhere to go? I only know that it mattered to Citizen Bernave, and he was a loyal man to all that the revolution stands for, for equality between people, for the freedom for all to pursue their talents and improve their lives, and for equal justice for everyone. He wanted to end hunger and fear and all unnecessary pain. Isn’t that right, Citizen Menou?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Menou agreed, the anxiety smoothing out his face. ‘He was a great man. If this Citizen Briard is a friend of his, and he wishes to help him, then we should honour his intention. You have acted well, Citizeness.’ There was a trace of admiration in Menou’s voice.

But then he could not possibly imagine the irony of the situation. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely, not meeting his eyes. She turned to Lejeune. ‘I shall find out more about the coat, and ... and Citizen Briard, and I shall let you know exactly what is needed. Where may I leave a message for you?’

‘I come and go,’ he replied. ‘I do not have a shop any more. There is a woman who sells coffee on the corner of the Rue Mazarine and the Rue Dauphine. If you leave word with her, she will tell me.’

‘I’ll do that.’

He smiled and turned again to leave.

‘Citizen!’ she said quickly.

He turned. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you ... for coming.’ How absurd. He was going to give his life for his people, not even at the guillotine, but to be torn apart by an enraged mob, and she said ‘thank you for coming’ as if he had performed no more than a courtesy. But what else could she say, in front of them all?

‘It was nothing,’ he said softly, and opened the door to the courtyard, and the rain. Menou followed a few moments after.

When he was gone they resumed their meal. Fernand was very quiet; he barely spoke to anyone. Monsieur Lacoste mentioned odd items of news he had heard, and what a relief it would be now that they were free to come and go as they pleased.

‘I’m sorry about St Felix,’ he added, and there was a sincerity in his voice Célie could not disbelieve.

No one answered.

Célie was aching to go to St Felix’s room and look for the passes. He had had them, and without them, even finding Briard, or Lejeune, whatever his name really was, did not help. She had watched Menou search for the knife through the entire house, and not find it. Most particularly she had followed every move in St Felix’s chest, under the bed, the shelf with the books. But Menou had not looked through the leaves of the books, where a pass could be hidden, but not a knife.

She glanced across the table at Amandine. She looked like a ghost, almost as if the spirit had gone from the body and there was nothing left but a shell animated by will, but without heart or hope. Célie longed to be able to comfort her, but what was there to say? Perhaps later, after tomorrow, when there was no more need for care or courage, she could tell her what Renoir had said of Bernave? Then she would understand why St Felix might have thrust the knife into Bernave’s back, in spite of the King, and all there was to lose. It was not noble, or wise, or brave ... but it was understandable. Amandine, of all people, was compassionate. She would be quick to understand, and to forgive.