One Thing More (17 page)

‘Good morning, Citizens,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but certain matters will not wait.’ He glanced around curiously, although he had been here before when searching for the knife. Now he looked towards the stove where the last of the chocolate was simmering in the pan.

Célie felt her whole body tighten with fear. Everything depended on how they conducted themselves now. She could feel Menou’s presence as if it were generating some kind of force in the room.

‘You ... must be cold, Citizen,’ she heard her own voice in the silence, a little hoarse. ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’

She half saw Monsieur Lacoste stiffen. Who had food enough to share these days? She deliberately ignored him. Who had safety enough not to share with the National Guard? She could hardly point that out to him now. She might later on—except that she never felt very comfortable with Monsieur Lacoste. She disagreed with his views, especially on Robespierre, and she was afraid he would know it if they ever had a conversation of any length. On a deeply instinctive level, Robespierre’s virtue frightened her far more than Marat’s rage. It was less human.

‘Thank you,’ Menou accepted.

St Felix moved a little to allow him room at the table, and he accepted the seat.

Célie went to the stove, taking down a clean, revolutionary china mug from the rack on the dresser as she passed. She poured out the last of the chocolate and brought it back to the table.

Menou took it with a gesture of gratitude. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has found the knife which killed Citizen Bernave?’ he said, raising his eyebrows and gazing round at them one by one.

‘No,’ Madame Lacoste answered him with very slight surprise—presumably that he should ask.

He sipped the chocolate. ‘I had not thought so.’ He nodded slowly, swallowing. ‘Never mind, we shall keep looking. It can’t be far, can it?’

Again no one replied.

‘I think ...’ Menou spoke almost as if to himself, ‘that we better go over exactly what happened as each of you remember it.’ He took another sip. ‘It’s very good.’ The shadow of a smile crossed his face. ‘I appreciate a woman who can make even simple things well.’

Amandine swallowed. ‘Thank you ...’

He gazed at her. ‘You look uncomfortable, Citizeness. Does it embarrass you to be complimented on your skill? Or are you suffering grief at the death of your employer? Was he good to you?’

Amandine was caught completely off guard. Célie could see the indecision in her face. She knew she was thinking of St Felix and what she could say to protect him, and yet still be close enough to the truth not to be caught out. After all, one of those listening had killed Bernave, and meant someone else to be blamed for it.

Menou was waiting, his clear, grey eyes intent. Célie noticed in the daylight that he had dark lashes. If he had been anyone else she might have thought him good-looking.

‘He was ... fair ... yes,’ Amandine said awkwardly. ‘I did not see a great deal of him. He ... left me to get on with my work. He was not mean. He ... trusted me.’ She stopped, aware she was answering far more than he had asked, talking too much. She coloured awkwardly, and put up a slender hand to push her hair back off her brow.

Menou turned to Célie. ‘And was he fair to you too, Citizeness Laurent?’

Monsieur Lacoste was watching her, waiting to see what she would say. He knew how often she had been sent out on errands in the rain and cold, and at late hours. Certainly it had been to less dangerous or unpleasant places than St Felix, but did he know that? What would she tell Menou? Her answer must be close enough to the truth. If she were suspected it would ruin everything.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied, meeting Menou’s probing eyes and feeling his intelligence discomfiting. She forced the ghost of a smile. ‘He was generous sometimes. Other times he sent me out late and in the rain. I imagine it was necessary, or at least he thought so.’

Menou was interested.

‘Oh? What sort of errands, Citizeness?’

There was total silence around the table. Everyone was watching her. St Felix allowed his chocolate to go cold. Amandine was unconsciously crumbling her bread in her fingers.

‘Letters sometimes,’ Célie answered, trying to keep her voice light, as if it were of no relevance, and she were not weighing every syllable. ‘And of course to the Convention now and again, to keep him aware of exactly what was happening. He liked to know what was said in the debates.’

‘Why did he not go himself?’ Menou asked, cupping his cold hands around his mug. He had good hands, strong and slim, and his nails were clean. It suddenly brought to Célie’s mind Robespierre’s bitten fingers fluttering as he spoke, and she shivered involuntarily.

‘I didn’t ask him,’ she replied.

A touch of amusement crossed Menou’s face and disappeared. ‘And you reported back to him what you had seen and heard, Citizeness?’

‘The best I could.’ She must not appear too clever, or too well informed on political matters. He might suspect her of motives of her own.

‘How interesting.’ He stared at her. ‘Not many men in these turbulent days would send a laundress to the Convention, to keep them abreast of matters of state. He must have thought remarkably highly of you.’ He regarded her closely, right from the top of her sleek, pale head to her hands resting on the table, which was all he could see of her. ‘Had you known him for long?’

She dreaded to think what he might be imagining. She could feel the colour warm up her cheeks. She had nothing to feel guilty for, in the manner she feared he was supposing. She wanted to say something sarcastic and funny, but she suppressed the impulse. Most revolutionaries had no sense of humour.

‘Only since the middle of September,’ she replied as steadily as she could.

‘Célie and Amandine came here then,’ Madame Lacoste confirmed. She was still white-faced, her eyes ringed with shadow. Her cheeks were gaunt as if she had not slept, but her look was completely steady and there seemed to be no fear in her.

‘You came together?’ Menou asked, turning from Célie to Amandine, and back again.

‘No,’ Célie corrected him. ‘Amandine came first. She was good enough to recommend me. I came a few days later.’

‘I see.’ Menou obviously did not. ‘And you do the laundry and the mending ... and political observation ...’He left it hanging in the air, an unexpected shred of humour behind it.

‘I did whatever—’ Célie started, then realised the double meaning and then stopped. ‘I did whatever needed doing in the house,’ she corrected herself. ‘And when I had time, I carried messages or errands also. Citizen Bernave fed us well, and kept a warm house. As far as I know he was a believer in the revolution and wanted liberty and justice for everyone.’

Menou turned to Monsieur Lacoste, whose expression of contempt was so profound as to demand a comment.

As if suddenly aware of the attention, he smoothed away the anger, but it obviously required an effort from him. He measured his words very carefully. ‘That’s what he said,’ he agreed turning to Menou. ‘Fine words cost nothing. Perhaps you are right and he was working for the Commune. He didn’t always behave like it.’

‘You didn’t like him, Citizen?’ Menou asked.

‘He was family,’ Lacoste replied, as if that answered everything. Célie thought of his closeness to his son, his patience with his grandchildren, the way he accepted Marie-Jeanne, and above all his awkward tenderness for Madame. Perhaps it did answer all that really mattered to him.

‘Ah yes,’ Menou nodded. ‘Your son is married to Bernave’s daughter.’ He looked across at Marie-Jeanne. ‘That’s you, Citizeness ...’

Marie-Jeanne nodded.

Menou looked at Fernand. ‘And you, Citizen, what did you think of Bernave?’

‘I didn’t know he was working for the Commune,’ Fernand replied cautiously, ‘but it doesn’t surprise me. He was a man of deep conviction, and as Célie says, he wanted justice for everyone.’

Menou smiled. He must realise they all knew that if Bernave were thought to be a traitor to the revolution, then the house would be forfeited.

‘Just so.’ He remained looking at Fernand. ‘Tell me about last night, Citizen. What happened—exactly—as you recall?’

Fernand was startled. He glanced at his mother, then back at Menou. ‘I ... I don’t know anything more than I told you then.’

‘Perhaps. Remind me ...’ Menou fixed him with bright, intelligent eyes, waiting.

Fernand looked unhappy, but he obeyed.

‘We were all sitting in the front room ...’

‘You heard noises in the street,’ Menou prompted, when he hesitated. ‘You perceived there was a crowd, and some quarrelling ...’

‘Of course. We could hardly fail to see it,’ Fernand agreed tartly. ‘There were at least twenty people pushing and yelling, and then shots.’

‘Ah yes ... shots.’ Menou turned to Marie-Jeanne. ‘Do you recall the shots, Citizeness?’

‘Yes.’

Menou looked back at Fernand.

‘Did anyone leave the room?’

‘I didn’t see.’

Menou turned to Célie, his eyebrows raised questioningly. If anyone had left, they would have passed close to where she had been.

‘I did,’ Marie-Jeanne said quietly. ‘I went up to my children, to comfort them.’

Menou glanced at Virginie, who was staring wide-eyed at him, the game forgotten, and then at Antoine.

‘Very natural,’ he agreed. ‘Anyone else?’

This time Célie was happy to speak. ‘No, the rest of us were here.’ She was aware of Madame Lacoste’s black eyes watching her. What was she afraid of? Did she know which one of them had killed Bernave? What could she do to protect them? How far would she go? Or did she believe it was St Felix? Perhaps she did, because it was the only answer that would be bearable for her.

‘And the exact order of events?’ Menou turned to Amandine. ‘You, Citizeness. Please tell me again.’

Amandine froze. It was several moments before she answered him. He watched her, looking at her soft hands, unmarked by working as Célie’s were by laundry. She had clear skin and fine features. There was a natural delicacy to her. It was easy to believe she was a woman of grace and breeding fallen on harder times, like so many others. Did he see that? Did he resent it? She had not Marie-Jeanne’s earthy domesticity, or Célie’s challenging intelligence in her demeanour. Until lately she had never needed it—now it was too hard to assume.

Who was Menou? Where had he come from? The constant shifts of power in the revolution had thrown together all manner of people. Yesterday’s ministers and governors were today’s prisoners and tomorrow’s corpses. Yesterday’s servants were today’s masters. Célie studied him. He wore the revolutionary uniform, but so did scores of people, for scores of reasons: passion, conviction, the lust for power, or simply the desire to survive. Menou could be anything. His speech was ordinary enough. He could have been a footman or a tailor or an artisan of any sort before the revolution. Or he could be the third or fourth son of an aristocrat, with enough of an ear to adopt a common speech, and enough political idealism, or opportunism, to seize on the new order.

Or he could have been a lawyer, a moneylender or a thief.

He was very tidy. His hair needed cutting, but his clothes fitted him, and his hands were clean. His boots were rather good. She had noticed that when he came in. Was that breeding, or merely opportunity and the love of nice things, even a little personal vanity?

‘There was a shot which broke the window, and the light went out,’ Amandine answered very carefully, facing Menou. ‘Then we heard the noise at the front door, and the crowd broke in, demanding food. They thought we were hoarding—which we weren’t. We aren’t! Citizen Bernave went over to them.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘He told them that.’

‘And did they believe him?’ Menou asked, and when Amandine did not answer immediately he turned to Célie.

‘No, of course not!’ she retorted. ‘But he would hardly say we were, would he?’

He smiled. That simple gesture startled her. In her experience revolutionaries never saw the funny side of anything, most especially anything which might remotely reflect on them. It was the thing which frightened her the most. It made them inhuman, outside ordinary life. Robespierre never laughed.

‘What happened then?’ Menou asked quietly, looking at Amandine again. But he went on before she had time to answer. ‘Citizen Bernave remained facing the intruders. What about the other men in the room—Citizen Lacoste, Citizen St Felix, for example? Did they move forward to help?’

Amandine was confused. ‘I ... I suppose so. I don’t remember.’ She stared straight ahead of her, as if there were no one else present except herself and Menou. Her pose was unnaturally stiff, her slender back straight as she had been taught to sit, in some far-off schoolroom. Célie knew she was trying to remember where in the panic, St Felix had been.

Célie could not remember either. She had been watching Bernave, and the crowd threatening in the doorway. She had been only dimly aware of the others.

Menou turned towards her.

‘And you, who are such a keen observer, Citizeness Laurent—what can you tell me? Where was Citizen St Felix standing?’

He had been standing, that was true, but how did Menou know that? She could not underestimate him, just because he was a revolutionary. It did not mean he was stupid, or incapable of judging them by their own standards, seeing their weaknesses, and their loyalties.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. She could not copy Marie-Jeanne’s ignorance. Menou had seen she observed sharply, and he would not believe she panicked, she had no children to protect—not now. Jean-Pierre was beyond her power to help and shield from anything. That cold thought was never too far away to return. ‘He was sitting in the chair opposite when the shot came through the window ...’ Her voice was a little hoarse, her throat tight.

‘And then?’ Menou insisted. ‘When the intruders threatened you, did he not go forward to assist Bernave?’ He watched her face. The question sounded innocent, and yet the implications were inescapable.

Should she lie, and brand St Felix a coward, or tell what she thought was the truth, and place him where he could have killed Bernave?