The Reckoning (22 page)

Héloïse smiled apologetically. 'The men don't know what
to make of you.'

‘
They're always the last to succumb. Men are suspicious of
charm because it's a thing they can't explain rationally.
Women – like children and animals – are more instinctive.
They react first, and worry about it afterwards – if at all.'

‘
My husband and brother naturally wonder where you
came from, and where you are going. Indeed, I do too. That
was something you didn't tell us last night.’

He ate another piece of pie before answering. 'I have no
objection at all to telling you what you want to know. But I
wanted the story to be for you alone to begin with. After
wards, you may tell as much of it as you wish. Of course, you
may find that some of it is known already. If I am any judge,
your excellent man Stephen is already abroad making enqui
ries, and he will come hurrying back to tell you that I arrived
at the Hare and Heather on the stage-coach yesterday – you
see, I am not, after all, a tramping-man! I hope it isn't a
disappointment to you.’

She laughed. 'I didn't suppose you were. Though, I don't
know why, I assumed you had walked a long way.'

‘All the way from Dover?'

‘
Is that where you came from? And before that, France?'

‘
From Belgium. I was an army chaplain until quite lately.
It was not a thing I'd care to do for a lifetime — army food is
very disappointing! But that's what took me to Brussels last
year.'

‘
You were in Brussels? You were at Waterloo?' Héloïse
asked eagerly, and then caught herself up. 'But on which side?’

Moineau shrugged. 'Does it matter, for a chaplain? A soul
wears no uniform. I might just as easily have joined the Allied
Army, but it happened I came upon the French first.'

‘Then why did you join at all?'

‘
There is always a shortage of chaplains, and I had a great desire to see how the story would come out. I had followed it from the beginning — from afar, of course. It was one of the
best stories there will ever be, I think: the adventures of the
little lawyer's son from Corsica who rose to be Emperor of
half the world! Who could resist being there at the end?'

‘
But how could you know it would be the end?'
Héloïse
asked, hearing the irony in his voice, seeing the pain behind
the laughter in his eyes.

He shrugged again. 'I knew. And I knew I would be
needed. Souls and bodies come apart so easily on a battlefield.
Ah, Madame, you were there! You saw the pitiful wrecks of
men brought in from the battlefield — but you did not see
those who were left out there. That was a sight beyond
bearing. It is not something I shall ever forget, though I have
been a soldier myself, in my youth.’

Her mind was working now, sifting out the underlying
sense of his words. 'Father Moineau, how did you know I was
in Brussels? Your being here — it is not coincidence, is it?'

‘
I came here to see you,' he said. 'I came looking for you.
The coincidence was only that I came across your son in
trouble, on my way from the inn to your house.'

‘
Then why didn't you say so at once?' she asked simply.
‘Because I have something to tell you which I think you will
wish to hear in private.’

She looked at him apprehensively. 'Go on,' she said.

He told her his story. Though he did not dwell on it, his
words took her back to those terrible days during and just after the final conflict between Wellington and Napoleon,
when the wounded had come in to Brussels by the cart-load,
and she had done her small part to help tend them. But she
had not stayed long. After the funeral of Major Larosse, she
had brought Sophie home, leaving others better qualified to
cope with the situation.

‘
When the French army retreated,' he said, 'I did not go
with it. I knew that I was more urgently needed where I was. I
suppose, in a way, I was a deserter — one of many. I stripped off the insignia of the army, and went out onto the battlefield
to do what I could.

‘
The English army was busy, collecting up its own wounded
and taking them into Brussels, but there was no-one to attend
to the French casualties on the field — except the scavengers,
of course. You know about them?' She nodded bleakly. 'I
suppose they were merciful in their way — they usually killed
before they robbed, and many of our countrymen must have
been grateful for death. Only when all the Allies were
accounted for — wounded and dead — were the working parties sent out to bury the French dead and bring in the
survivors. There were not many, of course, by that time, but
enough. I went with them, and offered my services to the
town commandant. He was glad to accept. One cannot be a
wandering priest without learning a little of medicine, and I
was welcomed in both capacities.'

‘Yes,' said Héloïse. She saw it all in her mind.

‘
A hospital had been set up for the French wounded — who
were prisoners of war, of course — and I spent a great deal of
my time there. One prisoner in particular needed my help. I
found him an interesting case. The poor fellow was grievously
wounded, and had little chance of recovery. He knew that,
and was eager to make his peace with his conscience and with
God.’

Héloïse sensed he had come to the heart of his story. She
listened, all attention, almost without breathing.

‘
He told me that he had been born in Paris, the illegitimate son of a nobleman. His father perished in the Revolution, but
left money for the support of his mother and himself. But as
he grew up, he began to resent his illegitimacy, and the
obscurity it forced on him and his mother. He began to hate
his father's memory, and by association, all aristocrats – who took their pleasure where they had no right, and left others to
bear the cost. I'm sorry, but so he felt and spoke.'

‘Yes. Go on,' Héloïse said.

‘
He espoused the Revolutionary cause with all an intelli
gent young man's passion. Napoleon became his idol. As soon
as he was old enough, he joined the army, hoping to spread
the new ideas about liberty and equality to the whole world.’

Héloïse nodded. 'There were many such, I expect.'

‘
All was well at first. The army was invincible; victory
followed victory until Napoleon ruled half the world. It
seemed that the Revolution had succeeded beyond all expec
tation. But then reaction set in. Victory did not lead to peace;
war cost France dear in blood and tears, dearer every year:
and Napoleon, the man who had ousted kings, crowned
himself Emperor. Our friend began to wonder where it would
end, and whether his hero was as flawless as he had supposed.
Then he had word that his mother had died.'

‘Ah! And had he seen her since he joined the army?'

‘
You have guessed it. No – they parted with harsh words,
and he had never gone back. His revolutionary fervour, his
hatred of his father's name, had broken her heart. He had
never had the chance to make his peace with her, and now he
began to feel it was his actions which had hastened her death. But what could he do? It was too late to tell her of his doubts,
and he knew no other life but the army. So he went on
marching and fighting, more doubtful every year that it was
the right thing to do. And as the revolutionary fires died
down, he began to wonder if his father had really been the
ogre he had made him in his mind, or if, perhaps, he had been
wrong about that, too.’

Héloïse nodded.

‘
Then came the abdication, and the restoration of the
monarchy. Our friend began to make enquiries about his
father's family, for it was permitted now, even laudable, to
have aristocratic blood. But the restoration did not bring with
it the end of the evils of the empire, and when the Emperor
returned, he like so many of the veterans could not resist the
call. And so his way led inevitably to Waterloo.’

‘Where he was wounded. And met you.'

‘
Yes. As he lay near death, he wondered from the depths of
his heart if his life had all been wasted. He began to think
that the men he had killed must have been just like him after
all, and that killing them was a terrible sin. If only he had fled
France instead of joining the army, and taken his mother
with him, she might still be alive. He should have taken her to
England, and lived a blameless life, and seen her comfortably
established in the bosom of his father's family, whom he was
sure would have welcomed them.'

‘In England?’

He looked into her eyes, his gaze holding her like a
supporting hand. 'His mother was French, but his father was
English by birth, though living in France as a French citizen.
His mother had told our friend when he was a child that he had a large family in England – in Yorkshire – including a
half-sister who had been his mother's dearest friend. He
begged me, as he lay dying, to find that sister and tell her his
story, and beg her forgiveness for his part in his mother's
death.' He paused, and then said gently, 'He told me her
name. Do I need to tell you his?’

Héloïse shook her head, her eyes blank. 'His name is
Morland Cotoy. His mother was Marie-France Cotoy, and his
father was Henri de Stuart – my father.'

‘
I have fulfilled my task, then. But I am sorry to bring you
no better news.'

‘
He is dead, my brother?' Moineau nodded, and she sighed
painfully. 'I searched for him. When I went to Paris during
the Peace of Amiens, I searched for him and for Marie-
France, but they had moved from the only direction I had,
and I could not find any trace of them. Yet I always hoped
that one day I would see them again. I was present at his
birth.' She looked at him. 'And you were present at his death.
And there's an end.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said again.

She looked down at her hands. 'I should feel grateful – I
found a large family here, who have loved me and made me
welcome. Yet he was my only brother – my father's only son.
I always wondered if he would grow up to look like Papa. And
now I shall never know.’

Moineau didn't speak.

‘
He fought for Napoleon at Waterloo?'

‘Yes.’

She was thoughtful. 'It may even have been him who killed
some of our friends.'

‘It does not do to think like that.'