For the King Page 4

  So Limoëlan had good reason to be unhappy that night. And now his unhappiness focused on Saint-Régent. The two men were from the same country, on the Brittany coast, and they had known each other since childhood, without ever becoming friends. Limoëlan’s father had been the foremost lord and landowner there, while Saint-Régent’s family, though also noble, struggled on the fringes of poverty. Limoëlan had received a careful education at the College of the Oratorian Friars in Rennes before purchasing a commission in the prestigious Regiment of the Prince of Savoie-Carignan. Saint-Régent had enlisted in the Navy as an ensign at the age of twelve, to make his way up the ranks as he could.

  Then the Revolution had burst out in faraway Paris. War had been declared and a draft instituted. The peasants in the West had rebelled. Limoëlan and Saint-Régent, like many other officers, had first emigrated, then returned to Brittany to join the insurgency. The chances of war had at times united them, at times separated them for months. They had been caught on occasion, but they had always escaped and survived in the midst of the carnage. Then, last June, George had instructed Limoëlan to head for Paris, with another Chouan, François Carbon, posing as his valet, to prepare an attack on Bonaparte. Saint-Régent, also on the orders of George, had joined them in Paris a few months later. They had discussed the most efficient means of ridding France of the usurper, and finally agreed on an infernal machine.

  Had not Saint-Régent volunteered to light the barrel of powder himself ? Had not Limoëlan, time and again, insisted that his second-in-command use an ember held with pincers? That way there was no need to worry about the length of the wick, the dryness of the tinder, and all the things that could go wrong, no matter how methodical one was in one’s calculations. With an ember, the conflagration was sure to be immediate. But no, the bomb had exploded a few seconds late.

  Now Limoëlan was certain that Saint-Régent had lost his nerve. The coward must have hidden a fuse under the tarpaulin and lit it with his tinderbox. Of course, an immediate explosion would have meant certain death for Saint-Régent, but was he not, were they not all prepared to die for the cause? Had not Limoëlan’s own father done so, seven years earlier, when he had climbed the stairs to the guillotine? Well, Saint-Régent apparently was not ready to sacrifice his own life. He had to put his personal safety ahead of the most sacred of ends. He would pay for this.

  Limoëlan turned onto Rue des Prouvaires. There he went to the sixth alley to the right and pushed an iron gate. Fortunately it was still unlocked in spite of the late hour. Limoëlan walked up to the third floor and knocked at a door. A woman, her graying hair pulled tight under a white stiffly starched cap, opened the door. In the parlor, an old man, a younger one and a girl of fifteen or so were playing cards by the light of a smoky oil lamp. They rose to bow or curtsey upon Limoëlan’s entrance.

  “Good evening,” he said curtly. “Has Monsieur Pierrot returned yet?” Of course, the Guillous had no need to know Saint-Régent’s real name, nor his own, nor many other details.

  “Yes, Sir, thank God,” said the older woman. “Oh, I’m so relieved it’s you. I was worried it’d be the police, after that big noise we heard. What was that? We looked out the window. We saw a crowd, and horses, all in an uproar. I asked my son to go see what it was, but you know Guillaume . . .” She nodded in the direction of the young man, who looked away.

  Limoëlan knew Guillaume indeed, and made no comment.

  “Monsieur Pierrot came home about twenty minutes ago,” continued the Guillous woman. “He didn’t look well, Sir, not well at all. All pale and odd-looking, he was. I offered him a bowl of hot soup, ’cause, you know, he’s fond of his soup when he comes home at night, but he wouldn’t even answer me. He went straight to his room. I reckon he’s in bed now. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

  Limoëlan crossed the parlor and opened the door to one of the bedrooms without knocking. Saint-Régent was lying on the bed, still dressed in his blue jacket, over the covers. His breathing was raspy and shallow. He did not move as Limoëlan approached cautiously.

  Limoëlan noticed that Saint-Régent’s freckles, usually hidden under this tan, now stood out against his pale skin. Blood traced red lines from the corners of his mouth to the cadenettes that framed his face. It also trickled from his ears, a sign Limoëlan knew all too well from his years as a Chouan. Saint-Régent’s nose was narrower and pointier than ever, as though pinched by an invisible hand. Yet the man was conscious. His half-closed eyes had traveled in the direction of the door as soon as Limoëlan approached. He stuttered. “George . . .”

  Limoëlan’s anger waned. Saint-Régent’s death would make it easier to explain things to George, and there would be no need to carry out an execution in the midst of Paris, which was always awkward. He put his hand on Saint-Régent’s shoulder. “Rest easy, friend.”

  “The . . . Sacraments . . .” whispered Saint-Régent.

  Limoëlan nodded. He left the room and beckoned to the Guillou woman. “Monsieur Pierrot needs a priest,” he said. He looked sternly into her eyes. “A real priest.”

  “But, Sir, I don’t know of any ’round here,” said the woman in a plaintive tone.

  Limoëlan glared at her. And these people were supposed to be devoted to the cause! He shrugged. “Don’t bother. I will fetch one myself.”

  There was but one priest he trusted in all of Paris, his uncle, Father de Clorivière. Limoëlan hurried down the stairs.

  7

  Limoëlan headed for the Pont-Royal to cross over to the Left Bank. His mood was still somber, but the realization of his comrade’s impending death had put things into perspective. As desperate as things looked, all was not lost. The usurper could still be killed if those who remained recouped their forces and continued to fight for the cause.

  After a half hour Limoëlan had crossed the river over the Pont-Royal and reached Rue Cassette, a genteel street, quite deserted at this time of the night. The explosion, if it had been heard here, had caused no lasting turmoil. He pulled a key and let himself into a vast house. Mademoiselle de Cicé, in her entresol overlooking the courtyard, must be in prayers on this Christmas Eve. He did not wish to disturb her pious meditation. In a few hours the dear old lady, with Limoëlan, would attend the Midnight Mass his uncle would celebrate in the little makeshift chapel upstairs. Limoëlan had hoped to impart great news. And now . . .

  Limoëlan knew his way around the house in the dark, and ran up to the attic. He knocked on one of the walls. Three long knocks, two short ones, repeated four times. A door, disguised in the wood paneling, opened. In its frame stood a tall, gaunt elderly man. He embraced Limoëlan and let him inside a room no more than four feet in width. A cot, a chair and a narrow wooden table, covered with a piece of lace and gold liturgical ornaments, occupied all of it.

  “One of our friends has been injured, Reverend Father,” said Limoëlan. “For the cause. He needs to confess and receive Extreme Unction.”

  Father de Clorivière frowned. “Was it tonight? What of Bonaparte?”

  Limoëlan paused before answering. “Bonaparte escaped. This time. Let’s make haste, Father.”

  The priest reached for a little gold box on the table, genuflected and kissed the altar. He threw a black coat on his shoulders and followed his nephew.

  The two men walked briskly in silence in the darkened street. At last Father de Clorivière sighed and broke the silence: “Why tonight, of all nights? The eve of the Nativity of Christ . . .”

  “What better time was there, Father? Bonaparte’s death would have heralded a new era. The return of the King, atonement for the atrocities of the Revolution, the restoration of the rights of the nobility.”

  “Yes, my son, only the King can bring a penitent France back within the fold of our Holy Mother the Church. So tell me what happened tonight.”

  “We detonated an infernal machine on the path of Bonaparte’s carriage.”

  Father de Clorivière blessed himself.

  “Is it not rightfu
l to kill a tyrant?” asked Limoëlan. “Indeed it is more than rightful, it is one’s duty. Is it not what Saint Thomas Aquinas teaches us?”

  “To kill a usurper like Bonaparte is justified, yes, without any doubt. So that was this awful noise we heard . . . Mademoiselle de Cicé was all shaken. She came up to ask if I knew what it was. Where did the machine explode?”

  “On Rue Saint-Nicaise.”

  Father de Clorivière stopped and stared at his nephew. “At that time? What have you done, Joseph? How many innocents have you sacrificed?”

  “We must hurry, Father. Innocents perish in any war, you know it. These at least perished for a just cause.”

  “Who appointed you, Joseph, the judge of life and death? You bring me to your friend’s bedside, but what about you, about the salvation of your soul? When will I hear your confession?”

  “I would confess if I could, Father, but it would not do any good. I feel no contrition, no repentance. This was no sin. My only regret is to have let the usurper escape.”

  Father de Clorivière shook his head in silence. “God help you. I will pray for you. You need it more than your friend.”

  When they reached the Guillou house, Saint-Régent, now in his shirt, was tucked under a plump red comforter. But what caught Limoëlan’s attention was the sight of a moon-faced young fellow standing by his comrade’s bedside.

  Limoëlan glowered at the Guillou woman. “Who is this?” he hissed. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I thought it’d be a good idea to fetch a physician as well, Sir,” she hastened to say in a tremulous tone. “This is Dr. Collin, Sir. Oh, you needn’t worry. I know him well, he’s a friend. He won’t say nothin’ to the police. I told him it that Monsieur Pierrot is here on account of the cause.”

  “Indeed, Sir,” Collin intervened, “I came as fast as I could. Madame Guillou caught me just as I was coming home from a delivery class at the Charité Hospital.”

  Limoëlan frowned. “A class? What do you mean, Sir? You are still taking classes? Aren’t you a physician?”

  The man flushed. “Well, not quite, Sir, but I will have completed my studies next year.” Collin spoke very fast. “The patient’s condition seemed quite serious when I arrived, and the pulse was very rapid. Monsieur Pierrot complained of great deal of pain in his eyes and ears. I understand that he fell from his horse, and yet I could not find any contusion or open wound. So I bled the patient, which is always the thing to do when one is in doubt of the diagnosis. And since Monsieur Pierrot also complained of discomfort in the lower abdomen, I applied leeches around the anus.”

  Limoëlan winced. The medical student smiled proudly and pointed at Saint-Régent’s face, as white as the pillow on which it rested. “As you can see, Sir, the patient is already much improved.”

  Limoëlan shoved the medical student outside the room. As he was closing the door behind them, he saw Father de Clorivière pull a wooden statuette of the Blessed Virgin from his pocket and bring it to the dying man’s lips.

  Limoëlan, once in the dining parlor, walked to the fireplace. The medical student had left already and the Guillous, gathered around the table, were shaking their heads sadly and exchanging brief sentences in hushed tones.

  8

  It was still dark when Roch Miquel left L’Hôtel-Dieu early in the morning of the 25th of December, and Paris was awakening as usual. Roch surmised that, had Bonaparte died in the attack, the city would have digested the news overnight, ready for a new ruler to settle in the Palace of the Tuileries the next morning. To many it did not matter much whether the master of France was the restored King or another victorious General, and there was no shortage of those.

  It was five o’clock now. The sky was still dark and streetlights still burning, but bakers, powdery with flour, were taking down the shutters of their shops. The bread that was to feed to city that day was already turning brown in the ovens. Prostitutes, their rouge smeared on their cheeks, their lips swollen with too many kisses, were scurrying back to their garrets. They kept their eyes cast down after the exertions of the night, too weary to glance at a last customer.

  Roch let himself into a genteel building on Rue de Jouy, on the Right Bank of the Seine. Before the Revolution, it had housed clerics attached to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, but now it was rented to well-to-do families of shopkeepers and various functionaries. Roch climbed the stairs to his third-floor lodgings and went straight to the kitchen. There he found his maid, her stiff gray locks still loose under her nightcap, a woolen shawl thrown over her shoulders, lighting the wood stove. She curtseyed and handed him a note, sealed in wax. It was unsigned, a mere scrawl, but Roch recognized the seal as that of Fouché, the Minister of Police.

  I want you to find a Pierre de Saint-Régent, alias Pierrot. Age 33 or so, average height, slightly built, long, pointy nose, eyes blue, close-set.

  Also a François Carbon, alias Short Francis. Age around 43, 5 feet 4 inches, stocky, scar on his left eye.

  Both Chouans, involved in several campaigns against the Republic. Both believed to be in Paris at this time.

  Roch frowned. He had never heard of these characters. And this was almost too easy. How could Fouché, only a few hours after receiving Roch’s note, put him on the trail of the Rue Nicaise assassins? This must mean that the Minister had already received word from his informers.

  True, the Catholic and Royal Army in the West was full of them. And Fouché had many mouchards in Paris as well. They were prostitutes, tavern keepers, merchants, beggars or former nobles. The Count de Bourmont, for instance, a former General of the Chouans, was now a recipient of Fouché’s largesse.

  While the maid was grinding coffee, the bacon was already frying on the stove with a delicious smell. The maid broke two eggs, which landed in the pan in the midst of tiny grease splatters. Soon the fragrance of the fresh coffee mingled with that of the meat. She set the breakfast on a tray, which she took to the dining parlor.

  Roch sat down at the heavy walnut table. He never felt at home in this room. The lodgings were rented furnished, and he had brought nothing of a personal nature beyond his clothes, a pair of razors and a few toiletries. Indeed the only mementos from his youth had been an assortment of pens, books and booklets from Monsieur Veau’s Academy for Boys. Old Miquel might have kept them in the attic of the Mighty Barrel, but Roch had never cast a glance at them since leaving school.

  He rose, seized the plate and ate standing by the window. He was staring into the pool of darkness at the bottom of the courtyard below. At last he gulped down a cup of coffee and went to his bedroom.

  He stripped to the waist and proceeded to lather his face. He liked the warmth of the water against his skin, the cold bite of the razor blade, even the burning feeling of his freshly shaven cheeks. He glanced at the maroon velvet drapes of his bed, and was tempted for a moment to lie down. Daylight would not come for another two hours. Yet he did not feel any fatigue. He would be more tired if he took a brief nap than if he eschewed sleep altogether. He put on the clean shirt his maid had laid on the bed and buttoned his waistcoat.

  On his way to the Prefecture, he kept thinking of Captain Platel’s testimony. The man seemed a reliable witness, not suspiciously eager to remember things. Who was the tall bespectacled fellow in the blue jacket? He did not seem to fit the description of either of the two men mentioned in Fouché’s note.

  Roch returned to the Isle of the Cité and turned right towards the Quai des Orfèvres, the Goldsmiths Embankment. There, on Rue de Jérusalem, behind the main courthouse, the Police Prefecture was housed in a decrepit warren of turrets and unsteady walls, reeking of dry rot, dust, mildew and old paper. The guards on duty at the entrance saluted Roch. He followed several sharply angled corridors. The steps of a corkscrew stairwell shook under his boots as he made his way up to his office. It was located under the eaves, and in places its ceiling was so low that Roch had to bend slightly lest he hurt his head. But he had this room to himself, a favor he had enjoyed
since being promoted to the rank of Chief Inspector at the beginning of the year.

  Roch pulled from a drawer of his desk the list he kept of all characters suspected of harboring unfriendly feelings towards the First Consul, and there were many. They fell into two main categories: the most vocal in Paris were the Jacobins, who insisted on keeping France a Republic. They distrusted Bonaparte and his ambitions. And then there were the First Consul’s other enemies, the Chouans. Old Miquel was right. In spite of the pacification of the West, they continued hoping, and fighting for the restoration of the King.

  The current pretender, the so-called Louis XVIII, was a younger brother of Louis XVI. He had sought refuge abroad and been forced to wander from city to city to flee the victorious French armies. That man of forty-five, so obese that he could barely walk, did not seem a fearsome foe, but to the Chouans he was the King. Yet to Roch royal blood, whether shed on the guillotine or flowing in the veins of raggedy pretenders to the throne, was of no account. France was a Republic now. Even Bonaparte understood it.

  Roch perused his lists, eager to find any character resembling the fellow with the gold spectacles, or the men described in the Minister’s note. He frowned. No, no one, whether Jacobin or Chouan, seemed a match. He opened the door and shouted to a clerk to bring him the lists of all persons who had traveled to or from Paris, on stagecoaches or private carriages, during the previous months. These lists, kept daily by the Prefecture, included names, descriptions and places of residence.

  There too Roch’s search was fruitless. Of course none of the suspects was stupid enough to arrive in Paris on a public conveyance. They would have reached the capital secretly, traveling on horseback, or even on foot, from friendly farm to friendly farm, and would have crossed the city barriers hidden amidst the piles of linen of a washerwoman’s wheelbarrow or among the vegetables of a farmer’s cart. Roch dropped the lists and swore under his breath.