an’ onions, an’ cheese!’ another said, her face twisted with hatred.
‘Yeah? Who? Tell the Commune! Hoarding’s a crime.’
The woman gave her a filthy look. ‘If I knew who, I’d kill ’er meself! They’re murderers o’ the rest of us ... that’s what they are!’
The woman with a loaf of bread was enraged. ‘Who are you calling murderer, yer ol’ bag? I got me loaf, same as you, an’ six kids ter feed! An’ my man’s up fighting the Austrians, God help him!’ She spat on the cobbles, completely unaware of having called on a deity who officially no longer existed. ‘Go an’ look at some o’ them rich bastards up St-Germain! They got plenty, I ’eard!’
A few yards along the street a National Guardsman swung a musket round threateningly and loosed a shot off into the air.
The women grumbled and started to move away.
Célie turned towards the Quai Voltaire and increased her pace.
Chapter Three
J OSEPH BRIARD STOOD BY the window staring out at the rain. It blew in gusts against the glass, but here in his room it was warm. The candlelight glowed on polished wood. Most of the floor was covered by a red rug, worn and mellow with time and the passage of feet. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of books and mementos of his life.
He had only three more days’ fuel left, but it was enough. He would burn it all. After that he would not need it, nor the wine in the glass he was holding, watching the light in its ruby depths, letting its flavour fill his head. It was a burgundy—one of the best years.
He smiled as he thought of the past. In his mind he could see sunlight on rolling hills, smell the sweet grasses and the herbs of the south. Unconsciously he narrowed his eyes as if the reflection off blue water dazzled him, but it was only memory, the days of youth sharper and more real than this grey winter of the soul in Paris.
Would it all be futile anyway, a grand gesture, but no more? Or was it possible they could succeed? He had done everything, precisely as Bernave had instructed. Still there was so much room for error, circumstance unseen, unprepared for.
And if it worked ... that was something he would not think of. He had faced it once, imagined it, even the last few moments. Now it was best put from his mind. Sometimes your body could let you down, even when your heart had no doubt at all.
He sipped the wine again. There was also enough meat left for two more days, and vegetables and a whole loaf of bread. There was a good claret, but he would leave that ... for Bernave, perhaps?
There came a rap on the door, twice, sharply, and then silence. It would be Bernave. He had come to tell him what Briard already knew.
He refused to hesitate. He went to the door and opened it.
Bernave stepped in, shaking the water off his hat and shoulders. His boots left wet marks on the floor. There was no need for him to speak; all that lay between them was in his eyes and the set of his lips—the hope, the fear, and above all the pity.
Briard swallowed. This was the moment.
Bernave closed the door.
‘Have a glass of burgundy,’ Briard offered, keeping his voice light. ‘It’s the best year I’ve tasted.’ He turned and led the way back to the chairs beside the fire. Without waiting for the answer he poured a second glassful, a beautiful crystal glass engraved with lilies.
Bernard took it. For a moment the candlelight flickered through its burning heart.
‘Long live the King!’ he said softly.
Briard found his throat too tight to drink. ‘Long live the King!’ he answered, then filled his mouth with the clean, full taste of the wine.
Bernave was looking at him. Was he still uncertain, weighing him in his mind, or did he know now that he would do it? Which was worse, the decision committed and irrevocable, or not yet made?
‘The die is cast,’ Bernave said steadily. ‘All is in hand. Have you met with the drivers?’
‘Yes.’ Briard recalled it vividly, playing the part of the
‘Yeah? Who? Tell the Commune! Hoarding’s a crime.’
The woman gave her a filthy look. ‘If I knew who, I’d kill ’er meself! They’re murderers o’ the rest of us ... that’s what they are!’
The woman with a loaf of bread was enraged. ‘Who are you calling murderer, yer ol’ bag? I got me loaf, same as you, an’ six kids ter feed! An’ my man’s up fighting the Austrians, God help him!’ She spat on the cobbles, completely unaware of having called on a deity who officially no longer existed. ‘Go an’ look at some o’ them rich bastards up St-Germain! They got plenty, I ’eard!’
A few yards along the street a National Guardsman swung a musket round threateningly and loosed a shot off into the air.
The women grumbled and started to move away.
Célie turned towards the Quai Voltaire and increased her pace.
Chapter Three
J OSEPH BRIARD STOOD BY the window staring out at the rain. It blew in gusts against the glass, but here in his room it was warm. The candlelight glowed on polished wood. Most of the floor was covered by a red rug, worn and mellow with time and the passage of feet. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of books and mementos of his life.
He had only three more days’ fuel left, but it was enough. He would burn it all. After that he would not need it, nor the wine in the glass he was holding, watching the light in its ruby depths, letting its flavour fill his head. It was a burgundy—one of the best years.
He smiled as he thought of the past. In his mind he could see sunlight on rolling hills, smell the sweet grasses and the herbs of the south. Unconsciously he narrowed his eyes as if the reflection off blue water dazzled him, but it was only memory, the days of youth sharper and more real than this grey winter of the soul in Paris.
Would it all be futile anyway, a grand gesture, but no more? Or was it possible they could succeed? He had done everything, precisely as Bernave had instructed. Still there was so much room for error, circumstance unseen, unprepared for.
And if it worked ... that was something he would not think of. He had faced it once, imagined it, even the last few moments. Now it was best put from his mind. Sometimes your body could let you down, even when your heart had no doubt at all.
He sipped the wine again. There was also enough meat left for two more days, and vegetables and a whole loaf of bread. There was a good claret, but he would leave that ... for Bernave, perhaps?
There came a rap on the door, twice, sharply, and then silence. It would be Bernave. He had come to tell him what Briard already knew.
He refused to hesitate. He went to the door and opened it.
Bernave stepped in, shaking the water off his hat and shoulders. His boots left wet marks on the floor. There was no need for him to speak; all that lay between them was in his eyes and the set of his lips—the hope, the fear, and above all the pity.
Briard swallowed. This was the moment.
Bernave closed the door.
‘Have a glass of burgundy,’ Briard offered, keeping his voice light. ‘It’s the best year I’ve tasted.’ He turned and led the way back to the chairs beside the fire. Without waiting for the answer he poured a second glassful, a beautiful crystal glass engraved with lilies.
Bernard took it. For a moment the candlelight flickered through its burning heart.
‘Long live the King!’ he said softly.
Briard found his throat too tight to drink. ‘Long live the King!’ he answered, then filled his mouth with the clean, full taste of the wine.
Bernave was looking at him. Was he still uncertain, weighing him in his mind, or did he know now that he would do it? Which was worse, the decision committed and irrevocable, or not yet made?
‘The die is cast,’ Bernave said steadily. ‘All is in hand. Have you met with the drivers?’
‘Yes.’ Briard recalled it vividly, playing the part of the
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