measure of what we have become. What more could anyone say to condemn us?’
Suddenly Briard saw the tiredness naked in Bernave’s face, the weariness with struggle.
‘And the royalists have no sense of political reality,’ Bernave went on. ‘They either can’t or won’t see that the world has changed. They are still playing yesterday’s game—and by yesterday’s rules. The old bargains they could have made last year are gone. They always give too little—and too late.’ His voice was flat, contemptuous. ‘They don’t listen. They have seen the convulsions of the last three and a half years, and they’ve learned nothing. Even in the shadow of the guillotine, with Marat controlling the streets and the Convention, in all but name, they can’t see that we can never go back. The past is dead. The best we can do—all we can do—is save something for the future.’
Briard felt a shiver of apprehension. He knew the answer, but he still had to ask. ‘You didn’t tell them ... anything?’
‘No I didn’t.’ There was no impatience in Bernave’s eyes, or his voice, no criticism for the question, even the bitterness was almost gone. ‘I have been around far too long to trust any courtier from Versailles to keep his word on anything. I’ve watched them as the storm gathered around them on every side, the mobs marched to the palace gates, and still they understood nothing. I had a dog with more sense!’ The regret and the loneliness in his face were as profound as another man’s tears would have been. ‘And more charity,’ he added softly. ‘And come to think of it, more perception of the absurd. It was a good dog.’
Briard smiled, but he did not reply. There was no need. They sat in silence while the fire burned hot, and drank the rest of the burgundy. Then Bernave put on his coat again and went out into the rain. Everything had been said; to add anything more now would have been clumsy.
Célie let herself in by the back door. Amandine was in the kitchen and there was fresh bread on the table. Steam from the soup pot smelled sharp and fragrant, probably because there was too little meat in it and too many herbs.
Amandine swung round as soon as she heard the latch, the ladle in her hand, her eyes expectant. She tried not to look disappointed as she saw it was Célie and not St Felix. The colour warmed up her cheeks with guilt. They had shared many thoughts and feelings over the two years of their friendship, and ungraciousness was alien to her nature.
‘You must be frozen,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Take that wet cloak off and warm your feet. Would you like some soup? It’s hot.’
‘Yes, please,’ Célie accepted, doing as she was bidden. Her boots were so soaked it was hard to undo the laces and the sodden hem of her skirt flapped around her ankles, cold as ice. Her fingers were numb and it was hard to hold anything. St Felix must be out again. She knew it was he whom Amandine had hoped for with such urgency.
‘Have you seen Georges?’ Amandine asked instead. She cared about him too, in a different way, but no less deeply. They were not only cousins but had been friends and allies since childhood. How often she lay awake and worried about him Célie could only guess. Amandine had twice offered to take him food herself, but Célie had pointed out the additional risk to Georges if more people were seen going up the narrow alley to the steps, carrying baskets. And above all, they could not afford to awaken the suspicion of Monsieur Lacoste, or of Fernand, both of whom were ardent supporters of the revolution, and would certainly see it as their duty to the state, and even more the safety of their own family, to turn in any wanted person.
‘In good spirits,’ Célie answered quietly, easing off her other boot. She could not say when she had seen him, nor why. It would worry Amandine unnecessarily, and there was nothing she could do to help. Her fear for St Felix was more than
Suddenly Briard saw the tiredness naked in Bernave’s face, the weariness with struggle.
‘And the royalists have no sense of political reality,’ Bernave went on. ‘They either can’t or won’t see that the world has changed. They are still playing yesterday’s game—and by yesterday’s rules. The old bargains they could have made last year are gone. They always give too little—and too late.’ His voice was flat, contemptuous. ‘They don’t listen. They have seen the convulsions of the last three and a half years, and they’ve learned nothing. Even in the shadow of the guillotine, with Marat controlling the streets and the Convention, in all but name, they can’t see that we can never go back. The past is dead. The best we can do—all we can do—is save something for the future.’
Briard felt a shiver of apprehension. He knew the answer, but he still had to ask. ‘You didn’t tell them ... anything?’
‘No I didn’t.’ There was no impatience in Bernave’s eyes, or his voice, no criticism for the question, even the bitterness was almost gone. ‘I have been around far too long to trust any courtier from Versailles to keep his word on anything. I’ve watched them as the storm gathered around them on every side, the mobs marched to the palace gates, and still they understood nothing. I had a dog with more sense!’ The regret and the loneliness in his face were as profound as another man’s tears would have been. ‘And more charity,’ he added softly. ‘And come to think of it, more perception of the absurd. It was a good dog.’
Briard smiled, but he did not reply. There was no need. They sat in silence while the fire burned hot, and drank the rest of the burgundy. Then Bernave put on his coat again and went out into the rain. Everything had been said; to add anything more now would have been clumsy.
Célie let herself in by the back door. Amandine was in the kitchen and there was fresh bread on the table. Steam from the soup pot smelled sharp and fragrant, probably because there was too little meat in it and too many herbs.
Amandine swung round as soon as she heard the latch, the ladle in her hand, her eyes expectant. She tried not to look disappointed as she saw it was Célie and not St Felix. The colour warmed up her cheeks with guilt. They had shared many thoughts and feelings over the two years of their friendship, and ungraciousness was alien to her nature.
‘You must be frozen,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Take that wet cloak off and warm your feet. Would you like some soup? It’s hot.’
‘Yes, please,’ Célie accepted, doing as she was bidden. Her boots were so soaked it was hard to undo the laces and the sodden hem of her skirt flapped around her ankles, cold as ice. Her fingers were numb and it was hard to hold anything. St Felix must be out again. She knew it was he whom Amandine had hoped for with such urgency.
‘Have you seen Georges?’ Amandine asked instead. She cared about him too, in a different way, but no less deeply. They were not only cousins but had been friends and allies since childhood. How often she lay awake and worried about him Célie could only guess. Amandine had twice offered to take him food herself, but Célie had pointed out the additional risk to Georges if more people were seen going up the narrow alley to the steps, carrying baskets. And above all, they could not afford to awaken the suspicion of Monsieur Lacoste, or of Fernand, both of whom were ardent supporters of the revolution, and would certainly see it as their duty to the state, and even more the safety of their own family, to turn in any wanted person.
‘In good spirits,’ Célie answered quietly, easing off her other boot. She could not say when she had seen him, nor why. It would worry Amandine unnecessarily, and there was nothing she could do to help. Her fear for St Felix was more than
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