For the King by Catherine Delors Page A

second-in-command, was standing by his superior’s desk. Piis was a former nobleman, an affable man, an excellent character even. His only defect was a profound lack of interest in police work. All Piis cared about was poetry and plays, his own in particular. Sheets of his latest work stuck out of his coat pocket, and he was always ready to read it to his colleagues at the slightest hint of interest, or even without any such prompting. His features, too large for his smallish face, tended to give him a slightly comical aspect. That day Piis, uncharacteristically, kept his large bulging eyes away from Roch and fixed on a flowery detail of the carpet.
    As soon as Roch stepped into the office, all conversations halted. The Prefect looked at him coldly.
    “Glad you could join us at last, Miquel,” he said. “Have a seat.” Dubois cleared his throat to underscore the solemnity of his speech. “As you all know, we were able to derive helpful information from the remains of the horse that pulled the cart suspected of harboring the infernal machine. We had the presence of mind to have the carcass brought here forthright. Thanks to ou diligent investigation, we were able to obtain from a blacksmith the description of the authors of this heinous crime.”
    We , our , thought Roch, a thin smile on his face. Dubois could have given him or Sobry a little credit here, but this was fair enough. The Prefect was after all their superior, and entitled to claim as his own any accomplishments of his subordinates.
    “Descriptions of that horse and the suspects,” continued the Prefect, “are being printed as I speak. Within hours, they will be posted all over town. The clerks at the barriers have been ordered to search each and every cart and carriage entering or leaving Paris. All coffins headed for the graveyards located outside the city limits shall be opened. Furthermore, the Minister is offering a reward of 2,000 gold louis for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the Jacobins who committed this atrocity.”
    Roch raised his hand. “Are we sure yet that the Jacobins are to blame, Citizen Prefect? I compared the descriptions of the suspects, as given by the blacksmith, to my lists. They do not match any known Jacobin.”
    Dubois squinted at Roch. “Well, Miquel, then your lists must not be as accurate as you would like us to believe. And pray, according to you, who would be the culprits?”
    Roch had never heard a kind word from the Prefect, but he was nevertheless taken aback. He would have accepted, and not worried a great deal about a one-on-one reprimand, but now Dubois was trying to humiliate him in front of his colleagues. That prompted Roch to fight back.
    “The Chouans also could have done it, Citizen Prefect.”
    Dubois snorted. “The Chouans! You are out of your mind, Miquel. This bears all of the hallmarks of a Jacobin atrocity.”
    Bertrand, the Chief of the High Police Division, in charge of all political cases, intervened. “Maybe, Citizen Prefect, Miquel’s memory is no more reliable than those so-called lists of his. Maybe he forgot all about the Conspiracy of Daggers.” A sneer further distorted Bertrand’s misshapen face. “Now, if that wasn’t a Jacobin plot!”
    Roch had always loathed Bertrand, a sort of giant, lame and almost blind in one eye. Indeed Roch had not forgotten about the Conspiracy of Daggers. A few months earlier, a police informer, a Captain Harel, had befriended a few vociferous Jacobins, prodded them, shamed them for being content with words where action was needed. Finally, under the Prefect’s supervision, Harel had hatched a plot whereby twelve men were supposed to surround Bonaparte and stab him to death during a representation of the play The Horatii at the Opera. The problem was that all of the supposed assassins had stayed home that night. Nevertheless, several Jacobins, including the painter Topino-Lebrun, had later been arrested and were still languishing in