One Thing More by Anne Perry Page B

an enraged crowd when they discovered him. What passion of loyalty drove a man to sacrifice his life in such a way? Was it love of the King, the idea of monarchy, or a terrible vision of France as it could become? She had no idea. Bernave had told her nothing of him, except that he existed.
    The shadow of a smile touched Bernave’s mouth. He laced his fingers together in front of him. His hands were beautiful, in spite of the scars.
    ‘I told you, Célie, sometimes one has to pay a great price for what one wants. Sometimes what he will pay is a better measure of a man than what it is he is paying for.’
    ‘A royalist?’ She tried to imagine him, a man who could love a myth, a figurehead so intensely, even above life.
    Bernave’s eyes were gentle. There was a kind of love in him she had not seen before. It made him almost beautiful. ‘Yes ... but more than that, a Frenchman,’ he said softly.
    There was no answer she could give. It was complete and final. She had no right to intrude.
    ‘What else?’ he asked as still she did not move.
    She took a deep breath. ‘I need some money,’ she replied.
    His eyes narrowed, the fight dying from them. ‘What for?’
    ‘Food.’
    Understanding flooded his face, and a swift amusement which made her blush. ‘Ah ... for Coigny. Of course.’ He opened a drawer without the slightest disguise of what he was doing, and she noticed with surprise that it had not been locked. He took out a handful of coins and gave them to her, then closed the drawer again. He had never bothered with the paper assignats of the early revolution, which had proved worthless within a short space of time.
    ‘Thank you.’ She pocketed the money and turned to leave.
    ‘Be careful, Célie!’ he said again, but this time sharply. ‘Say nothing, however you may be provoked! Ask no questions and give no opinions. You are a laundress. You have no thoughts! Do you hear me?’
    ‘Yes, Citizen,’ she answered sarcastically. ‘Liberty, Brotherhood and Equality!’ And she went out of the door and closed it without waiting for his response.
    Célie hurried through the grey, wind-scoured streets. It was not far—less than a mile—but time enough to get thoroughly cold, and to see other women with their heads down, carrying half-empty baskets after the morning’s struggle for food.
    A wagon trundled past with firewood, covered over, to keep it from getting wet. She passed a group of National Guards, their uniforms ragged, but the red, white and blue cockades in their hats still brave. Most of them had muskets, a few only swords or pikes. Her hand went automatically to her shoulder, to make sure her own cockade was safely pinned. It was illegal to be without it.
    ‘Run, Citizeness!’ one of the men yelled cheerfully after her. ‘Home to your fire!’
    The others laughed.
    She would like to have pointed out to them how few people had fires these days, but it was a stupid thing to draw attention, especially by arguing.
    ‘Thank you, Citizen,’ she called back. ‘Keep the streets safe for us!’ Hypocrite, she thought to herself afterwards.
    A copy of last week’s Père Duchesne blew across the pavement into the gutter. There was a crude drawing on the front, and the usual masthead silhouette of the comfortable old man with his big nose, and the pipe in his mouth.
    Further up the street there was a loud argument, two women in browns and greys fighting over a loaf of bread. Half a dozen others stood by, faces sullen and frightened. Célie knew why. She had felt the same frisson of panic run through her when she had arrived at the end of the baker’s queue too late and had had to return home empty-handed and hungry. It was happening more often. It was a long time till harvest. Where was all the grain?
    ‘You got bread!’ someone shouted, voice sharp and accusing.
    ‘Liar!’ came back the answer. ‘I got nothing ... jus’ like you! Jus’ like all of us!’
    ‘Not like all of us ... some got bread,