Free For the King by Catherine Delors Page A

arms had been discovered the day after the attack on a nearby rooftop. The other one was still missing. It was not a sight for a mother.
    “To say good-bye to my little girl,” moaned the woman. “Please, Sir.”
    Roch had to think of something very fast. “No, Citizen Peusol,” he said, “I cannot let you, as the next of kin, see her. It would be against the rules. Perhaps you have a relative who could come here to identify the body?”
    The woman nodded, tears flowing down her face. “Well,” she said, catching her breath between two sobs, “there’s my brother . . .”
    Roch opened the door and called to a guard to bring some liquor.

12
    A clerk brought Roch a note, left by a messenger who had hurried away without waiting for a response. It simply said: Meet me this afternoon at three o’clock, dearest, dearest love, at the usual place. I know how busy you must be, but please try, just for me. I will be waiting for you.
    Roch had barely caught any sleep since the Rue Nicaise attack, and he had not had much time to think of his next assignation with Blanche. For several months now they had met two or three times a week in a room above Citizen Bercelle’s millinery shop. He had last seen her on the afternoon of the 3rd of Nivose, the day of the attack.
    Before Blanche, there had been other women, usually the wives of well-to-do merchants. Roch kept clear of maidens. A single moment of carelessness, of lust, of distraction, and he would be expected to wed a girl he did not even like.
    Yet Blanche Coudert was not the same as Roch’s prior mistresses. For one thing, she was no shopkeeper’s wife. Old Miquel would have called her a ci-devant , the contemptuous name given to former aristocrats. Blanche had been educated in a convent, and her mother had been a noblewoman before the Revolution, though she never spoke of her father. Also Blanche was lovelier than any of Roch’s other mistresses, indeed than any other woman he had ever seen. Even the name Blanche seemed to have been designed for her. Her skin was indeed white, all the more so under her crown of wavy dark hair.
    Roch had met Blanche in the exercise of his official functions. He had been entrusted by Fouché, who was an astute judge of men, with the task of collecting from the gaming parlors and houses of convenience of the Palais-Egalité the weekly contributions it pleased those establishments to bestow upon the police. Roch did not return the bawds’ knowing smiles when they handed him heavy purses, which he delivered promptly to the Minister.
    Among the establishments visited by Roch was the gaming salon of Madame de Cléry. It was no brothel, but she would receive him in her bedroom, sometimes lying on a sofa, an embroidered slipper dangling from one toe, sometimes seated at her dressing table, tying her garter around a firm, round thigh. She did not seem a young woman, but he could guess at the curves of a very handsome body. She would yawn, smile at him, rise and walk lazily to a strongbox, disguised by an elegant mahogany veneer. He disliked the woman’s familiarities and ignored the squeeze of her hand as she gave him her weekly purse. He always hastened to leave.
    It had been during one of those visits that he had met Blanche. She entered the bedroom while Madame de Cléry, who had seemed colder than usual, handed Roch her purse. At the sight of the young woman, he felt no less embarrassment than if he had been surprised in an intimate position with Madame de Cléry. He flushed with displeasure.
    But Blanche seemed to ignore his awkwardness. She simply smiled at him. It was the smile of innocence, wandering lightly, without affectation, on a small, round, red mouth. And it did not stop at the mouth, but lit the fine dark eyes and carved dimples in the still childish cheeks. Her gown, a dark green silk with a gray sash, seemed delightfully modest next to Madame de Cléry’s sheer negligee. Roch was astonished at finding such a creature here,