Free One Thing More by Anne Perry Page A

voice, raw as if some terrible wound still bled. Then an instant later she concealed it again. All emotion was gone, wiped away. ‘We are fortunate to have a roof over our heads, our food to eat,’ she observed. ‘It is more than many poor devils in Paris can say.’
    ‘Indeed,’ he nodded, still facing her.
    The seconds ticked by. She turned her head away and walked towards the door. ‘Good evening, Citizen,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope you are able to rest now,’ and she went out without glancing back.
    He stood motionless for several moments, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. It could have been profound emotion in him, or simply a bitter amusement because he knew what he was attempting to do, knew how desperately it mattered, not only for him but far more for all France. He knew how short time was, and she guessed nothing. For all she understood, he could have been about some money-making affair.
    Then he sighed and looked at Amandine.
    She smoothed the expression from her face also, erasing the anger.
    ‘Bring the soup to my study,’ he told her. ‘Célie, come with me.’ He walked out the way Madame had gone, and Célie drank another few mouthfuls from her bowl before following after him. She hated to leave it behind.
    In the study there were five candles burning, making the room soft and bright. Amandine had lit the stove over an hour ago, and it was warm. Bernave stood in front of it, the steam rising from his wet jacket and breeches.
    ‘Did you deliver my message?’
    ‘Yes, I saw them all,’ she answered.
    ‘Good.’ He stood wringing his frozen hands. They were white where the circulation had stopped, the heavy scars standing out livid. ‘How was Coigny last night?’
    She had told Amandine what she wanted to hear. She should tell Bernave the truth.
    ‘Cold and hungry,’ she answered. ‘But still determined.’
    He smiled, laughter in his clear eyes. ‘You admire him, don’t you, Célie?’ It was hardly a question.
    She resented the thought of admiring Georges. An instant denial came to her lips; then she realised Bernave would know it was a lie, and worse than that, he would know why. He seemed almost to look inside her.
    ‘I admire his conviction,’ she said defiantly. ‘And his intelligence.’
    Bernave’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh? What did he say?’
    Her answer was interrupted by Amandine knocking on the door, and at Bernave’s command, bringing in his meal. She set it on the desk. He thanked her. Discreetly she placed Célie’s soup bowl, refilled, nearer the corner. Then she took her leave, closing the door behind her with a snap.
    ‘Well?’ Bernave asked, going over to the desk and sitting down. He gestured towards the cup. ‘Don’t stand there! Finish your soup. Then go and do whatever it is you do in the house. And, Célie!’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Thank you.’ For a moment there was affection in his face, as if she might have been a friend.
    She stared back at him for a long minute, then finished the soup and left.
    She spent a little time working on the laundry, Marie-Jeanne helping her, taking the dry linen and clothes off the airing rack and folding them while Célie hung the fresh laundry in its place. It was wet and heavy and made her arms ache.
    ‘Sugar’s gone up again,’ Marie-Jeanne remarked, flicking a pillow cover to get the corners straight. ‘Three years ago it was twenty-four sous—today Citizeness Benoit told me they were asking fifty-eight! Can you believe that? She left it—of course.’ She winced in a grimace of pity, and reached for a sheet, matching corner to corner. ‘Her husband was injured in the storming of the Tuileries,’ she went on. ‘Shot in the shoulder, I think. He’d hardly recovered from that when he was called up to go and fight the Prussians. She heard just two weeks ago that he’s been killed. And her eldest child is sickly. Poor soul doesn’t know where to turn.’ She pulled out the sleeves of a jacket and straightened