One Thing More by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

understood that he believed the same as Bernave, that he saw beyond Paris to Europe and the world, and knew the danger of war, invasion, even the possibility of defeat. He also knew he could not explain that to Amandine or anyone else who believed in the revolution, who wanted and needed to. And perhaps he was afraid of the power of her feelings. He would try to protect her from herself, and her anger against Bernave.
    But Célie did not understand why he accepted the worst tasks so meekly, or why Bernave gave them all to him, instead of doing some himself. There was a cruelty in it that confused her. It was so unlike everything she knew of either man. Bernave was full of intelligence and power, smooth-boned, his grey hair lean to his head. He read voraciously, and there was always humour just behind his words, as if he knew some cosmic joke that he could share with no one else.
    St Felix was a little taller, slighter of build. His face had an elusive beauty to it, as if he had seen a great vision and was on an eternal quest to find its reality. He would be incomplete until he did, and open to pain. She imagined him in the dark alleys of the Faubourg St-Antoine where the abattoirs of the tanneries were, coming round a corner and without warning running into the mob, drunken, hysterical with the taste of blood—a king’s blood. They would have no thought for what they were doing, only hatred, and the thrilling, surging knowledge of their own power. They held Paris in their hands, and they could do anything they wanted. No law could touch them. God was gone, the Church was gone ... who was there to deny them anything at all?
    She strained the brew off the leaves into a cup and handed it to St Felix.
    ‘That will make you feel better,’ she promised. ‘You should sleep for an hour or two at least.’
    ‘Until noon,’ Amandine corrected her, stirring the chocolate powder into a paste with the last of the milk.
    St Felix drank down Célie’s brew steadily, only flaring his nostrils very slightly at the smell, and then replaced the empty cup on the table. ‘There’ll be things to do before then,’ he answered, standing up slowly, and wincing as the movement caused the fabric of his shirt to touch his wounds. He looked at Célie. ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ He smiled at her, then at Amandine, and walked stiffly out of the kitchen towards his room, his footsteps uneven on the stone floor.
    Célie turned to clear away the ointment and dishes she had been using.
    Amandine’s soft mouth thinned with loathing. ‘Bernave does it because it amuses him,’ she said between her teeth. ‘He likes the taste of power, to see if St Felix will obey him! Give him a little strength over someone, and he uses it to satisfy his cruelty. He’s like the worst of the revolutionaries, and just as tyrannical as any king!’
    ‘Be quiet!’ Célie snapped, afraid for Amandine above any concern for St Felix. ‘Haven’t you the wits you were born with?’
    It needed no explanation. Amandine stared at her, eyes wide, lips tight. ‘It’s true,’ she repeated fiercely, but this time in a whisper.
    Célie put her hand on Amandine’s arm. ‘So are a lot of things that are better not said.’
    As if to emphasise her words, the door was pushed open and Marie-Jeanne Lacoste stood in the entrance, a candle in one hand, and holding her baby, wrapped in a cot quilt against her shoulder with the other. She was Bernave’s daughter, but she had little of his suffering in her face, and none of his sharp, probing nature. She looked tired and confused now, and more than her twenty-three years. Her brown hair straggled across her brow and her eyes were full of fear. She was used to broken nights. She had three small children. It was a constant battle to keep them fed, clothed and as safe as possible in these violent and uncertain times. No one could plan for a future with any idea of what it would be, except more cold and more shortages.
    ‘Has