He finally went to sleep determined to start very early in the morning. He needed to succeed, and quickly, for his own survival, but he would also like to be revenged for Marie-Claire. She had not deserved this, and in spite of his better judgement he had liked her. It would be good to do something to warrant the friendship Jean-Jacques believed of him.
In the morning he got up early and went out straight away. He bought a cup of coffee from a street vendor, drank it and handed back the mug to her, then walked on past the usual patient queues of women hoping for bread, or vegetables, or whatever it was. He passed the sellers of pamphlets and the tradesmen still trying to keep up some semblance of normality at what they did: millinery, barrel-making, engraving, hair-dressing, or whatever it was, and retraced his steps to the local committee headquarters. It was a considerable risk asking questions about Philippe Duclos, especially since he was already known and Philippe would be on his guard. He knew he had taken the cheeses and would see threat even where there was none. But Carton had to report to Sabot by midnight tonight, and so far he had accomplished nothing. It was not impossible that in his fear of Philippe, Fleuriot had already warned him that Carton was asking questions.
Affecting innocence and concern, Carton asked one of the guards where he might find Citizen Duclos, since he had a personal message for him.
The man grunted. ‘Citizen Duclos is a busy man! Why should I keep watch on him? Who knows where he is?’
Carton bit back his instinctive answer and smiled politely ‘You are very observant,’ he replied between his teeth. ‘I am sure you know who comes and goes, as a matter of habit.’
The man grunted again, but the love of flattery was in his eyes, and Carton had asked for nothing but a little harmless information. ‘He is not in yet,’ he replied. ‘Come back in an hour or two.’
‘The message is urgent,’ Carton elaborated. ‘I would not wish to disturb him, but I could wait for him in the street near his lodgings, and as soon as he comes out, I could speak with him.’
The man shrugged. ‘If you wake him you’ll pay for it!’ he warned.
‘Naturally. I am sure his work for liberty keeps him up till strange hours, as I imagine yours does, too.’
‘All hours!’ the man agreed. ‘Haven’t seen my bed long enough for a year or more!’
‘History will remember you,’ Carton said ambiguously. ‘Where should I wait for Citizen Duclos?’
‘Rue Mazarine,’ the man replied. ‘South side, near the apothecary’s shop.’
‘Thank you.’ Carton nodded to him and hurried away before he could become embroiled in any further conversation.
He found the apothecary’s shop and stood outside it, apparently loitering like many others, occasioning no undue attention. People came and went, most of them grumbling about one thing or another. The pavements steamed from the night’s rain and already it was hot.
Twenty minutes later a large man came out, bleary-eyed, unshaven, a red bandanna around his neck. There was a wine stain on the front of his shirt, and he belched as he passed Carton, barely noticing him.
Carton waited until he had gone around the corner out of sight, and for another ten minutes after that, then he went under the archway into the courtyard and knocked on the first door.
A woman opened it, her sleeves rolled up and a broom in her hand. He asked her for Philippe Duclos and was directed to the door opposite. Here he was fortunate at last. It was opened by a child of about eleven. She was curious and friendly. She told him Philippe lodged with her family and he had one room. Carton asked if Philippe were to be given a gift of wine, did he have a place where he could keep it.
‘He could put it in the cellar,’ she replied. ‘But if it is a good wine, then one of the other lodgers might drink it. It would not be safe.’ Was there not somewhere better, more private? No, unfortunately there was no such place. Might he have a friend? She giggled. The thought amused her. She did not imagine his trusting a friend, he was not that kind of man. He didn’t even trust her mother, who cooked and cleaned for him. He was always counting his shirts! As if anybody would want them.
Carton thanked her and left, puzzled. Again he was at a dead end. He went back to the neighbours of Fleuriot to see if he could find anyone, even a child or a servant, who might have seen Philippe’s men moving the cheeses, or if not cheese, then at least the bacon. One cannot carry out a side of bacon in one’s pocket!
He spoke to a dozen people, busy and idle, resident and passerby, but no one had seen people carrying goods that day, or since, with the exception of shopping going in. Even laundry had been done at the well in the centre of the yard, and the presence of the women would have been sufficient to deter anyone from carrying anything past with as distinctive a shape as a side of bacon, or odour as a ripe cheese.
He saw only one rat, fat and sleek, running from the well across the stones and disappearing into a hole in the wall. Then he remembered that there was a timber yard next door, belonging to the carpenter Duplay. Shouldn’t there be plenty of rats around?
What if no one had seen Philippe move the cheeses because he hadn’t? They were still here – the safest place for them! Fleuriot would guard them with his life, but if Sabot should find them, then Fleuriot would take the blame, and Philippe would affect total innocence. He would say he knew nothing of them at all, and Marie-Claire, the only person who knew he had, was dead and could say nothing. It made perfect sense. And above all it was safe! Philippe simply took a cheese whenever he wanted, and Fleuriot was too frightened of him to do anything about it. Certainly he would not dare eat one or sell one himself.
Carton walked away quickly and went back to the Café Procope and ordered himself a slice of bread and sausage and a bottle of wine. He sat at his usual table. Every time the door swung open he looked up, half expecting to see Jean-Jacques, and felt an unreasonable surge of disappointment each time it was not. He had nothing in particular to say to him, apart from to forget his plan for revenge, whatever it was, but he missed his company, and he hurt for his grief. Perhaps he even would have liked to talk of Marie-Claire and share some of the pain within himself.
If the cheeses were still in Fleuriot’s house, then it would take a number of men, with the authority of the Commune itself behind them to search. The local authority was no good, that was Philippe himself. How could Carton get past that? He stared into his glass and knew there was only one answer – the one he had been avoiding for the last half year – ask Marat! Marat was the Commune.
There must be another way. He poured out the last of the wine and drank it slowly. It was sour, but it still hit his stomach with a certain warmth. So far he had avoided even passing the house in the Rue des Medicines where Marat lived. He had rather that Marat had never even heard of him. Now he was about to ruin it all by actually walking into the house and asking a favour! Never mind drunk, he must be mad! He up-ended the glass and drained the last mouthful. Well, if he were going to commit suicide, better get on with it rather than sit here feeling worse and worse, living it over in his imagination until he was actually sick.
He went outside and walked quickly, as if he had purpose he was intent upon. Get it done. The fear of it was just as bad as the actuality. At least get this achieved.