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father had died, and then her husband, leaving her with a two-month-old baby, she had had no choice but to seek the best employment she could find. It had been a stroke of good fortune that someone as extraordinary and talented as Madame de Staël had accepted her as lady’s maid. She had several children herself, and had taken compassion on a young mother alone. In Madame’s service Célie had naturally improved her skills in sewing, laundering, millinery, writing a neat and graceful letter, reading aloud, and seeing that a table was properly laid. She had on several occasions overheard some of the leading philosophers of the age talking into the night in Madame’s salon, before that sort of civilised conversation had become impossible.
    And of course a little minor nursing and medicine was necessary. No one called a doctor unless there was absolutely no alternative, and surgery was needed. Certainly one went to hospital only if carried there unable to resist.
    Amandine was at the door, impatient, and Célie followed her downstairs and into the kitchen where half a dozen candles were blazing and the warmth of the stove engulfed her the moment she entered.
    St Felix was sitting slumped on one of the wooden chairs, his legs out in front of him, soft boots stained with mud and effluent from the gutters that ran down the centre of most of the smaller streets. His coat was torn at the top of the right sleeve, as if someone had tried to pull it off him by force, and there were dark stains of blood on it, as well as smears on his cheek. His fine-drawn, dreamer’s face was ashen pale and his eyes were closed, but from the rigidity of his body Célie could tell that he was obviously conscious.
    Célie closed the door behind her to keep out any inquisitive Lacoste children who might be awake and think they could cadge some hot chocolate from Amandine, or any other titbit offered them. She went over to St Felix and regarded him closely.
    He opened his eyes, which were wide, grey-green and clear as the sea.
    He looked at her, keeping his arms folded across his chest, but she could not tell whether it was to hide a wound, or simply because he was cold.
    ‘Where are you hurt?’ she asked him firmly, as she would have a child. She was aware of Amandine behind her, watching and waiting. ‘Put the pan on,’ she ordered without looking round. ‘Make some hot chocolate.’
    ‘I’ve got wine—’
    ‘Chocolate’s better,’ Célie replied. ‘And get a little bread.’ She heard Amandine move to obey. She herself remained looking at St Felix. ‘Is that blood yours, or someone else’s?’ she asked.
    He blinked and looked down at his sleeve with slight surprise. ‘Oh. Mostly someone else’s, I think. I’m all right, Célie.’ His voice was beautiful, perfectly modulated, even now when he was frightened and hurt. ‘Just a knife scar on that arm, not deep, and a few bruises.’
    ‘What happened?’ She knew he had been across the river all the way to the slums and tanneries of the Faubourg St-Antoine, where Bernave had sent him, but Amandine would not know, and that was better so.
    He made a tiny, dismissive gesture with one hand, but when he answered his voice shook. ‘I ran into one of Marat’s mobs. They were celebrating the verdict on the King and were a bit drunk. No harm intended.’ His eyes betrayed the lie by omission. There was a fierce and terrible loneliness in him, as if he could tell no one the pain inside him.
    ‘You’d better take your coat off and let me see.’ Célie could not let the matter drop. He was beginning to shudder as the shock settled in him and she was not sure how much he might have bled or how deep the wound was. He might even have broken bones under the bruising.
    ‘It’s not ... serious ...’ he said between chattering teeth.
    ‘Oh good,’ she said sarcastically. ‘If I can’t be your doctor, then as laundress I’ll ask you please at least get those filthy clothes off before you