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her days with Madame de Staël. She must clean the knife wound without making it bleed again. Somehow she must keep it closed, though she had no way of stitching or plastering it. She would have to bind it with linen. Fortunately the wound was in his arm and not in his chest. All the things she needed were locked in her cupboard, safe from the inquisitive eyes or fingers of the rest of the household.
    It took her several minutes to go up and down two flights of stairs, creeping in the near dark, knowing every loose board. When she returned Amandine and St Felix were sitting opposite each other, leaning over the wooden table talking earnestly. He had his hands cupped around his mug—another hideous piece of revolutionary pottery—every now and then taking a sip. Amandine watched him, her face filled with a gentleness which transfigured her, giving a strength to her delicate features and lighting the beauty that was already there.
    ‘It was only dangerous by accident,’ he assured her again, looking down at the chocolate. ‘Mischance. If I had gone round the other way I wouldn’t have passed them, and then it wouldn’t have happened.’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘You mustn’t blame Bernave.’ Now there was urgency in his voice and in the angle of his body, resting on one elbow, shoulders tight. It seemed to matter to him very much that she understood.
    ‘That doesn’t excuse him,’ she insisted, her face in the light filled with concern and fear.
    Standing in the doorway Célie wondered if St Felix recognised it, or if his mind was so full of ideals he imagined she shared, and that her passion was impersonal, revolutionary visions for some perfect society. Dreamers such as he was could be blind to the ordinary, everyday feelings of others.
    She came in and went to the stove, taking down a heavy iron pan from the rack to brew an infusion that would help restore his strength. Then she returned to him and carefully, painstakingly, cleaned as much as she could of the dried blood from the wound, put balm on it, and bound it up.
    ‘You must refuse to do this any more,’ Amandine said suddenly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘You don’t have to! Let Bernave carry his own messages.’
    St Felix did not reply. Célie knew he did not dare trust Amandine with the knowledge that his actions were part of saving the King’s life. He would want to safeguard her. Or perhaps he had simply given his word to Bernave. Had he any idea how much Célie knew? Probably not. What would he think of Bernave trusting a laundress?
    But why not? Weren’t these supposed to be the days of equality?
    That was a new and enormous idea. To talk about it was one thing, to practise it quite another. Anyway, equality between all men, between aristocrat and labourer, academician and illiterate, was still quite a different thing from equality between a man and his wife, let alone his maid. There had been a few white-hot arguments about that already. Célie had seen pamphlets and posters on the subject in the streets. There was one woman called Claire Lacombe, who had caused a great stir demanding rights, and some Dutch woman, Etta something, had as well. One day when there was time she would learn more about that! Madame de Staël would have approved.
    The water was boiling. She took it off the stove and poured it over the mixed leaves, waiting while it steeped.
    Amandine was still smouldering on about Bernave as she left the table and began to prepare breakfast for everyone, cutting bread and cheese and banging the chocolate tin to try to get out every last bit of the powder. Sometimes the whole household ate together; it was more economic, particularly with fuel.
    St Felix looked at Amandine, his face sombre. ‘I am doing what I have to, what I believe to be right,’ he said grimly, his voice soft, closed off within himself.
    The discussion was over. He had withdrawn into that inaccessible region where his dreams lay, and his pain.
    Célie