"Mon dieu," Philippe whispered, as the realization dawned upon him.

"Yes, he told the police about w-what I did to Theo," Marie said softly, her eyes on the ground. That was when he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the sole indicators of the toll the enquired as taking on her.

"He must've negotiated for his release using that--the police would've been happy to oblige. It's a case that could get you behind bars, and put them in Carpentier's good books."

"You were dragged into it too."

"What?" Philippe asked sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Keep your voice down, you aren't supposed to be here!" she hissed, glancing at the door. "And I mean exactly that. The police are searching for you now. I know it for a fact because the police asked me about you," she whispered, leaning forward.

"What did you say?"

"That I'd never heard of the man. That Thibault's allegations were baseless and the incident was merely a story he spun to get out of prison."

"Were they convinced?"

Philippe was worried. When he had jumped on to Marie's horse, he had expected a day's worth of adventure, and possibly some minor injuries. Being entangled in political drama wasn't something he'd bargained for.

"I don't know," Marie said, shrugging. "I've a man in the police, but I'm yet to hear from him about it."

Philippe frowned slightly. "A man in the police?"

"Yes, that was how I came to know about the men from Bordeaux and Thibault. And Henri--my man--he was the one who sent the police running to help you when you were cornered," she replied nonchalantly.

Philippe blinked, feeling like an idiot. "Your man?"

Marie explained, "My father is in the Assembly. So we have some men, they collect information, suppress it when needed..."

She trailed off, biting her lip when she realized that she'd said too much.

"What do you mean?" Philippe asked, perking up like a cat that heard a mouse. "Suppress information?"

"Well, you know," Marie said, waving her hands vaguely. A pained expression clouded her face.

"I think I do," Philippe muttered, leaning back into his chair. He tried to look calm and collected, but his thoughts were utter chaos. Marie's slip-of-tongue implied a possibility he hadn't been willing to consider.

Maurice's murder could've been committed with political intent.

"Can I ask you something?" Philippe questioned. Marie nodded in reply, refusing to meet his eyes. She gazed at the bare stone wall behind him instead. Shame was written all over her face.

She wasn't proud of what her family did to 'suppress' information, Philippe concluded. However, she knew that it had to be done. When faced with opponents like Carpentier--men who'd raze down entire cities down to obtain what they wish for--they'd have to fight an-eye-for-an-eye.

"How did you know that Maurice Bernard died?" he asked, scrutinizing her intently.

Marie replied, sympathy swimming in her eyes. "Your friend, he worked as a stable boy here. Henri told us about the murder soon after he learned of it because he was an employee. And well, you were involved."

"Oh?"

"It must've been painful, finding a friend in that state," she continued quickly, "I'm really sorry for you, Philippe."

She wrung her hands in her lap, looking discomfited. Marie was clearly trying to hide something, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it.

Philippe measured his words for a whole minute before speaking. Enunciating on every syllable slowly and clearly, he replied. "You shouldn't apologize, it wasn't your fault."

Marie smiled at him weakly and didn't reply.

"The purpose of this visit, I'm sure, was not to discuss the murder of Maurice Bernard." Philippe prompted.

"Oh yes," Marie said, her manner suddenly brisk. She got up from her chair and pushed it away. After shooting the door a glance, she knelt down next to a loosely cemented block of stone. Her fingers slipped under it and in a flash, came out holding a small cloth bundle.

"Here," she said to Philippe, as she stood up and wiped her hands in a lace handkerchief. She handed the bundle to Philippe. "There are documents that say you're an immigrant from Austria. And thirty livres, along with a invoice for a monthly pension."

"What is this for?" Philippe enquired, gingerly unwrapping the red cloth. His breath hitched in his throat when he caught sight of the coins, all newly minted, glinting in the semi-darkness of the room.

Thirty livres.

That would keep his family going for months. Perhaps they would live like Maurice, in an actual house, with enough money to buy an entire sack of potatoes.

"I don't know how to say this," Marie muttered, laughing nervously. And then, she drew herself up to her full height. Without hesitation in her voice, she asked, "Would you be willing to be our mole at the Carpentier household?"

Philippe scoffed. A sort of disbelief filled him as he spat, "Are you out of your mind? What makes you think I'd do your family a favour, what with you having killed my best friend?"

Marie didn't reply for a long time. When she did, her voice held no emotion, like her face. "You still believe that my family murdered Monsieur Bernard. "

"Considering the fact that your man refused to investigate the murder, yes!" he exclaimed, pushing his chair away with a loud screech as he stood up.

"You just won't believe me, will you?" She sounded exhausted. And that was the first time during the course of their meeting that Philippe believed that she might have been telling the truth.

"I am absolutely grateful for all that you've done for me, Marie, but I just cannot side with the people who killed my friend."

"Siding with the men who are behind your life is the best option, then," Marie sighed, sarcasm dripping from her tone. Her voice turned more pleading, however, when she continued, "I can promise you that I had nothing to do with Monsieur Bernard's murder and have no knowledge of it. You're one of the only people I trust, Philippe, which is why I'm offering this job to you."

"Carpentier and the men from Bordeaux clearly are allies. You expect me to walk right into the lion's den for thirty livres?"

"Thirty livres a month, which is no pittance. Furthermore, another one of my men will be there too, and we have Chauncey working in Bordeaux to change the nobles' minds about you. Even if you do die on the job, your parents will be paid a compensation of fifteen livres a months for the next three years."

"Why me in particular? Wouldn't a person without a bounty on their head blend in better?"

"We need the men who chased me in the forest to acknowledge what they did. You're the provocation."

"You are trying to build up a case against Carpentier, and you need me to lure the men into your trap." Philippe mused as he stopped some of the coins in the bundle.

When he dropped them one by one, their tinkle sang the wondrous song of wealth in his ears.

He thought long and hard before finally replying.

"Make it forty a month and consider the deal made."

"Done."

*

With his newfound forty livres jingling a merry tune in his pocket, he walked to the café Belle du-jour and product hold them that he was resigning. He handed in his preposterous uniform with an air of unbridled triumph and walked back home when it was early evening, to tell his mother that he had gotten a job at the Carpentiers. He hadn't gotten in yet, but Marie had assured him that he'd be hired the next day itself.

It was with the security of that promise that Philippe was walking towards Maurice's house--Helene's now, he supposed. He had seven potatoes and the trousers he'd stolen from there in his hands. It hadn't bothered him very much to steal from Helene while he was desperate, but he had agreed with Maman when she said that he had to return what he'd stolen, now that they had the means to.

Philippe did not like to admit it, but he was not a very courageous man. He did not know if he would be able to look Helene in the face and tell her about his thieving. He hence decided to leave the potatoes and the trousers at the door and walk away.

Perhaps Helene would think that it was the work of God when she saw the sack at the door.

He was just some feet away from the house. He was near the local market, or what was left of it. There had been a riot in the area the previous day, and it was forced to shut down temporarily. Policemen patrolled the area, their rifles perched threateningly on their shoulders. They stared at the passers by with turned up noses, as if they were as paltry as the dust that blanketed the road.

A familiar flash of greasy hair caught his eye. There was a man on Helen's doorstep. He was wearing a ridiculous server's uniform laced with frills, and his hair had been slicked back with a gallon of oil.

Armand Renaudin.

He knocked the door with unmistakable urgency. His lips were pursed. The door did not open. He banged it relentlessly, his knocks growing louder and the intervals between them shortening.

Philippe moved closer to the house, but not close enough to be noticed. He turned around such that he was facing away from the two of them. Hopefully, Helene and Renaudin didn't know him well enough to recognise his back.

He heard the reluctant creak of the door as it swung open.

"What?" Helene's exasperated voice sounded. "What do you want, Armand?" She clearly did not want him to be there.

"Can I come in, at least?" Renaudin requested.

Philippe pictured Helene give him a jerky nod and open the door just by a sliver, so that Renaudin could slip inside.

The door shut with a bang. One so loud that the policemen all stopped on their tracks and stared at the door for a moment, before dismissing it and continuing whatever they'd been doing before it.

Philippe remembered Renaudin promising him that he would speak to Helene about a claim he'd lied she made. It would all unravel then, of course, but Philippe couldn't rein in his curiosity.

What would Helene possibly say, and would they possibly trace the lie back to him?

Tiptoeing to house silently, he lay the sack he'd brought at the doorstep. He could hear muffled voices. The window to the side was opened just a crack. It was the one he'd dropped the trousers from the last time he was in the house, with the intention of stealing them.

Quickly, he ran to it and bent down so that he would remain out of their line of vision. Right before he did so, though, he caught sight of the two of them sitting in the chairs, leaning away from each other.

Helene had her nose scrunched up, like someone had thrown a slab of rotten meat onto her lap.

"What in the world did you tell Philippe? He came over to the café that day and asked me about Maurice's third job." It was Renaudin's bass voice, hushed and furious.

"And how exactly is that my fault?"

Helene did not even attempt to conceal the impatience in her voice. It was apparent that Renaudin was an unwelcome visitor.

"Because you let it slip that Maurice is a 'family man' who worked three jobs."

"What do you mean?" Helene enquired sharply.

"And then he confronted you about it, and you avoided his questions. So he came up to me for answers. A week later, he's resigned from his job."

"How has his resignation got anything to do with Maurice?"

"What if it's his work? And if it is, that means he knows you let your tongue slip."

"That never happened, Armand. Philippe was, in fact, the one who initiated the topic in the first place. I dodged the questions and he didn't seem to dig deeper after that--"

"Well, clearly he did, because he just got employed in his household today."

*

DUN DUN DUN!!! I am back, and with a bang (hopefully). I'm sorry about the lack of updates, I haven't been in the writing headspace lately. However, I managed to put this chapter together (because I couldn't wait to share more of Philippe and Marie's story with you guys).

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please let me know through a comment, it absolutely makes my day when readers do that. I kid you not.

Thank you so much for the constant support despite my lack of updates. L'appel du vide hit #12 in Historical Fiction and TWO THOUSAND READS during this unplanned hiatus of mine. I'm so grateful for the support, because that's what getting me out of my writing slump right now.

Anyway, that is that with the pointless rambling. I'll see you soon. Au revoir!