by Iain Gale
‘Who’s your commanding officer?’
‘Colonel Lawless, sir. Never was a braver man. Wounded that many times leading us, sir. And did you ever hear about his heroic escape from the English in Holland? If you’ve the time, I’ll tell you, sir.’
‘No, that will have to wait. Where did you fight with the legion?’
‘Bussaco and Fuentes, sir. And many other places besides. To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to leave Spain. I’d have stayed on and finished the job.’
Macpherson laughed. ‘There, captain, he’s got it. Brilliant, Lynch. Vive l’empereur.’
Silver grinned and used his broadest Irish accent. ‘Oh yes. Vive l’empereur, sir. Right enough.’
Macpherson spoke seriously again. ‘I can tell you, captain, that the French intelligence service has had no word of your escape as yet. Either that or perhaps your erstwhile captors are keen not to let the news get back to Marmont and his associates, lest they find themselves on the end of a rope. Either way, you’re safe for now. I have a trusted contact on the inside. He’s with the police. A royalist. He serves me well, captain. He will warn us of any suspicions long before Fouché’s men think to come looking for you. And before that happens we need to ensure that you make the acquaintance of their leader.’
*
They rested for the first day in their new lodgings in Macpherson’s house, Silver and Archer in the attic, and woke the following morning feeling refreshed. It was a sleep such as Keane had not enjoyed for years. He had grown used to lacking the luxury of a proper bed, clean sheets and pillows. There was something else too. The noise outside his shutters was quite different to that he was used to in Spain. There were no shouted orders, no guns being cleared and cleaned, no drums or bugles. Instead he heard the noise of the Paris street. The cries of the street vendors, the shouts of children at play and the rattle of carts on cobbles. It made a welcome change but also made him feel uneasy. As if suddenly it would all vanish and he would be transported back to the vision of hell that had been Badajoz, or any other Peninsular battlefield. But it didn’t vanish. He threw open the shutters and let in the sunshine and watched the people down below. Real people in civilian clothes going about their everyday business. It reminded him of when he had been part of that society, and suddenly the urge came upon him to seek out his aunt’s house.
Dressing quickly, he found the other two at breakfast, which had been provided by Macpherson’s daughter.
Keane sat down and dunked a hunk of bread into sweet coffee, eating before turning to Archer. ‘Have you seen Mr Macpherson this morning?’
‘Yes, sir. He said something about becoming acquainted with the city and that he would give us a tour of the places we needed to know.’
‘It’s a good idea to have some sense of the streets. Keep a watch for dead ends and potential short cuts. Think of the city as a battlefield. How to use its terrain. I’m sure that we’ll need to do so before long.’
Macpherson entered. ‘Good morning, captain. Your men will have told you my plan for the day. I intend to make you all natives of the centre of this city. By the time I’ve done with you you’ll know every alleyway and every building. You’ll know the cafés and what sort of person visits each one and you’ll know where to find Fouché’s hired thugs and where best to lose them. Some are still in the police. Some he keeps himself. They’re no different to each other. Just as lethal.’
They finished breakfast and were about to leave. Archer and Keane strapped on their swords. Silver reached for the musket which he had brought from Bayonne. Macpherson took it from him gently. ‘I don’t think that will be needed.’
Silver turned to Keane. ‘But, sir, surely, I need a weapon?’
‘Not a musket, Silver. Not in the city.’
Macpherson reached up and unhooked from the wall a short sword, fitted with a white belt. ‘Here, take this. It will do the job as well as anything else.’
Thus equipped they left the house and walked into the street, which was teeming with people of all classes and conditions. Macpherson led them to the left, towards the east, and at once began to talk. ‘Captain, forgive me if I tell you what you already know. There have been many changes and it’s easier to talk in general.’
Keane nodded and the old man continued.
‘It’s simple really. The city’s built on two banks of the river Seine, left and right. At present we’re on the right bank. There are seven bridges and more being built.’ They passed a church on the left, up a flight of stone steps, pockmarked with what looked like bullet holes. ‘That’s Saint-Roch. Where you might say it all started. That’s where a young artillery officer called Bonaparte fired grapeshot into a crowd of civilians and stopped the Revolution.’ Ahead of them lay the Place de la Carousel. Macpherson continued. ‘You won’t have seen any of this, captain. This is all Bonaparte’s doing. Monuments to French military glory. You should see this place after he wins a battle. Parades? You never saw the like. Thousands of soldiers. Infantry, cavalry, cannon. And this isn’t the only place. You’ve seen the new arch up at the Porte de Maillot? Well, there’s a new square behind us, Place Vendôme. He’s put up a huge column there. Copied from one in Rome. Finished two summers ago. It took four years to build and they say it’s made from the iron of cannon captured from the Russians and Austrians in 1805, at Austerlitz.’
Keane shook his head as they entered the rue de Rivoli. ‘I certainly don’t remember this street.’
‘Nor would you. Rue de Rivoli. Named after another victory.’
The street was wide and cobbled and without the stinking central gutter common to the other Parisian streets. It was also absolutely straight, and standing on it Keane looking east was able to see all the way to the Bastille, the old prison that had been the focus of the early revolutionaries.
‘Good heavens, that’s the Bastille, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, only ruins now, of course. The road runs all the way from the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine used to be, to the Place de la Bastille, which he renamed after the battle of the Pyramids.’
Looking to his left Keane recognized another huge building. ‘The Palais-Royal.’
‘Correct again.’
It was almost impossible to walk in the narrow streets of Paris, due to the mud and traffic, and the Champs-Élysées did not yet exist.
As they walked, in the centre of the street, avoiding the gutter, they had to dodge the traffic. It was heavy going as the cobbles bore a thick covering of mud and horse manure.
Keane cursed. ‘I don’t recall the streets being as bad as this.’
‘This? This is passable. You wait until the rains. Actually Bonaparte has improved the streets.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. You have to admire much of what he’s done here. And his vision. It might be fuelled by pride and megalomania, but look at it. And he’s made huge improvements to the city’s sewers and water supply. A canal from the Ourcq river, and a dozen new fountains. The palace of the Louvre is now the Napoleon Museum; it takes up a whole wing and is crammed with works of art he’s brought back from his campaigns in Italy, Austria, Holland and Spain.’
Keane interjected. ‘Yes, we know all about that. All the works that he’s “liberated” from churches and museums across Europe.’
Macpherson smiled. ‘And then there are the schools. He’s put them on a military basis and re-organized them to train engineers and administrators. It’s all been done to furnish all the people he needs to fight his wars and maintain his empire.’
Keane was puzzled by the sudden wave of enthusiasm. ‘You sound as if you approve, Mister Macpherson.’
Macpherson nodded. ‘Perhaps I do. But that does not mean that I condone the whole system. Nor the man. You know my views on Bonaparte. You have seen at first hand the misery that he has brought upon this country to create this new wealth. You met Mad
ame Duplessis?’
‘Yes. Her son—’
‘Yes, her son and the sons of thousands, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of others, eventually, if he is allowed to continue.’
Keane was aware that, being in a strange city, an enemy city, he should know the places to avoid. At the same time he wondered where this new aristocracy created by Napoleon chose to make their home.
‘Sir, can you point out the areas where Bonaparte’s men are in greatest numbers. Is there any particular area of the city where they congregate?’
‘Well, obviously the Palais-Royal. But you can see them on the boulevards. There are uniforms everywhere, and those out of uniform too. Four thousand cafés for them to choose from. It’s not hard, captain, to find Bonaparte’s chosen few. It might interest you that many of them live on this very street.’
He produced a piece of paper. ‘Here you are. A list of the houses of Napoleon’s great and good. The wealthiest Parisians in the western neighbourhoods of the city, along the Champs-Élysées, and around Place Vendôme, where the column is, you remember? The poorest are concentrated in the east, in two neighbourhoods; around Mont Sainte-Geneviève, in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
‘The wealthiest and most distinguished have bought houses between the Palais-Royal and the Étoile, especially on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Chausée d’Antin.’
‘But that’s here, isn’t it?’
Again, thought Keane, the ability to hide oneself by placing oneself among the very people who spell the greatest danger.
Macpherson handed the paper to Keane, who took it and studied the names and addresses. It made fascinating reading.
Joseph Bonaparte, the older brother of the emperor, was at 31 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, fifty houses from Macpherson. His sister Pauline was in the same street at number 39, Marshal Berthier, Napoleon’s chief of staff was at number 35, Marshal Jeannot in number 63 and Marshal Murat in number 55. In the Chausée d’Antin, General Moreau was at number 20, and Cardinal Fesch, Bonaparte’s uncle, at number 68. Other members of the emperor’s inner circle seemed to prefer the left bank and the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Eugène de Beauharnais, son of the Empress Josephine, lived at 78 rue de Lille, and Napoleon’s younger brother Lucien at 14 rue Saint-Dominique. Marshal Davout was just some twenty houses along the same street. Keane looked at Macpherson. ‘But this is superb. What a document. Are there more?’
‘I have every address of every one of Bonaparte’s inner circle. Of course you must realize, Keane, we have a new social order here now. The core of the new aristocracy was provided by those who’d escaped execution during the terror and fled abroad to England, Germany, Spain, Russia, all over. Even the United States. Most have now returned, we believe, and many have found themselves positions in the new Imperial court and government. But it’s not just all the generals and marshals. The names you have there, they have been joined by a new aristocracy created by Napoleon. This is a new class of wealthy Parisians. They’ve made their money selling supplies to the army, as well as by buying then reselling property taken by the Revolution. Then there are the owners of chemical factories, textile mills and machine works. I have all the papers here. Look.’
He handed a sheaf of handwritten manuscripts to Keane. ‘Count them for yourself. Generals, ministers and courtiers, bankers, industrialists and arms dealers. There are about three thousand people in all. This is your new enemy, Captain Keane. You will find it everywhere and impossible to commit to battle.’
Keane looked again at the pieces of paper. Scanned through the names. Three thousand people. Some of them in uniform, many civilians, some in disguise. This was an army, but a very different sort of army, and here in Paris, he realized, he would be fighting a quite different sort of war.
9
Keane and his men had one day to acquaint themselves with Paris. They reeled beneath the bombardment of facts and figures provided by Macpherson. Keane had thought that it might be easier for him, having a good knowledge as he did of the old city. But he, as much as any of them, had been befuddled by Macpherson’s unrelenting guided tour.
He had planned this well, thought Keane. With true military precision. He wondered about Macpherson. What rank he held. He presumed he must be of senior rank. A brigadier at least or a major general. But this had been done, was being achieved, so well and so thoroughly that he began to think that he might even be superior to that. And it occurred to him very strange indeed that someone who had fought for Prince Charlie, as they called him, and then in the Americas and had gone undercover, should now choose to be a spy.
A good one certainly. But why should such a man choose a profession which Keane himself found to be distasteful. A profession which over the last three years he had had such trouble reconciling with his ideals of what it really meant to be a soldier. Suddenly he had a tremendous respect for the old man. He could have been enjoying the fruits of his labours in retirement in England or Scotland. Or even, if he chose to, sitting behind a desk in St James’s, deciding the fate of Keane’s fellow officers. Instead he was here, in his eighties, risking his life to bring down the Bonapartist regime.
*
Now, as they sat together in Macpherson’s dining room after dinner, the old Jacobite began to explain more about the details of the mission on which they had been sent.
Macpherson turned the glass of brandy in his hand and spoke again. ‘Monsieur Fouché is extremely dangerous. Make no mistake, gentlemen. Should he suspect any of you for one moment, he will contrive to have you all arrested and that will be the end of it. You will join the legions of the “disappeared” and we shall hear no more of the intrepid Captain Keane and his men.’
Keane took a long drink and as the Armagnac trickled down spoke in reply. ‘Yes, of course, I understand. So what else should we know of him?’
‘Firstly, you will know him by his appearance. Joseph Fouché is, shall I say, “sinister” in his look. He is foul-mouthed, slovenly, badly dressed. Repulsive.’
‘You make him sound endearingly attractive.’
‘There’s more. He has the misfortune to have the most hideous wife you could possibly imagine.’ Keane was not sure how to take the last comment. But Macpherson continued: ‘He has collected all manner of information on all kinds of people. It is said that he has a dossier on Napoleon himself, as well as all of the expected files on spies, dissidents, writers, ministers and generals.
‘He has been known to use information to “turn” enemy agents into double agents, working for him. That is what we must now exploit.
‘Although he undoubtedly possesses a talent for accumulating and organizing large quantities of information through his unparalleled network of scurrilous informers, I believe that his real genius may lie in his sceptical approach to the information he manages to obtain. He doesn’t trust much of what he hears. But we need him to trust you, Captain Keane.
‘He is something of a contradiction. He was banished for years by Napoleon to Tuscany. But he has somehow managed to creep back to Paris. He used to live quietly with his wife and four children, but now they are estranged and he lives by himself in the rue du Bac area of the city, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He still keeps up a façade of being a normal, happy family man even as he sifts through intelligence reports in search of royalist plotters. It might interest you to know too that Monsieur Fouché was once a priest.’
‘No? But that’s extraordinary. How would a man who had taken vows of priesthood become someone so feared and so reviled?’
‘It’s simple really. He renounced the Church. He turned his back on God and with it on any idea of salvation. So you see, anything that Fouché does, anything, is not answerable to a higher power. As far as he is concerned, he is that higher power.’
‘So he believes that he has the right to do anything to anyone?’
‘Yes, precise
ly. He is a very dangerous man, captain. But he is the key to the downfall of Bonaparte’s empire.’
‘Really, are you sure of that?’
‘I am quite certain. You must meet Fouché and you must get him to take you into his confidence.
‘There is an opportunity. My man in the Sûreté tells me that Fouché will be hosting a ball in the Palais-Royal tomorrow evening. Is that time enough for you?’
Keane nodded. ‘It seems that it will have to be.’
‘Good. You will attend the ball. I have a ticket for you. My agent will also be there. He will make contact and at a given moment he will ensure that you meet Fouché, among others whom I think you might find of use.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure that you will find it fascinating and quite diverting.’
Keane wondered what he meant to imply, but was sure that he would discover soon enough.
*
The ball was not due to take place until five o’clock in the afternoon, but Keane thought that he should familiarize himself with the location and so shortly after lunch left the house and ventured into the street. It was a short walk to the Palais-Royal. Passing the Place Vendôme, with its towering column and the pockmarked church where Napoleon had begun his career, Keane found himself in the place and turned left into the gardens of the palace.
Although it had originally been a royal palace, the huge neo-classical building was now a collection of galleries and colonnades where upper- and middle-class Parisians took their promenades. It was filled with people. Smartly dressed men and women along with soldiers, mainly officers and NCOs, he thought, in their characteristic dark blue uniforms. He was acutely conscious for the first time of his livid and distinctive green and knew that it must attract attention. He presumed though that this was all part of Macpherson’s plan – Grant’s plan. The notion that by making oneself conspicuous you were in fact double-bluffing your enemies. Attempting to act as if he knew every inch of the ground, Keane made his way along the left-hand colonnade of the palais and pretended to look in the windows.