‘Your father? Absurd! Your father and I are utterly unalike.’ The words had been almost tangible. He might have strung them about her neck as a leash. She could not leave him then, or misunderstand his needs. He would ask more of her than that and she would surrender what he asked. That much was clear as he saw the implications of his phrase register in her expression. He knew the identity of her father. That made her his.
One of the men rapped on the woodwork and called. ‘Stop!’ She had lost all notion of where they were as her thoughts had drifted over the events of four years past. She felt Jaques’ hand on her elbow. The two strangers followed them out. They were in a back street bounded on one side by a high wall. The coach moved off and a low door opened in front of them. All four ducked through to find themselves in a large garden. It was quite dark and the carefully clustered trees looked like black mountains against the night sky. Juliette could feel clipped grass beneath her feet. They moved around a copse in silence, and a large house, larger even than the Viscount’s, was suddenly visible. The lights within were blazing and Juliette could see through the windows that a banquet was going on in a long room on the ground floor. Twenty or thirty men were seated around a table, talking, eating and drinking. They moved across the lawn and the scene slid from view. The two men led them to a door at the side of the house. An unlit corridor led to a drawing room, beyond it a larger chamber where the lamps had been lit.
A long table ran down its centre. Jaques took a seat and motioned for Juliette to do the same. The more impassive of the two men sat opposite them. The other was closing the door as his companion addressed him.
‘Duluc! The Cardinal should be fetched now.’ Duluc nodded and rose. The three were left together. Juliette noticed that Jaques, who had been abstracted and distant during their weeks together and tight with nerves during the journey to this mansion had now assumed a third guise. He lounged in his chair. He was at ease, nonchalent even.
‘Are you well Protagoras?’ he asked casually. The other nodded as though the matter was of great import. Jaques cast his eyes round the room. He might have been seated on a bench in the Elysée Gardens, watching the promenaders go by. The door opened and Duluc re-entered followed by a man dressed in grey robes wearing a scarlet skull cap.
‘Cardinal,’ Jaques offered his hand across the table.
‘Jaques.’ They shook hands briefly. ‘You seem well.’ His eyes roamed over Juliette who sat bolt upright in her chair.
‘You took my advice, I see. The reports which reached me identified her as your niece, was that the story?’
‘We are tourists, naturally.’ The Cardinal smiled. His teeth were small and yellow.
‘My apologies for the delay. You were watched until very recently, Duluc explained?’
‘Of course. Delay is inevitable. Only risk unacceptable.’
‘Yes, yes. Watched closely too.’ The Cardinal’s voice had an edge in it, he was nervous. ‘Even tonight…. Do you know my guest tonight?’
‘We saw.’
‘An irony. He would appreciate it, were it not to cost him so dear.’ The Cardinal smiled again.
‘You should introduce us,’ Jaques said. His tone was serious. The Cardinal did not smile. ‘In any case, we shall meet later. When circumstances are changed.’
‘A toast to that, perhaps?’The Cardinal turned to Protagoras who began to move towards the decanter on a sideboard table.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Jaques. Protagoras stopped and resumed his seat. The Cardinal smiled again. Juliette realised suddenly that he had deferred to Jaques, in his own house. Did the Cardinal fear Jaques, even here?
‘The Viscount could not be with us; a pity.’
‘We have other affairs to manage,’ Jaques replied. ‘Our business here is not negotiation; the negotiations have ended, are we agreed upon that?’ The Cardinal assented. ‘And we are here only to clarify the matters which are already part of our agreement, is that clear?’ Yes, it seemed. ‘When I address you, Cardinal, it is with the undivided will of the Cabbala. Likewise, you represent here each and every member of Les Cacouacs, am I right?’
‘The Conseil aux Conseils,’ the Cardinal amended. ‘Yes without doubt. There were however a number of small points which some members wished to stress, the schedule of repayments for instance….’ Jaques’ manner changed immediately.
‘Listen to me Cardinal.’ He leaned forward over the table, almost pushing his face into that of the Cardinal. ‘There will be no talk of points. When you and the other patriots’ - he stressed the word insultingly - ‘came to us, you brought nothing but a simple fact: if your country were sold lock stock and barrel it would not pay its debts. You do not even know your debts! Monsieur Necker believes in a surplus that is in truth a deficit of forty million livres. Monsieur Calonne believes it is eighty and we think it closer to one hundred and twenty millions. Which of us is right, Cardinal? You and I, and every other man in Europe with a head for the figures, know that France bleeds from a million holes. The debts even within her boundaries are greater than all her efforts to repay them. Beyond those frontiers her debts are greater still and every Dutch banker knows they are paper, a house of cards. You are standing on nothing. We, the Cabbala, will take your debts and honour them. No longer will you pay dividends to a million creditors but only one. Ourselves. We place all our reserves at your disposal. Our wealth will lie like granite beneath the whole of France. And for this we ask nothing but that you allow us to do it, and you will allow us, Cardinal. No-one else will come to you now. France is the whore who sold her favours too often and too cheap. You see, Cardinal, when you lose who you are, there is only money.’
Duluc and Protagoras wore faces of stone. Too often and too cheap. Juliette turned the thought over in her mind. The Cardinal subsided into a craven silence. Duluc spoke.
‘We have accepted all these strictures. The Conseil aux Conseils recognises all you have said. Yet when your reserves become the reserves of France, what is to stop you from withdrawing them and bringing our country down in ruins?’
‘Your country is already in ruins, but to answer you, why once it is given should we wish to withdraw our support?’
‘For any number of reasons Monsieur Jaques, a policy which displeases you, an edict….’
‘Then you shall not pursue such policies, nor pass such edicts.’
‘In effect, you will govern our country.’
Jaques sat back once more. ‘In effect, you have directed us to do so.’
‘We do not even know who you are,’ the Cardinal rallied. ‘You might be agents of any power. We do not even know if you can fulfill your promises. Where would such sums come from? How have they been concealed?’
‘Cardinal, we know of your efforts to discover our identity. You will cease those efforts, you will discover nothing in any case. How we have amassed such sums is our own business, likewise their concealment. But the bulk of our wealth is already in France, you need know no more. We represent no power beyond ourselves, no nation nor faction within any nation. We have no interest in your politics. We are investors, no more nor less. You will never know who we are except we tell you. We will become patriots just as you, the Cacouacs are. The sum of our wealth will be revealed to you as it will be to the whole of France when the time is right, when the change has been made. And the change is something we must discuss, for we will not meet again until it is done.’
‘Duluc has undertaken the task,’ the Cardinal replied, and looked around at his comrade. Duluc had been searching through the contents of a cabinet at the far end of the room while Jaques had been speaking. Now he advanced, untying a large scroll which was laid on the table to reveal a map of France. He pointed quickly to several areas which were marked in mauve ink.
‘From these cities, any disturbance will spread as fast as its report. We have our own men in place, they will merely have to stand back, to do nothing at the right moment.’ His finger had come to rest on an area marked more prominently than
the rest. ‘It is here,’ he tapped, ‘that the revolt will succeed or fail. Here in Paris….’
‘It will succeed,’ Jaques said flatly. ‘Our only concern is the delay until that time. A year and six months; everything can change in such a period. Your revolt, if it fails, will fail in the aftermath. You will need to feed your partisans, clothe them, arm them. There will be a thousand expenses. As we agreed, we will meet them all. A ship is being loaded in London even now. Its cargo represents only a fraction of our wealth, but it will suffice. It will sail seven months from now and will reach your shores on the thirteenth day of July. I will be aboard to oversee the transfer. You, Duluc, will be waiting for me on that night.’ Jaques leaned across the table and placed his finger on a point on the western coast. ‘Here. You will need men and a jetty. The bay is isolated and there is only an anchorage. On that night, you will show three green lights from a hillside to the left of the bay, do you follow?’ Duluc nodded. ‘The slope of the hill is such that the signal will only be seen from the sea. The gold will be unloaded there.’
‘Gold?’ Duluc raised an eyebrow.
‘Have no fears. It is well disguised. A customs vessel would find nothing of note.’ Jaques paused, then indicated the decanters. ‘We shall take that drink now. A toast.’ Protagoras saw to the glasses. Juliette was not included. Jaques raised his arms. ‘To the overthrow, and the new France.’ The four men drank.
‘I must return to my guests,’ the Cardinal spoke.
‘We shall meet again in July,’ said Jaques and the Cardinal withdrew as though dismissed.
‘Our coach has been arranged?’ Protagoras confirmed that it had. Duluc was already at the door, the map in his hand. The four of them followed the same path through the house and gardens. Jaques saw Juliette peering curiously across the lawn at the lighted window where the dinner party was still in progress. The Cardinal was visible, smiling and speaking with a tall richly dressed man in a cascading wig. Duluc and Protagoras accompanied them only as far as the coach. As Jaques climbed in, Duluc caught his arm.
‘Jaques. I do not know the name of the ship.’ The back street was deserted but he must not be seen here.
‘The ship is called the Vendragon,’ he answered quickly. ‘Do not fail to be there.’
As the coach moved off, he realised that Duluc had no need of the ship’s name. He had been hurried into revealing it. Duluc was more adept than he had thought. The coach gathered speed. Juliette sat opposite him lost in her own thoughts. Jaques leaned back in his seat and breathed out a long sigh.
The evening had drained him. Now, as he looked through the carriage window, the darkened streets which flew past as shadows began to merge in his mind with the earlier street. He had avoided it, all their walks had skirted it. But now the Rue Boucher des Deux Boules was creeping like a ghost from the lines of slatted shutters, the fussy ironwork and high narrow doors which they passed now and Jaques felt the events of seventeen years ago leap out at him and chase through the streets after him. Earlier that evening, he had snapped the curtain shut, but the girl had blanched. Duluc had noticed and pretended not to. As they passed Madame Stéphanie’s, or the Villa Rouge as it was known, the coach had lurched and it seemed to him that he had been thrown up and left hanging in mid-air. He had struggled with the rush of memories, forcing them down under the neutral gaze of the two men opposite. But now they were climbing back, crawling back, reminding him of that night. He could not resist.
It had rained. That was a constant. All night it had rained. He and Charles had been in the city a week, touring paper-factories, one of which they would later buy and, later still, sell for a loss that would ruin Charles. That was the plan. Necessity would drive the man into their arms, but necessity had not proved strong enough for the task. It was another story. It had ended in the fields above Blanche Pierre on Jersey, and Jaques had foreseen that ending seventeen years before. That was why he had been in Paris with Charles, why he had lied to him, deceived him, ruined him. And when years later he had seen the ripped corpse on the slab in Saint Helier he had known in equal measure that he had been right and that he had failed. Charles had been too proud, and too enterprising. The Lemprières had not been poor for long. As they had toured Paris that week, Jaques guiding his friend through the streets and alleys, the cafes and inns, the gardens, he had felt that he was right to do as he did. The deception was justified. He had believed it then and still believed it now. But the night it had rained changed the nature of Jaques’ belief, made it complex and more dark.
They were eating at Puy’s when the downpour began and stayed on there through the afternoon, waiting for it to subside. The factory they had seen that morning was perfect for them. They toasted each other with glasses of Gannétin and Condrieu until evening. The rain had not decreased, indeed it was worse when they eventually left. Already they were quite drunk. Charles had stuffed his pockets with virguleus pears from the table and they ate these as they tramped through the streets which were running with the overflow of rain water from the open gutters. Both were quickly soaked, but still in good spirits as they sang Tod’s Buckler walking down Rue Saint Martin. Charles was clowning; it was unlike him. He was oddly irritated by this. Nothing was typical that night.
Charles had seen him first, though he had not mentioned it at the time. They took their bearings at the Rue de Venise and decided to walk west. But the Rue de Venise led only to a churchyard and they retraced their steps to turn right at the next opportunity. Charles was saying something about paper or watermarked paper. He was animated. Jaques tramped through the downpour with his hat pulled down in unresponsive silence. The rain fell in rods. The street they took led them to a corner of the Marché des Innocens where uniformed terraces stretched away to the south and west, shuttered against the weather. The square was deserted. Rain curtained the far corner. Sight of the flat expanse of black cobbles and desultory mud pools sobered Charles and they marched across in silence.
At the far corner, Jaques looked back at the dismal square, then turned to Charles and pointed back at their route. Both peered into the rain. There was an indistinct outline that might have been a man, thirty or forty yards behind them. In the dark and the wet it might have been any kind of thing. Charles thought they should find the river and orientate themselves by that. They began to thread a path through the maze of narrow streets and alleys below the market square. A drinking shop claimed them in Rue de Déchangeur. Blowing on cups of hot wine the two of them sat there in contented silence while their clothes dripped on the planked floor. That was when, too late, Charles told him of the man who had followed them from Rue Saint Martin, his decision prompted suddenly by the same man’s appearance across the crowd from them, there in the tavern.
He was soaked like themselves, a tall man with a dark, oval face. Jaques rose unsteadily to gain a better view. The man was well dressed, even with his clothes bedraggled, sitting alone at a table in the corner. He was staring up at nothing in particular. His manufactured ease had the opposite effect on Jaques who stamped out of the room to the jakes with his mind racing. There were any number of possibilities. Charles might have been mistaken, but Le Mara’s warning about ‘the Indian’ was ringing in his ears. The Nawab’s man was coming for them, so the intelligence went. And Jaques was burdened with Charles, who could be told nothing. A narrow corridor led to the outhouse, with a door off the passage to a kitchen. A fat woman began to squeeze past him carrying a steaming dish of leeks high above her head, but she had forgotten something and ducked back into the kitchen. Jaques moved back into the corridor. The Indian was waiting for him at the other end. Jaques froze, all his doubts suddenly resolved. The Indian was moving towards him. Jaques could not think, glued there, but then the fat woman backed out of the kitchen once again, blocking the passage between them. His mind worked again and he moved up to the woman who advanced with a pile of dishes stacked precariously in her hands. The Indian was confused. The woman was forcing him back out of the corridor. He could
not get to his man. As the corridor became the tavern, Jaques edged sideways to keep the woman between them and saw the hilt of a knife in the Indian’s hand. But now he was in the crowded room, and he grabbed Charles by the elbow, pulling him up and propelling him towards the door and the street beyond it.
The two of them crashed into the street, Jaques with his visions of a cold tickle in the ribs, blood running down the corridor and the rain was still coming down, Charles still mumbling about the river, drunker than Jaques had allowed for. Should have left him, he thought then; and would think the same again much later, and with better reason. They made a stumbling run down the street and took the corner as the tavern door opened again behind them. The houses were battened down and lightless as Jaques pulled Charles along by the collar. They had to get off the street. Jaques saw quick ugly movements, a quick movement in the street. Another corner, and a glance over his shoulder. The Indian was still there, loping around the last corner as they ran into Rue Boucher des Deux Boules. And there was their refuge, with its lights blazing behind the blood-red curtains. Villa Rouge, the name scorched roughly on a wooden plaque. Charles was talking disjointedly about a boat down the river, he would buy a boat and carry it to the river. Jaques hammered on the door as the Indian came into view, saw them at the door and broke into a run. But he would not reach them. The door was opened by a woman of forty or fifty dressed in lilac who would have closed it again at the sight of them but Jaques was already pressing coins into her hands and they were inside, bent over, panting in the entrance hall, dripping on its tiled floor. The woman offered them her hand, she was Madame Stéphanie and she welcomed them to her establishment. Jaques realised that their refuge was a brothel.
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