So we spent most of the afternoon in that café talking about old times and past battles and if half my tales were from my imagination, no one seemed to notice. De Briqueville certainly accepted that I was a genuine French officer after that meeting, for he made a point of shaking my hand as we parted, which he had never done before.
It should have been an idyllic sojourn, the kind of posting that I had long dreamed about. But as the weeks passed and the end of the year approached, I began to have something new in common with my French comrades: Wellington as an enemy. The man was behaving like a debauched satyr, chasing after every society woman who gave him a second glance – and there were plenty of those for, as Louisa kept pointing out, he was a good-looking man. He got even worse when it was announced that he would be leaving Paris early in the New Year to be Britain’s negotiator at the Congress of Vienna. He made a special point of pursuing any woman rumoured to have slept with the emperor; he might not have beaten Napoleon in battle but he was determined to beat him in bed. If the man cut a notch in his embassy bedpost for every conquest, then he appeared determined to whittle it down to a stump before he left.
Normally I would not have given a tinker’s curse who he slept with. Indeed, I would have raised my hat in salute at what a fine example he was setting for his more junior colleagues. But when such a lecherous roué seems to set his sights on your own wife, well that is just too much. To make matters worse Louisa did not seem that unwilling an object of his desire. She had been out riding with him twice, but assured me that the British ambassador had behaved in an entirely respectable manner.
“I don’t know what you are worrying about, we spent the entire afternoon in the saddle,” she told me trying to allay my concerns.
But while I could not admit it, I had pimped my own Spanish cousin to Wellington in the past; I knew all too well what his afternoon ride often entailed. “That is exactly what I am worrying about,” I snarled resentfully. Louisa looked puzzled for a moment until she took my inference and then she stormed from the room.
Perhaps we had been living closely in that hotel for just too long, although I had done my best to take her out to enjoy the delights of Paris. We had attended embassy functions when no French military guests were expected as an English couple. But we had also attended shows, exhibitions and all sorts of other events as a French officer and his English companion. Things came to a head with the embassy Christmas ball; it was to be one of the biggest events in the embassy social calendar. As I half expected, Wellington refused to let me attend as numerous French officers would be present along with many others who knew me as a British officer. I could see his point – I could hardly maintain my cover in those circumstances – but then he had the audacity to invite Louisa to the ball as his special companion. Well, that was the thick end of enough and no error. I put my foot down and absolutely, emphatically and categorically refused to let her attend. Not that it did me any good as she went anyway!
I would have stopped her leaving but I had been out that night with de Briqueville and some other French officers. I had staggered back to the hotel after midnight, tight on cognac, expecting to find Louisa there asleep, but there was no sign of her. I stared at the empty bed in disbelief for a moment. Where the deuce was she? For a moment my fuddled brain refused to believe that she could have so blatantly defied me. She knew what Wellington was like almost as well as I. But dammit she had always had a soft spot for him and knowing that there would be no lasting attachment, perhaps she fancied getting her muttons elsewhere for a change. For all I knew, Wellington’s conquests had formed a Paris club and you were considered outré in society now if you had not been bedded by him. I stepped into her dressing room to find her favourite jewels were missing from the box and I could not see a blue silk ball gown on the rail that she had just had made. The maid left to watch little Thomas was a poor liar, an excellent attribute in staff, that. For she tearfully insisted that she had no idea where the mistress had gone but let slip that Louisa had told her I would probably be out with the boys all night.
Well, now I knew exactly where she was and with a mounting sense of outrage I strode angrily down the street towards the British embassy. If it was not already too late, I was determined to recover my lawfully wedded before our trusty ambassador had cocked his randy leg over her. But when I got there, they absolutely refused to let me in, because I did not have an invitation, dammit. Some flunkey hustled me out of sight of the crowd while I railed, threatened and demanded they produce my wife forthwith. I might as well have shouted at the wind to stop blowing for all the good it did. In the end, two burly soldiers bodily ejected me from the back entrance of the embassy, out of sight of the other guests and then for good measure escorted me back to the hotel. To make sure I stayed there, they stationed themselves at the front and back entrances of the building.
I paced up and down our hotel suite in a rage, but the more I considered the situation the more I realised how impotent I was. For even if Wellington and Louisa were playing the two-backed game, they would both deny it. I had no proof and if I made any rash accusations there would be one hell of a scandal. Wellington would probably call me out and I would ruin the reputation of my own wife as well as what credit I held in military and diplomatic circles. No, the more I thought about it, there was little choice but to grit my teeth and give them the benefit of the doubt. It was not the first time I had shared a woman with Wellington; in India I had unwittingly stolen his mistress. As far as I could see, the only positive in the situation was that even if they had slept together then His Majesty’s Britannic ambassador was likely to move swiftly on to the next conquest.
Louisa finally returned at eight o’clock the following morning. You can be sure I watched her reaction closely, but while she was surprised to see me she showed not the slightest trace of guilt. Her hair and make-up were still perfect, too perfect for someone who had spent most of the night dancing as she claimed. She explained that Wellington had sent a man and a carriage for her and had insisted she join him. The equerry had orders that if she was in the hotel alone he was not come back without her.
“But I am your husband and I forbade it,” I exploded angrily.
She did not look the slightest bit perturbed but just kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t be silly, when did that matter,” she said gaily as she walked off to get changed. “And anyway,” she called over her shoulder, “I could not ignore the command of the ambassador.”
“But you cannot have been dancing until now,” I persisted. “What have you been doing?”
Still cheerfully ignoring any suggestion of impropriety she replied, “Oh we danced until the small hours and then played cards and games. It was such jolly fun and then the embassy gave us breakfast before we left.” She yawned loudly. “I am going to bed now, darling; I will speak to you later.” With that, she closed the door and left me at a loss for words.
I never did get to the bottom of what happened that night, although given the parties involved I have my suspicions. If Wellington had left me with a cuckold’s horns well he did the same to half of Paris that summer. In the cold light of morning, I decided that it would be best to simply let the matter lie. I had no proof of wrongdoing and even if I had, making a fuss was unlikely to end well for me. It was not as if I had been a model husband throughout my marriage. No, I had at last found a relatively safe occupation; I had a beautiful wife and family, a splendid house and a fortune, I would have been mad to rock the boat.
Little did I know that a few hundred miles to the south several boats were being prepared that would do more than rock my world; they would capsize it.
Chapter 9
Now you might be surprised that we have got this far into my account culminating in the battle of Waterloo, with barely a mention of Napoleon. But you would not have been if you had walked the streets of Paris that winter, for Bonaparte was very much yesterday’s man. Many remembered his empire with pride, but they also recalled that their former emperor
was the individual who had united all the European powers against them. They had seen their country invaded and humiliated. Those allies were even then sitting in Vienna picking over the remains of their empire, deciding on their borders, the size of their army and navy as well as any reparations that must be paid.
Despite what some claimed afterwards, no one was thinking of Napoleon then. He was safe ruling his much reduced kingdom, the island of Elba, and most felt he had been fairly treated. The Prussians had wanted to hang him, but the other allies would not consider that. Rulers of nations are never keen on killing one of their own; you never know when revolution can strike again.
So while an emperor considered his destiny, a fat king sat seemingly safe on his reinforced throne and a skittish Duc d’Orleans dithered endlessly over whether he wanted to make a bid for the crown at all. Wellington left Paris at the end of January to join the discussions in Vienna while your correspondent chose this moment to take his family for a trip to the Loire. We stayed with friends of de Briqueville, glad to have a change from city life. Louisa and I had by unspoken agreement decided not to mention the embassy party again and we had a merry time. There was hunting with hounds, ice skating and the cook at the small chateau we stayed in was a master of his craft. Rarely have I been more happy and relaxed on active service, which as I have learned from long experience is often a portent of doom and disaster.
The break in the country had convinced us both that it was high time that we returned to England. A carriage took us back to Paris at the end of February and I arranged an interview with the new ambassador at the beginning of March. Britain’s latest representative in Paris was called Stuart, a career diplomat who was handpicked by Wellington himself. At thirty-six, he was only three years older than me, but had the look of greasy ambition all over him. It was not just his expensively cut clothes or condescending manner that signalled his different approach; even the furniture of his office gave him more airs and graces than the man who had conquered Spain and invaded half of France. Instead of the large dining table that Wellington used for meetings with his papers spread over it, Stuart sat behind an ornate Louis XIV-style desk that decorously proclaimed the opulence and power of his position.
Well, he did not intimidate me, for all of his gilt mouldings did not hide the fact that he was the new boy in town. It was his weakness which I could exploit to get him to do what I wanted. The Paris embassy was a top post and he would be determined not to make a muff of it. So he asked for my news and I told him what I knew of the Orleanists and the latest trivial gossip from the War Ministry, while he expressed his pleasure at having such a well-placed man.
“I am more than happy to continue in this role,” I lied to him, “but I fear that the longer I stay the more likely I am to be revealed as a foreign agent.”
“Lord Wellington was most complimentary about your abilities, Major Flashman,” assured the pompous ass. “In fact he urged me to pay close attention to the information you provided. I would be most reluctant to disturb an arrangement that his lordship valued so highly.”
“I am gratified to hear his lordship appreciated my humble efforts, sir,” I fawned at him. “But if we are not careful all will be undone. I have been followed several times now and I know that enquiries have been made of French soldiers who have served in Spain to see if anyone knew me. It is only a matter of time before I am revealed as false and they may well discover that I am employed by this embassy.”
“I see,” said Stuart nodding. “But surely we are entitled to gather intelligence.”
“Of course, Ambassador, but we have suborned a French ministry official to falsely give me a king’s commission in their army. I am not sure if you have met Clarke the under-secretary, but he will not hesitate to create mischief over this if there is an advantage in it for him.”
“You mean he cannot be trusted?” asked Stuart starting to sound concerned.
“Trusted,” I laughed. “I would not trust him further than I could spit a hedgehog. He would sell out his own mother for advancement. If he was challenged over why he appointed me he would probably claim he was blackmailed by the British embassy to exonerate himself and point the blame in our direction.”
“Good God,” exclaimed Stuart.
“Yes,” I agreed, warming to my theme. “I could easily imagine that he might even claim that I was the link between the British embassy and the Orleanists and instead of simply monitoring their plotting, we were in league with them and encouraging the overthrow of the king. You can imagine how well that news would go down not only in the French court but also in London. There would be one hell of a scandal.” The colour was starting to drain from Stuart’s face now showing that he was indeed imagining along those lines and considering the consequences for him. “Perhaps,” I continued, “it would be better for me to return quietly to London. Then the Orleanists will have no reason to continue their investigations to reveal my true identity.”
“Yes, quite true,” agreed Stuart. “That does sound sensible, Major Flashman. I am much obliged to you for your sound judgement and advice. Lord Wellington was surely right to recommend your experience in these matters.”
I barely hid a smile of delight; he was easier to manipulate than my six-year-old son. In a moment he was up and pumping my hand and assuring me that he would look to my departure as a matter of urgency. I went back to the hotel feeling well pleased with myself and assured Louisa that thanks to my diligent management of our novice ambassador, we would be on our way home within the week.
So two days later as I sat finishing lunch, I was not entirely surprised to receive an urgent summons to report to the War Ministry. I assumed that it was to do with my prompt dismissal from the frog army and even wondered if there was any sale value to my French colonelcy as there would have been in the British army. It was I remember Sunday the 5th of March. I was mildly surprised that they had called me in on a Sunday, when normally few people were in the building. But perhaps Clarke had chosen the time so that there would not be people there to ask questions as files were surreptitiously removed and records destroyed. Whatever the reason, I was unconcerned as I strolled along to the ministry building. For despite what I had told Stuart, no one had been asking questions about me at all and I felt quite secure in my role. On announcing myself at the desk, an attendant was called and soon I was being shown upstairs to that now familiar corridor where the minister and other senior officials had their offices. A surprising number of officials were working, which seemed deuced odd. I peered in one room as we passed and saw two generals locked in a heated discussion and being very furtive about it. They slammed the door in my face when they saw me watching them and for the first time I felt a prickle of alarm. Was Orleans finally making a move? I wondered. Surely not, I would have heard something, but then I had been away for the last two weeks in the Loire. Oh God if a plot broke out just after I had confidently assured the ambassador that all was calm, well it would be the certain end of my diplomatic career and no error.
I turned to go into Clarke’s office, he would tell me what was happening, or at least as much of it that served his purposes. But to my surprise, the attendant pulled me back and continued to guide me along the corridor. I realised that we were heading towards the minister’s room at the end. That settled it. Something was up, for the minister of war would not involve himself in the dismissal of a lowly colonel. Which raised the rather more pertinent matter: Why the hell did he want to see me?
“Colonel Moreau, Minister,” announced the attendant before hastily withdrawing behind me. An angry babble of voices abruptly stopped as I stepped into the room. I don’t think I had seen so much gold braid in one place ever before. For sitting around a large table, were two marshals of France and another four senior generals. They were all encrusted with bullion and sitting as stiff as waxworks. I gathered I had walked in on a disagreement and I quickly scanned the faces for ones I knew. General Souham was there and his eyebrows rose in surprise as he r
ecognised me. We had once shared a carriage from Bayonne. Two others had their backs to me and did not look round at the interruption as they whispered amongst themselves. But one of the marshals got up and strode in my direction. I did not need the life-size portrait behind the desk to tell me that this was Soult, the minister of war himself.
“You are Ney’s staff officer?” he demanded.
“Yes sir,” I responded, feeling increasingly bewildered at events as he grabbed my shoulder and steered me back towards the door I had just entered.
“I want you to ride to Ney.” He was virtually whispering so that those behind him could not hear. “Go now. Do not stop to talk to anyone and when you have him bring him straight back here. Do you understand?” I started to reply but he interrupted me, “Tell Ney it is a matter of the utmost importance. Do not let him delay a moment.” With that, he was pulling the door open and absolutely pushing me out of it. “Now go, man, go.” I stepped back into the passageway more confused than ever as to what was happening. But when I looked over my shoulder Soult was still glaring at me from the doorway and waving his hand to indicate that I should be moving faster. “Go, man,” he repeated. “Ride like your life depended on it. France is relying on you.”
Well with a cry like that from a French minister of state, I could hardly saunter along. There was nothing for it but to reach down and grab my sword so that it did not get between my legs and break into a run down the corridor back in the direction I had come from, with several startled faces staring after me from the side rooms.
Well it was clear something was afoot and if France was depending on Flashy then things were in a far more parlous state than anyone can imagine. One thing was for certain: I was under no suspicion or I would never have been sent on what was evidently an important mission. Whatever it was, it needed Ney to succeed and the only thing I could think of was an Orleanist coup. But that would have been carefully planned and if I were a judge, whatever had happened had caught those generals unawares. They were not calmly plotting; they had been caught out by something. My coward’s instinct picked up something else in the minister’s office: fear. Whatever was going on was frightening some of them, and generals and marshals of their experience do not scare easily.
Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6) Page 7