Pausing, he took a mouthful of wine, then went on: ‘The death in June of the boy whom everyone but a few of us believed to be the young King will make the Government much less inclined to submit to blackmail. With one of the children in a grave no physical comparison of them can now be made, and as Citizen Simon so debased the real little Capet, turning him into a witless caricature of his former self, should they take the line that we have produced a fake most people would believe them. That factor, too, now seriously prejudices our chances of selling him to the émigrés. The Comte de Provence, having had himself proclaimed King, can hardly be expected to welcome the resurrection of his nephew, and might decide also to declare the boy a fake; whether he really believed that to beso or not.’
‘What, then, do you suggest?’ Roger enquired.
‘Whether your arrival in Paris at this time is the result of excellent intelligence or simply chance, I do not know. Rut the fact remains that it could not be more opportune. Within a few days it is certain that a coup d’état will be attempted. Unless fate introduces some unforeseen factor, there is every reason to believe that it will prove a successful one. Barras and his crew will be swept away and the so-called Moderates will emerge triumphant. In fact, they are not Moderates but Reactionaries, as nearly all of them have now secretly become Monarchists at heart; and in that a great part of the nation is like them.’
Again Fouché paused to take a sip of wine. ‘There are plenty of people in Paris who saw the real little Capet when he was still a prisoner in the Temple and, the spirit of the nation now being what it is, after a coup d’état would be prepared to swear that the child you could produce is he. Therefore, as I see it, all we have to do is to take into our confidence a few men of influence, and at the right moment present the boy to the new Government. Having secured his person they would be in no danger of losing their posts to a crowd of émigrés, and by forming a Council of Regency they could reign in his name. The Bourbon Princes would at first declare the whole thing a fraud, but later they would have to come to heel, and probably be permitted to return. Whatever line they took would not affect us in the least; for you and I would be the men who had restored the young King to his throne, and from him receive our reward. We should, too, have good prospects of becoming the most powerful men in the State. What say you to that?’
Roger had always known Fouché to have a brilliant mind, but even so he was filled with admiration for the simplicity yet subtleness of the proposed plot. By making the new Government a present of the boy all the difficulties and dangers entailed in an endeavour to blackmail it were automatically eliminated; and the prospects of obtaining great rewards would be infinitely better than through long negotiations with the Bourbon Princes, which might end in failure or betrayal. The men who should be in power within a week could not conceivably fail to see how greatly it would be to their advantage to proclaim a Restoration, for, as members of a Council of Regency, their own positions would be secured; and, by bringing about a Restoration in this way, instead of having to fight the émigrés over every clause in a new Constitution, they could dictate one embodying all the liberal doctrines they believed in themselves.
Even with the certain knowledge that, at some point in the conspiracy, Fouché woud have done his utmost to trick him out of his share in the triumph, Roger would have been greatly tempted to enter into such a partnership. But there could be no question of that; for the golden link in the chain which alone could have made the plot possible was no longer in existence. Despite that, Roger’s ‘strongest card lay in Fouché’s belief that he still held it; so, having no option but to play the game out, he said:
‘’Tis a truly masterly conception. Only one thing in it surprises me. I had never thought to hear you plan a Restoration.’
Fouché shrugged. Times change. The era when a politician could earn a tolerable remuneration by occasionally allowing the sans-culottes to have their heads is over. I have a wife and child to think of, and I must provide for them somehow. Already I am in dire straits and an object of persecution by the Moderates. This is my chance to reestablish myself once and for all, and secure my future. Did not the Protestant King, Henri Quatre, declare that to win over Paris it was worth going to Mass? Well, for the portfolio of a Minister and the Order of St. Louis, I should not find it too great a price to kiss that repugnant youngster’s hand.’
Knowing the way in which Fouché had already more than once repudiated his sworn political convinctions and betrayed his backers, Roger could well believe him; so with a nod he said tactfully: ‘It is not the first time that a man has felt himself compelled to sacrifice his opinions for the sake of his dependants. But tell me; why do you suggest taking others into our confidence? It seems to me neither necessary nor wise.’
‘It is a wise man who knows his own weakness,’ Fouché retorted with a bitter laugh. ‘And politically, at this moment, I am as weak as a new-born babe. From last spring, when the Girondin Deputies were allowed to return to the Chamber, my position has become ever more precarious. They refuse to believe that it was Collet and not I who was mainly responsible for the massacres as Lyons, although it can be proved that I put an end to them as soon as I dared, and then at some risk to myself. The agitation against me reached a peak eight weeks ago. With several others I was denounced in the Chamber by Boissy d’Anglas and our arrest was decreed.’
With a snuffle, he broke off to blow his nose, refilled Roger’s glass and went on. ‘Fortunately, having been privy to so many matters, I was able to persuade certain still influential people that it was not in their best interests to send me to prison; so the warrant was not put into execution. Then, ten days ago, with the promulgation of the new Constitution, an amnesty was granted to all imprisoned on charges like that against myself; so the warrant is no longer valid. Nevertheless, my enemies have succeeded in undoing me; for jointly with the amnesty it was decreed that no one named in it should be eligible for election to the new Assembly. So, you see, I no longer have even the status of a Deputy; and, having been stripped of all credit, must for this coup seek the co-operation of others in whom the men of tomorrow will place a greater trust.’
In view of Fouché’s record, it was remarkable that he should have saved himself from the fate that had overtaken Carrier and other leading Robespierrists; yet, somehow, Roger had not expected to find him reduced to such complete impotence. That, with his remarkable brain, should he retain his freedom, he would not remain in obscurity for very long, seemed a foregone conclusion; and Roger asked with considerable interest whom he thought the most promising men to approach on the present business.
‘Fréron for one,’ he replied promptly.
Roger raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Recalling the treatment he meted out to the anti-Revolutionaries in Toulon after its evacuation by the Allies, I should have thought him to be in no better case than yourself.”
‘He is well on the way to living that down; for he has acted with great shrewdness. Soon after liberty was restored to the Press he again began to edit and publish a journal called L’Oranteur du Peuple. It has now been running for over a year, and every month it has become more reactionary. In fact, he has now become the idol of the jeunesse dorée, and wields great influence with all in the Chamber who incline to the Right’
‘That was certainly a clever way of whitewashing himself. Who else?’
‘Tallien.’
‘What! Has that old wolf also procured himself a suit of sheep’s clothing?’
Fouché gave a sickly grin. ‘He has, but he has since spilt much blood upon it. Therefore he will be only too eager to cleanse it in the Royal washing tub to which we can give him access.’
‘I am at a loss to understand you.’
‘Did you not hear of the part he played after the Quiberon affair?’
‘No. I have conversed with hardly anyone since my return to France.’
‘Well then. You will recall that in ‘94, for all their burning of villages and ferocity, G
eneral Turreau’s colonnes infernales failed to suppress the revolts in La Vendée. After Robespierre’s fall General Hoche was sent there to replace him. Hoché is not only a good soldier but an able young diplomat. Instead of shooting all the prisoners he took, he treated them humanely, then recommended a general amnesty. That is why after the landing at Quiberon had been defeated, the émigrés who had come from England surrendered to him, instead of fighting on and selling their lives dearly. They expected to be treated as prisoners of war. But Tallien was sent as Représentant en Mission from Paris to take charge of matters, and, despite Hoche’s pleading, he had all the émigrés of good family—six hundred and twelve of them—shot.’
Roger endeavoured to keep the horror out of his voice, as he asked: ‘What in the world impelled him to such an act, when for over a year the guillotine had been used on no one but a few Robespierrists, and thousands of monarchists have been liberated from the prisons?’
‘Ah; thereby hangs a tale,’ snuffled Fouché. ‘I knew, and others knew, that before the Quiberon landing took place he had already been in secret negotiation with the Royalists. But he was betrayed. His wife, learning of it, sent him an express to Brittany, warning him of his danger. That he might be able to rend his accusers on his return to Paris, and stigmatise them as calumniators, he needed to produce fresh evidence of his incorruptible patriotism. That is why he had those six hundred poor devils butchered.’
‘Surely, then, he must now be shaking in his shoes from fear of the fate that will overtake him should the coming coup d’état by the Moderates prove successful?’
‘Of course. And only we can save him. Therefore, he will stop at nothing to aid us; and by gaining him we gain that clever aristocrat bitch, his wife, who in the past year has become the most powerful woman in Paris.’
‘Who else do you intend to sound with a view to joining us?’
‘That requires most careful consideration. We should need only two or three more at the most. Providing all are men of prominence and resolution a camarilla of six, including ourselves, should be sufficient. But what of yourself? Have you thought of a means by which to explain away your long absence from Paris; so that you may shave the hair from your face and go about openly as your old self to aid in this secret coup which we intend?’
Much relieved that at last the matter that had really brought him there had been raised, and by Fouché himself, Roger replied:
‘That depends on what account you gave of my disappearance. If you told Paul Barras, and perhaps others, the truth, then I see nought for it but to remain under cover.’
Fouché made, what was for him, an impatient gesture. ‘Every secret has its value. Only a fool gives another information which may later prove to his own advantage; and this was a secret worth a fortune. I thought it possible that you might hand the boy over to Mr. Pitt. Although that would have been a stupid thing to do; as, at best, you might have got from him a few thousand guineas and the right to call yourself Sir Brook. I counted it much more likely that you would keep him in hiding until you judged the time ripe to offer him to the French Government at his true value. With myself knowing you to be an English agent I felt certain you would not dare to reappear here and approach anyone of importance without first buying my silence. That meant you must share whatever you got for the boy with me; so, naturally, I kept my mouth shut.’
‘You must have had to give some explanation of what occurred between us in the Temple.’
‘Naturally. But you, myself and Barras were the only people who at that time had become aware that the child in the Temple was not the little Capet; so I needed only to invent a story which would satisfy Barras. I said that while there together we had stumbled on a clue to the whereabouts of the right child. That we had then quarrelled violently over which of us should remain to prevent the jailers getting a sight of the substitute, and which should reap the distinction of bringing back the real one from his hiding place. I said that you had won and locked me in; and that as soon as I was freed in the morning I had set off post haste on your heels in the hope of out-distancing you. I said that you had reached the farmhouse in the Jura, where the boy was, before me, but that his protectors had outwitted you and got away with him. That they had fled with him towards the Swiss border, and that you had gone after them. That on reaching Lake Geneva I had lost track of both them and you; and that I assumed you had followed them, in the hope that you might yet secure the boy, although he was on foreign soil, and bring him back with you.’
Roger smiled. ‘That was certainly an ingenious explanation. But what story did you tell the guards at the Temple when, the morning after my flight, they broke the door in, and found you on the floor trussed like a turkey cock?’
‘Simply that over a past disagreement which had arisen again while we were talking together, we had come to blows; and that to revenge yourself on me you had left me tied up there.’ With a slightly acid note in his voice, Fouché added: ‘I passed a far from comfortable night; but at least during it I had ample time to think out what I should say to the guards when they found me, and, with a view to future possibilities, a suitable tale to tell Barras should you succeed in getting away with the boy. Incidentally, what did you do with him?’
‘He had, as you know, been brutalised into almost a moron, and been persuaded that his idea that he had been born the son of Louis XVI was no more than a delusion. But he was still capable of working with his hands; and since he had been trained as a cobbler’s apprentice under Citizen Simon, when I got him back to London, I apprenticed him to another cobbler, in a quiet suburb called Camden Town.’
Fouché accepted Roger’s lie without comment, and asked: ‘Have you brought him with you?’
‘Nay. I wished first to reconnoitre the lie of the land.’
‘That was wise. But I take it you could produce him at fairly short notice?’
‘Yes. I think, though, that every move in our game should be settled before I do so.’
‘I agree; and I have no intention of even whispering anything of this, to any man, until the coup d’état which is now in the making becomes an accomplished fact.’
Roger nodded. ‘I was about to suggest just such a policy of caution.’
‘Of course,’ Fouché remarked after a moment, ‘there is always the possibility that, owing to some unforeseen factor, the coup d’état may not succeed. But, even should it fail, another opportunity to use the boy as we have planned should present itself before very long.’
‘Seeing the temper of the nation, that is as good as certain,’ Roger agreed, ‘and as I have already waited for so many months before attempting this big coup, I can quite well afford to wait a while longer.’
Fouché made a wry grimace. ‘No doubt you can; but I am already at my wit’s end for money.’
‘You surprise me. What have you done with all the jewelled crosses, chalices and copes of which you deprived the churches while you were acting as Proconsul for the Convention in Nevers? Surely you have not spent all the proceeds from them? But perhaps you have them buried and feel that it is now too great a risk to dig up and sell some of them.’
Snuffling again, Fouché shook his head. ‘Like many others, you misjudge me concerning that. I swear to you I sent every single thing that I seized, both from the churches and private individuals, back to the Convention; so that they might turn it into money wherewith to help pay the armies, The plantation my family had in the West Indies has been burnt and ravaged by revolted slaves; so I no longer receive an income from that, and my wife’s little fortune was swallowed up by two bankruptcies. Now that I have been deprived of my salary as a Deputy I cannot think how I am to keep my family and myself from starvation. I wonder though, now we are becoming partners, if … if you could see your way to making me a loan?’
Roger had no means of knowing if the corpse-like man opposite him was really in desperate straits, or simply playing a part in the hope that he might get something for nothing. He had, however, come pr
epared to offer Fouché a heavy bribe, if that had seemed the most likely way to achieve his end; so he had several purses of gold distributed about him. Now, he decided that it would be worth while to part with one; so that if Fouché was in fact near destitute, he would be the more likely to remain at least temporarily trustworthy, in the hope of receiving others. Standing up, Roger put a silk net purse on the table, and said:
‘There is a hundred louis. That should keep you from want for the time being.’ And, knowing that he who appears to give willingly gives twice, he added: ‘You are welcome to it.’
Fouché too stood up. Even now, his dull eyes showed no flicker of delight; but his voice did hold a warmer note that sounded like gratitude, as he picked up the purse and chinked the coins in it. ‘I shall not forget this. It means a lot to me. Perhaps a time will come when I may be able to repay you with some service that you could not buy for ten times this sum.’
Having diplomatically smiled an acknowledgment. Roger said: ‘One more thing. After my disappearance, many other people besides Barras must have wondered what had become of me. What form did their speculation take?’
‘That was attended to. Both Barras and I were anxious that no rumour should get around that the boy in the Temple was not the King; so the last thing we wished to do was to give people grounds for supposing that you had gone off in pursuit of the real one. The two of us put it about that you had been sent on a secret mission.’
That was all Roger wished to know; so he pocketed his pistol and prepared to take his departure. At the door Fouché asked him casually: ‘Where can I get in touch with you?’ But with a guile that matched Fouché’s own, he replied:
‘For the time being I think it wisest to spend no two nights in one place, and to disappear from each without leaving an address; so I cannot give you one. But as soon as events develop in a manner satisfactory to our plan, I will communicate with you.’
The Dark Secret of Josephine Page 39