For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  We paused on the Pont Neuf, ostensibly to admire the view of the river but I think we just wanted to put the portmanteau down for a few minutes. We stood next to one of the little stalls offering cat and dog shearing. The French seemed to love their pets. Dogs, especially a brutal-looking breed a little like a Mastiffs, had become popular as guard dogs and if some of the stall holders were willing to trim their hair then they were braver than I. The river was as busy as ever, and the heat wasn’t improving its aroma. Dominique wanted to carry on and I reluctantly demurred.

  We got to Rue Mazarine more quickly than I’d have liked. I wanted to be with Dominique longer. She set the bag down on the road and we agreed a rendezvous and how to contact each other. I risked giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before she left. There weren’t many people on the street and they probably just jumped to the wrong conclusion. I watched her walk away, that pear shaped bottom moving in her breeches like a pair of puppies in a sack. I sighed. I was on my own again.

  Cadoudal’s training took over and I walked past Fauche’s house twice, on the opposite side of the street, looking for evidence that the house was being watched. A lieutenant of hussars held his lady’s arm as she delicately walked across the stepping-stones in the middle of the road; I glimpsed a finely boned ankle as she held her skirt up from the mud and dust. Further down the street a blind old soldier sat on the corner and listened in vain for the sound of coins dropping in his battered old shako. A baker came out of his shop leading a delivery boy by the ear and kicking him down the street to make a delivery he had missed. A butcher disturbed a black mass of flies as he threw yet more offal into the gutter. A cart stacked full of wine barrels, a smart carriage and a drover leading his few thin cattle to market went by but the street seemed to be quiet enough. I waited for the dust raised by the cattle to drift away and then crossed the road.

  I walked up to the green door and pulled on the bell rope. I heard a distant jangling and then the heavy measured tread of a servant in no hurry to do his duty. The door opened and I enquired if the gentleman of the house was in. I gave my alias, Barthez, and said I was there to discuss a delivery of wine. I was shown in to a small library and told to wait as the aged servant wheezed his way to his master. My host had good taste in books, I scanned the shelves and saw many rare volumes, and it was obvious from those strewn about tables and the elegant Louis XIV desk that he actually read and did not just buy by the yard. After a few minutes I heard a lighter, quicker step approaching and hurriedly put the edition of Sir Hans Sloane’s Natural History of Jamaica that I had been looking at back on the shelf.

  Fauche belied his light step. I was immediately reminded of the balloon in which I had previously escaped Paris. He moved quickly across the room and grasped my outstretched hand.

  “Welcome, friend. Welcome,” he said in his heavily accented English, it was not a French accent though, being Swiss it was more Germanic with a drift towards a ‘v’ sound in his welcome.

  “Monsieur Fauche, a pleasure to see you again,” I said.

  “But of course it is! I’m glad to see you survived your journey back to England.”

  “There were times when I thought I wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, I heard you had quite the adventure,” he said distractedly as he looked around the room. Eventually he found what he was looking for and leapt towards a decanter and two glasses. “A drink, my friend? Cognac?” he asked and poured two more than generous measures before I had the chance to reply. It wasn’t yet five o’clock but I supposed that I had rarely let that stop me before so accepted the glass. Well, my portmanteau had been heavy and it was very hot.

  “I trust you are well?” I asked as I took the first sip of brandy. I studied him hard, looking for any sign of deceit or duplicity as we conversed but I could see none. I liked the man. He had a wholehearted passion for life that was almost infectious.

  “Yes, well, as well as a man of my proportions can be,” he said, patting his stomach and waving his glass around, spilling brandy on his books.

  “You’ve avoided the attentions of Lacrosse then?” I enquired, putting my cognac on the table.

  “Of course, of course. My role in such matters that interest a man like Lacrosse is very minor, and I am the very sole of discretion,” he said, laughing and making his jowls wobble dangerously.

  “Have you seen Monsieur Duprez or Deputy Montaignac?” I asked.

  “No, not often. Thankfully, Montaignac is such a bore.” he said. “Now, I suspect that you want to see your room before dinner, yes? Albert will oblige, I am sure. Dinner will be served at six. I hope that you haven’t eaten because I have some wonderful pheasants.” He rang the bell and the aged servant returned and picked up my bag without a word, but grimaced at its weight. I was tired and dusty so needed to wash and change. I needed to think as well. I followed the servant and left Fauche engrossed in the pictures of a Saxon hoard from an edition of Archaelogia, the journal of The Society of Antiquaries.

  It had not been my plan to dine with my host but I hadn’t known it was going to be Fauche. Experience has taught me that people become fat either because they have nothing better to do than eat or because they simply love food and take every opportunity to indulge their passions. I suspected that Fauche was a true gourmand and since I am hardly one to judge a man for indulging his passions I looked forward to the meal.

  I am glad that I did, although I fear that my liver still hasn’t forgiven me. The meal which lasted for three hours, was without doubt one of the best I have ever had. It started sublimely with a soup of pearl barley, which was better than it sounds, and continued with an exquisite trout in a wine sauce. The main dish was heaven itself, roasted pheasant with truffles, with lamb and veal besides. Thankfully the dessert was a selection of very small lemon and orange biscuits that melted on the tongue, or I would have feared for my constitution. I passed, reluctantly, on the array of cheeses. The finest wines accompanied all the courses and Fauche described each dish and vintage in delicious detail before it arrived. It was like reclining in a brothel with the madam extolling the virtues of each girl as they paraded before you in the merest wisps of clothing. Fauche was a man who loved his food. We talked about little else, or to be honest he talked and I listened, and I was glad to forget about traitors and missions for a few short hours.

  At the end of the meal I stood, unsteadily, and offered my profuse thanks. He dismissed such gratitude and promised to do better for tomorrow’s dinner, guaranteeing an excellent breakfast. I decided there and then that I would have to complete my mission with all haste if I was to survive with my health intact. I made my excuses and said that I would go for a stroll to aid my digestion, which was indeed in dire need of the assistance.

  The fresh air did me a power of good as I walked slowly up the Rue Mazarine towards the river. I wondered if I could find a tailor that was still open to let out my breeches. However, the exercise soon had me feeling less bloated and I began to quicken my pace with eager anticipation for what waited for me at my destination. It was still light, but dark clouds were advancing across the sky. The air was sullen and humid. Everyone else on the streets began to hurry as well, sensing the approaching storm. Dominique and I had arranged to meet at the Jardins du Palais-Royal. Fauche had indulged his passion that evening and I hoped to indulge my own before the night was out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It began to rain just as I arrived at the gardens behind the Palais-Royal, a heavy and sudden downpour that overwhelmed the gutters and turned the streets into muddy torrents. Thunder rumbled and echoed around the buildings. I dashed under the colonnades and took shelter with everyone else. Water dripped from the brim of my hat down on to my nose. The Jardins du Palais-Royal had always been one of my favourite spots in Paris. They were hidden and secret like an oasis in a desert. Philippe d'Orléans, the Duc d'Orléans, had earned himself the name Philippe Égalité by his espousal of the revolutionary cause and had opened up the grounds of his palace to t
he public. He remodelled the buildings around the edge of the gardens and enclosed them with colonnades that became lined with cafés, hair salons, bookshops, and countless refreshment kiosks. His philanthropy did him little good. He was guillotined with the rest of the aristos.

  The rain came as welcome relief to a hot day and sultry evening. There was that wonderful smell in the air that only comes with summer rain. The cafés and shops were still open and busy, but the patrons spilled out along with the light from the windows. I felt as though I was a supporting player in the many little dramas, comedies and tragedies that were unfolding around me. I wandered along in the background whilst the actors delivered their lines and the rest of the multitude congregated to observe the scenes and tableaux that animated the corridors, gardens and salons. Outside of a jewellers’ a gentleman stared at the diamonds, pearls, emeralds and rubies on offer. His dress and manner marked him as perhaps a banker or merchant. He looked like a family man, his clothes were a little worn and not of the latest fashion but of high quality. He looked left and right, positively furtively, and I bet myself that the lady he was contemplating purchasing a gift for was not his wife.

  Two men stumbled passed me, whether they were holding each other up out of friendship or necessity I couldn’t tell. Each was dressed à la mode; the right colours, the right cut and with the usual impractical flourishes that fashion demands. They staggered up the dirty staircase at the side of the jewellers to the café above, joining a long procession of similar customers. I knew the establishment they were intending to patronise very well. Like many around the gardens it was presided over by a lady blessed with far more than her share of female attractions, and likely adorned with many of the jewels from the shop beneath, and very much décolletée. Gentlemen would sip their ices or mochas and their eyes might have been distracted but their minds would have been on the gaming tables, rather than the contents of the table in front of them or the contents of the hostess’ dress.

  Fortune had obviously smiled on one lucky winner. He walked with a swagger, but one not borne of confidence. I looked into his face and recognised my own. He knew he had been lucky. He knew he didn’t deserve his success, but that wasn’t going to stop him enjoying it. He had a girl on his arm, one he usually couldn’t afford, I wagered. She would help him celebrate, make him feel like a winner a little bit longer but next time she saw him she wouldn’t look twice at him. She led him up the same dirty staircase but they wouldn’t be stopping for a coffee. Many of the girls lived in the apartments on the upper floors. The rents were high, but business was good and they didn’t have to travel far to work. Those gentlemen upon whom fortune smiled would spend a pleasant evening in richly decorated rooms with a companion who was attentive, charming and willing. Then they would go back to their ordinary lives, to their ordinary wives. No wonder they would be back at the tables tomorrow night, I thought.

  The rain clouds accelerated the onset of night and, like bats coming out at dusk, the girls began to ply their trade in the archways. At the time it was one of the few areas in Paris adequately illuminated after dark and so as the lamps were lit I wandered along examining what was on offer. They soon noticed my interest and cast significant glances in my direction, showing themselves off to their best as I passed, pushing out bosoms or pulling a skirt up a little. Bare-necked and bejewelled they all regaled me with the various ways they would please me. What some lacked in beauty they made up for with inventiveness. After a smile, a glance or a regretful shrug I dismissed them in turn before seeing the one that I wanted.

  She was wearing green, the colour that suited her best. She stood with her back against the stone of an archway, watching the veil of water outside. I took a moment to just stare at her. Her expression was somewhere between thoughtful and sad. The kind of look that you get when you watch the rain fall. I’d have given a guinea for her thoughts. Was she thinking of me? Or of her parents? Or of Claude and the danger her brother and she faced everyday? Or was she just staring into the rain? I would have stood and gazed at her all night but she spotted me, and our eyes met. I walked up to her and doffed my hat.

  “Mademoiselle, you appear to have changed your clothes,” I said. Her disguise as a boy had been intriguing. Her disguise as a lady of the night was every bit as convincing. Her dress was cut low, the skirt split, her face rouged.

  Very gently we moved closer. There was a moment’s confusion where we decided who was going to twist their head to the left or the right and then our lips met, ever so softly.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said after we paused for breath.

  “Hello, Dominique,” I answered. The other girls drifted away seeing that I was someone else’s catch.

  “Come along, sir. I know what you want,” she said loudly as she led me away. I wasn’t sure if she was playing her part or not but I wasn’t going to argue. Dominique led me by the hand slowly around the corner to the street and then we dashed out into the downpour. With the rain still coming down in buckets there were not many people about to see us and we were soon climbing into what I recognised as Calvet’s barouche. The driver, swaddled in a rain cloak, gave me a look that said he’d been waiting quite long enough. The horse though seemed to be enjoying the soaking. We settled ourselves into the worn and lumpy seats. The rain hammered on the roof, an occasional drip coming through a seam.

  “How is your uncle? You must have seen him today,” I asked, thinking it only polite to enquire, since it was his coach. The blinds on the windows were closed and the interior was dark, damp and musty. Dominique thumped her hand on the roof and we lurched slowly into the road.

  “He is still well, and sends his regards. How is Fauche?”

  “We’ll talk later,” I said.

  “Ben…” she started to say but I stopped her lips with a gentle kiss. The kiss grew longer and stronger. Our hands roamed over and under our damp clothes. Wet buttons were prised loose, bows untied and boots pulled off. Our clothes were heaped in a steaming pile on the floor of the rocking coach. Dominique sat naked on the leather bench. I knelt before her like a supplicant in some ancient religion, bowing before my goddess. My hands wandered over her body and my lips caressed her, pleased her, worshipped her. She said nothing, uttered no entreaties or endearments, she just clawed at my back and pulled me towards her.

  There was a hunger and fierce longing to our love-making, almost a desperation. There was no one in the world but us. Time stood still. We whispered things in each other’s ears that we’d have never said aloud. Made promises to each other that we couldn’t possibly keep. Pleased each other, begged each other for more. And then we began to laugh so hard we cried.

  Passion in a coach is all very well for the first few fumbling minutes but after that it becomes a clumsy and messy affair. One moment I was in agony from cramp. The next we giggled as she tried to stifle her screams, lest any passer-by think that anything was amiss. The roads in Paris have never been good but were worse that night. We slid and bumped our way in circles around the streets until we slumped exhausted together, falling into fits of laughter again when we realised one of my feet was poking out of the window. I kissed her, tenderly this time. I was about to speak but it was her turn to put her hand to my lips. She was right, there were no words that would suffice. We lay together for a long time, just holding each other.

  The coachman must have heard that things had quietened down and we drew to a halt all too quickly. I lifted aside the blinds and saw that we were in the Rue Mazarine. Dominique was struggling back into her clothes and I did the same. Words kept poising themselves on the tip of my tongue. Platitudes were abandoned and further words of love died stillborn before they were spoken. He hair was damp with sweat and tangled, her skin flushed and her clothes disordered beyond repair but she looked more beautiful than ever before. In the end it was she who broke the silence.

  “So, you will meet with Fulton in the morning?”

  “Yes, I will,” I said, while trying to accomplish the almost impossib
le task of getting into my breeches in the confines of a coach.

  “Be careful, please,” she said, putting a hand on my arm.

  “I promise,” I replied, covering her hand with mine.

  “I’ll see Duprez in the afternoon and see what he has to say about Fulton,” she said, withdrawing her hand and continuing to dress herself.

  “You realise that if he is the traitor Fulton might be arrested, or at least watched, once Duprez lets his masters know of the Alien Office’s interest.”

  “Yes, but we have to take the risk. I don’t think Duprez is the traitor, but we have to be sure.”

  “Who do you think it is?” I asked, tucking in my shirt.

  “Not Fauche.”

  “No I agree. That leaves Montaignac.”

  “Yes, but I find that hard to believe as well,” she said, turning around so I could do up her dress.

  “It has to be one of them,” I said, taking the opportunity to kiss the nape of her neck. She shivered.

  “Or it could be me,” she said turning and pushing me gently away.

  “Yes, it could. I which case I surrender.”

  “You’ve surrendered to me already tonight.”

  “And I’d willingly do so every night.”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

  “Where? When?”

  “I’ll send word,” she said and leant forwards, put her hand behind my head and drew me towards her for one long last kiss.

  “Good night, my love,” I whispered.

  “Good night, mon cheri,” she replied softly.

  I stepped out of the coach. The rain had stopped. I turned, expecting a final farewell kiss but the barouche had moved off already. The coachman’s whip hissing and snapping in the air as the two horses pulled Dominique away from me again. I sighed once more and looked up. Moonlight was struggling through the gaps in the black and grey clouds. I tried hard to put any thoughts of Dominique from my mind. If I was going to survive until the following night I would have to have all my meagre wits about me.