by Rob Griffith
As I quickly read the article he was pointing to with a finger still sticky with strawberry preserve I had to admit that he had a right to be irritated. He was named as a leader in intrigues against the French government but, fortunately, the story placed him in London and not Paris.
“It tells Bonaparte nothing he did not know already, sir. And since it says that you are in London perhaps it will put them off the scent.” I said, trying to mollify his frustration.
“They know I am here. I would not be surprised if they know what I am having for breakfast. That fool Querelle was taken by Lacrosse and confessed all once he saw the guillotine blade being sharpened. They now know Georges Cadoudal is in Paris and will be hunting under every stone for him. We must proceed with dispatch. I am meeting General Moreau this morning. We must get agreement between us and act without delay.”
“If you are convinced that news of the conspiracy has reached Bonaparte’s ears then is not caution called for? Better to live to fight another day, perhaps,” I said fearing that precipitate action could leave me with no opportunity to aid Dominique, but also thinking that the news that Cadoudal was being hunted boded well for my plan to unmask the traitor.
“Fear not, or at least not yet. We are fortunate that there are always plots against Bonaparte and so he might not treat ours with any urgency. If we act quickly and with support from others then there is still hope for success. Come, there is no more time to eat. We must go.”
Pichegru stormed out of the room and I grabbed a croissant and went after him, stuffing the pastry in my mouth and brushing the crumbs from my crimson coat. We went to a stables just around the corner and there on the cobbled courtyard stood a hired coach for us, steamy breath rising from the impatient pair of greys. As he entered the coach Pichegru told me to take my place at the rear and to keep my eyes open for trouble. I was to bang twice on the roof if I suspected we were being followed or watched. I had brought my pistols and my carbine wrapped in a cloak and was still checking them when the coach lurched forward. I hung on to the small hand-holds for dear life as the driver wove through the crowded streets. We reached the Seine and travelled along the left bank. It was a fine morning but bitterly cold, with a clear sky and hint of mist lying on the river. The snow had mostly gone but black and grey piles of slush and sludge filled the gutters. The Pont de la Concorde was chock full of slow moving carts and it took us a full ten minutes to cross.
I had never really paid much attention to the plight of the footmen you see everyday clinging to the rear of coaches, except to perhaps wonder at what they could hear as I wooed their mistresses. It has to be said that it is a damned unpleasant job. Not only are you likely to get splashed with mud and filth but the constant stop and start of city traffic means that after the first five minutes you fear that your arms will be wrenched from their sockets, and worst of all you have to face the very real risk of your arse being chewed by the horses of the cart behind you. Thankfully we were soon coming to a halt under the skeletal trees of the Champs Elysées.
The road was still busy with drays, coaches and even a squadron of Hussars out for morning exercise. How Pichegru expected me to spot trouble in that morass I did not know but all I could do was to keep vigilant. It seemed as though we were drawing no special attention. A carter glanced in our direction and leered, no doubt thinking a parked coach meant an early tryst and not a plot. A vagrant relieved himself against a tree across the road and looked twice in our direction but then buttoned himself up and moved along. The only suspicious moment came when the stream of carts and coaches came to a stop for a moment, just when a small delivery cart piled with barrels and with one tired looking nag in the traces stopped opposite us. The driver, a small weasel of man, looked about him but seemed to avoid glancing in our direction.
After a couple of minutes a well-dressed figure emerged from a stylish cabriolet parked some yards ahead of us. He was a handsome man, with powdered hair in a queue and an animated eye that spent a little too long looking up and down the avenue. I held my carbine under my cloak and clicked the lock back, my finger curling around the trigger. Pichegru popped his head from the window of the coach and greeted the newcomer, inviting him.
I had my query as to the ability of footmen to over hear conversations answered as soon as General Moreau entered the coach. I could hear everything and followed the conversation whilst keeping my eyes open for trouble.
“Good day Jean Victor, thank you for meeting with me.” Pichegru’s voice was calm and conversational, in contrast to Moreau’s reply. The General’s voice had an edge to it, a nervousness that he was trying to disguise.
“Enough of the pleasantries, Pichegru. What do you want?” Moreau’s tone was impatient and I could feel the coach sway as he fidgeted in his seat. Three gendarmes were riding up the street behind us and I tensed for action but they rode past without a glance in our direction.
“Events are delicately balanced. The conspiracy is almost complete, all we need is confirmation of your support and everything will be in place to have that Corsican upstart removed,” Pichegru said, contradicting the despairing diatribe I had been treated to early the same morning.
“Do not play me for a fool. That bastard Lacrosse has ears everywhere. He knows who you are and where you are. Your conspiracy is about to collapse and I want no more part in it.”
“It is true that there have been some inconveniences, but most battles are won when defeat seems certain. You have always shown courage on the field of battle; show it now on this field. If we strike soon and strike hard, we can still be victorious. We can still defeat the tyrant,” Pichegru was not quite succeeding in keeping the desperation from his voice. A mail coach thundered by and I only heard Moreau’s reply because he almost shouted it.
“And replace him with another?” Moreau asked, his anger clearer now.
“Louis XVII will not be a tyrant. He will be a constitutional monarch. The people will still govern.”
“I would fight for a new republic, never for a new king,” Moreau said. He was known for his republican views, but rumour had it that his real reason for hating Bonaparte was the Corsican’s rapid rise and self-aggrandisement. Something that bothered Moreau’s wife more than it did the General but Madame Moreau had plans for her husband and enough ambition for both of them.
“The powers of Europe will not allow a republic. It is too much of a threat to their hold over their subjects. We will always be at war, as we have been for these last ten years.” Pichegru’s voice was weary now. These sounded like old arguments.
“Better to be fighting and free, than servile and at peace,” said Moreau.
“That is just rhetoric, Jean Victor. You don’t believe it any more than I do. We are practical men and we must do practical things. Let us put aside what happens after Bonaparte has gone and concentrate on his going. Do you not agree that he must go?”
“Of course. That arrogant peasant has surrounded himself with the trappings of royalty, he has betrayed the revolution.”
“And yet it was you who helped him to rise to power,” needled Pichegru.
“Yes, it was. And I regret it more than any other mistake I have made. But France needed strength. It did then and does now. If we replace the Corsican with a Bourbon, the people will not stand for it.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“The conspiracy continues, but when Bonaparte has fallen I take his place as Consul until the people are ready to accept the return of the King. We need a period of transition.”
“And how long would this period be?”
“A few months, perhaps a year. The Bourbons can only return with the consent of the populace,” Moreau said, getting to the core of Madame Moreau’s plan. I would have bet everything I didn’t have on the period of transition becoming longer and longer once Moreau was sitting in Bonaparte’s still warm throne.
I saw the small delivery cart come back down the road towards us. The weasel man looked in the direction of th
e coach but looked away when he saw me watching him.
“These terms are the only ones upon which you would support the removal of the tyrant?” Pichegru asked with obvious resignation.
“Yes.”
“Then I will have to discuss your idea with the others.”
“Do not tarry, delay will be death for us all.”
There was something wrong. I could accept a delivery cart coming and going, but as I looked I realised that the old nag was strolling along and not straining at all, despite the slight incline. The barrels were still piled high but must be empty. I thought back to when I first saw the cart. The horse hadn’t seemed to be working that hard then either. A cart coming and going with empty barrels was suspicious. Then I noticed that the vagrant I saw earlier glanced in the delivery cart’s direction as well. There was the slightest nod of recognition between the two.
I banged on the roof of the coach immediately. Moreau leapt out like a guilty husband back to his own cabriolet and Pichegru shouted at our driver to go. We leapt forward to the sound of whips cracking. The vagrant ran towards us and the carter leapt from his seat. We raced along the avenue of trees beside the road, branches brushing the top of the coach and forcing me to crouch.
We scattered pedestrians left and right until we came to a small side road. Moreau’s coach was slow starting off and we had no room to pass. The vagrant had almost caught up to us. I held on to the coach with one hand and leant around with my carbine in the other. I tried to aim but with the rocking of the coach and my precarious position I doubt very much if a barn door would have had much to fear from me. I fired anyway and the shot went wide and high into the trees, bringing down a few twigs, but it made our pursuers pause.
The carter drew a pistol and fired and the ball struck the wood of the coach by my side, a splinter narrowly missing my face. The carter also fired but thankfully his aim was worse than mine. Both were still still running after us but falling behind as the horses found their pace. Our driver swung the coach around a corner into a side road and I had to hold on for my life as my hand with the carbine flailed around and my tenuous grip on the coach was almost lost. I managed to stuff the carbine back into my cloak and get my other hand back on the coach. I looked behind us and our pursuers had given up, they were leaning over, hands on knees, trying to get their breath back. I wondered if they had been waiting for us, or following Moreau. Were they more evidence of treachery or just Bonaparte’s suspicions of all potential rivals. Moreau’s coach turned left at the next junction and we turned right. I had a feeling that the parting of ways would be permanent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Has anything happened?” I asked as I returned to the small dusty storeroom. Dominique turned, shook her head and then went back to staring out of the window. The sun was doing its best to come through the grimy window, giving her a halo and illuminating the motes of dust and flour in the air.
“No, nothing,” she said, and pulled my cloak more tightly around her. The sun might have been shining but the room was still like an ice house. Nothing had happened all morning either. I was beginning to think our plan wasn’t going to work. I pulled another couple of sacks over towards the window to make a crude table and began to arrange the contents of the basket I was carrying. We’d been there since before dawn, watching and waiting, and since noon had now passed a mixture of hunger and boredom had got the better of me and I’d had to get us something to eat. We were ensconced above a boulangerie at the eastern end of the Rue St Honoré. The owner was a Royalist. Across the street were two inns, Melac’s and Le Rouge Hache, separated by a few shops. Dominique had let Duprez overhear that Cadoudal was staying at Melac’s. I had done the same with Fauche but named Le Rouge Hache. The trap was set. The traitor, whomever it was, would pass the information to Lacrosse and one of the inns would be raided. We would then know who the traitor was. That was the plan. It wasn’t working. We’d expected Lacrosse to swoop immediately. He hadn’t.
Instead we’d watched the street all morning and apart from observing an entertaining argument between a baker and his wife we’d seen nothing of interest. What was worse, the tension of waiting and the slow realisation that we had failed had not been conducive to even the mildest flirting between us.
“Come, have some lunch,” I said. “I’ll take a turn.”
My quick victualling expedition had been intended just to secure us some of the fresh bread, the scent of which had been driving me insane with hunger since before the sun had risen. However, in common with most gentlemen when faced with a combination of an empty stomach and an empty basket I had perhaps over done it. Once I’d bought the bread I had supposed a little cheese would go well with it and then of course we needed something to drink and after all the vintners was just across the way from the fromagerie. What really did for me though was recognising the name of a little pickle shop that Fauche had once recommended to me. I managed to resist the turkey stuffed with truffle at 45 livres but succumbed to the partridge pies, and perhaps one or two other dainties.
“Ben, you’ve bought enough for an army,” said Dominique as she sat on a barrel near our improvised table.
“Yes, I know. Still, at this rate we’ll be here for sometime,” I said as I picked up a pie and went to take her place in the window.
“Why? If Lacrosse was going to take the bait he would have by now. We are just wasting our time,” she said taking a long pull from the wine bottle. I didn’t say anything, partly because there was nothing I could say. She was right. But mostly because my mouth was full of partridge and pastry.
The street was very busy, each of the shops had a steady stream of clientele coming and going. A couple of young ladies were laughing as they came out of a milliner’s with new hats. A young delivery boy was leaving the pickle shop weighed down by packages, he dropped one in the gutter, glanced back at the shop, wiped the mud off it as best he could and went on his way. A plump middle aged woman was sniffing and squeezing the bread as she left another boulangerie, obviously not convinced of its freshness. Both inns were filling up with the lunchtime crowd but there was no sign of any police.
“We might as well go, once we’ve eaten,” I said. “Pass the wine, if you please.”
“Then what? We are no closer to finding that bastard traitor,” Dominique said as she handed me the bottle. Despite her criticism of my shopping I noted she was getting through the food like a hungry vicar. I took some bread and cheese before it all disappeared.
“I don’t know,” I said, “We’ll have to come up with something else. Perhaps it isn’t Duprez or Fauche? Perhaps they haven’t had the chance to pass the information onto Lacrosse. Perhaps Lacrosse knows already where Cadoudal is and so doesn’t believe them.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps we are just fools to think such a simple plan would work. Lacrosse isn’t stupid,” Dominique said as she came to stand behind me, idly running a hand through my hair.
“No, but if he got word of where Cadoudal was he’d have to act upon it. If he didn’t and the plot went on and it became known he could have stopped it then his head would be on the block,” I said reaching up and taking hold of her hand.
“You are assuming that Lacrosse is a loyal and dedicated servant of Bonaparte, not a self-serving rat with his own designs,” Dominique said as I pulled her gently on to my lap.
“True, but he has proved worryingly dogged in his pursuit of the Royalists thus far, he hasn’t yet failed to make an arrest when he had the chance,” I said. I felt her stiffen and she glanced away. I guessed she was thinking of Claude.
“Would we know if he had?” she said eventually, resting her head on my shoulder and not protesting when I nibbled her ear. Perhaps the food and wine had helped get her into a more receptive disposition.
“True again,” I said, as she removed my hand from where it was. Perhaps I had over estimated the effects of the refreshments after all. I didn’t care overmuch, I was content to just hold her close. Her hair had a m
ore pleasant aroma than stale flour and mouse droppings.
“We’ll have to think of another plan,” she said.
“We are running out of time,” I said. “We have watched both Duprez and Fauche and seen nothing suspicious, and let’s face it neither of us can quite believe one of them is the traitor. The conspiracy is nearing its end, one way or another. We don’t have the luxury of time. Perhaps we need to look for the traitor elsewhere.”
“You mean my uncle?” she said, sitting upright.
“Not necessarily. There may be other possible suspects,” I said and realised my mistake as soon as the words had left my mouth.
“But my uncle is one?”
“We can’t rule him out,” I said digging the hole deeper.
“I can. That man has protected me and Claude, and given us a home since my parents were murdered. What reason would he have to betray us?” she said, standing and striding around indignantly, no mean trick in a tiny storeroom packed to the gunwales with sacks, boxes and barrels.
“I don’t know, and I’m not saying it is him, I’m just saying that it is time to look further than Duprez or Fauche,” I said in as mollifying tone as I could muster but to be honest I was tired and frustrated and more than a little convinced I was in the right so perhaps I wasn’t mollifying enough, or indeed at all from her perspective.
“There is no one else who knew where and when you were leaving Paris. Both Duprez and Fauche also knew Claude was delivering that letter, for that matter. I’m going to find out which of them betrayed my brother with or without your help.”
“And did your uncle also know where Claude was going?” I asked. I’d decided that we were having our first proper argument and it was better to get everything said. I had learnt from experience that backing down from an argument with a lover never really works. If they know you well they’ll tell that you are holding back and will return to the same argument again and again until they are convinced that you have seen the error of your ways and are not just paying lip service.