by Rob Griffith
“Yes, of course, but he wouldn’t want his own nephew thrown in the Temple. Ben, I am warning you, do not mention this to me again,” she said with fire in her eyes and I thought on this occasion that perhaps it was better to nod and say ‘yes dear’.
“Very well, I apologise. I am just worried about you, your brother has already been betrayed and I do not want the same to happen to you. To us. Or to anybody else in the conspiracy. If this plot succeeds then France will be free, if it fails things can only get worse, for all of us,” I said taking her hand again and looking into her eyes with what I hoped would pass for compassion and conviction.
“I know, that’s why we cannot waste time suspecting my uncle,” she said, calming down just a little.
“Then let’s consider who Duprez, Fauche or Montaignac might have told innocently and then been betrayed themselves,” I suggested.
“Ben, we have all lived in the shadow of the guillotine for long enough to learn to be careful what we say to whom. It’s not likely one of them mentioned that they were helping an Englishman escape from Paris in a balloon from a convent,” she said, happy to be exasperated with me again instead of angry.
“The only alternative is that the dragoons happened upon us by luck, and I’ve never found a reason to trust to fortune,” I said. It was then I noticed that sounds of the street had changed. I looked outside, a small crowd was gathered beneath our window, looking over at Melac’s. A file of municipal guard were holding their muskets at the ready and blocking the street while more charged into the inn. There were shouts and one or two screams. Dominique looked at me and I nodded and grinned. I gathered up the food and wine, stuffed it back into the basket and then we left. We had found our traitor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Paris wasn’t built for the cold, and it was another bitter night. French workmanship being what it is, there were often gaps around doors and windows which let draughts in that could freeze a man’s soul. There were nearly twenty of us crammed into the room and with that many bodies it should have been stuffy and hot but it wasn’t. It was as cold as a grave. However, it was likely only the risk of hypothermia that was keeping most of us awake.
It was well past midnight and the discussion was going around in circles. We were in our rooms on the Rue du Puits-de-l’Hermite. Almost everyone involved with the conspiracy were there, except Duprez of course, but more of him later and also I had neglected to pass on the invitation to Dominique. I wanted her as far from that band of dithering idiots as possible. The chance of successfully overthrowing Bonaparte was slipping through our fingers.
Somewhat unexpectedly Dominique’s uncle, François Calvet was there. He’d arrived early, marching in and beating the snow from his cloak. He tossed his hat on a chair, ran a hand through his greying hair and looked to see who had noticed his arrival. It was the first time we’d met since the night of the balloon flight. He was warm and friendly. I was more guarded, although I tried not to be. He still had the look of a man who would actually have to pause and think a moment about selling his grandmother if a high enough price was offered. Our conversation had been brief.
“Monsieur Blackthorne, it is gratifying to see you again,” he said clasping my shoulders.
“Monsieur Calvet, I never properly thanked you for getting me out of Paris, no matter how unconventional the means,” I said, slapping him on the back heartily.
“It was nothing, a small service. I’m distressed to see you so readily with your head in the lion’s mouth again,” he said, as his eyes flicked at the other conspirators that had already arrived.
“I know, when I left I didn’t think I’d be back before another peace was signed.”
“Perhaps something, or someone, drew you back, like a moth to a flame?” he said, one eyebrow twitching upwards.
“Yes, perhaps.”
“Be careful you don’t get your wings singed,” he said.
“I will, don’t worry.” I said and then changed the subject. “I must say I am little surprised to see you here. I didn’t know you were involved…”
“With your little plot? I wasn’t, but I am now. If Pichegru had come to me sooner perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess,” he said.
“Well, I’m sure you can show us the error of our ways.”
“I will do what I can. Please excuse me, I must talk to the General,” he said and went off with Pichegru, whispering to him conspiratorially as they left the room. When they returned a few minutes later Pichegru looked like a man who was fighting the urge to check his pockets. Everybody else had arrived by then.
That had been at the start of the evening. At midnight Pichegru, standing next to the fire, the lucky dog, was trying to steer the conversation to some kind of conclusion. Most agreed that without Moreau the Grand Conspiracy was going nowhere. Lajolais still believed he could get Moreau’s support, but the General’s demand for some kind of transition period would have to be met. Major Rusillion was implacably opposed to any talk of another mere general taking charge, he wanted the crown back on the head of a Bourbon as soon as Bonaparte was removed. Most opinions wavered somewhere between those extremes, with some contributors to the discussion seemingly agreeing with both sentiments but offering no way forward. So, did I, as the sole Englishman, step in and herd that Gallic gaggle of geese towards a conclusion? I did not. My opinion was the one that was probably shared by many but voiced by none. The conspiracy had already failed. Delay, discussion and dissent had done for it even before Lacrosse had made any arrests. Once he had detained and begun to torture several of the conspirators fear paralysed the rest of them like rats caught in the light of the rat catcher’s lantern. Just like the rats, if they were going to live they would have to dart back into the shadows and I could tell from their faces that many of them were already thinking about how they could survive rather than how they could succeed.
Arguments began between the various strands of opinion, accusations were thrown, recriminations followed. Almost all of the room was speaking at once but no one was listening. General Pichegru, looking very tired, rolled his eyes and picked up a large book that was on the table behind him. I thought he was going to use it to beat some sense into them but instead he dropped it on the floor. It hit the oak planks with a sound like a pistol shot, something that perhaps did nothing for the nerves of those present but had the desired effect of silencing them all.
“Mon Dieu, listen to you all! Bleating like so many sheep waiting for the slaughter. I didn’t come all the way from England to listen to you all carp about what may or may not happen. We will continue. We can do nothing else. If anybody has lost their nerve they can leave. Now. Go!”
I looked around. A few feet shuffled but no one was brave enough to leave there and then, but there would be desertions later, perhaps even those who would betray the rest of us to save their own necks. I knew it and so did Pichegru, I could see the despair in his eyes.
“Very well,” Pichegru continued after a suitable pause, “We will just have to convince Moreau, even if it means acceding to his demands for now, but I assure you all I will not rest until there is a King on the throne again. Go home. Keep safe. We will send word soon.”
Everyone began to leave, many seeming too eager to leave as though they wanted to be away from some source of contagion. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable, maybe it was just the cold room they wanted out of. I caught Fauche’s eye before he squeezed through the door. He just nodded but it was one of those nods that says a lot; take care of yourself, good luck, we’ll all need it. A few stayed a few minutes, some to continue arguments and some possibly to convince others of their continued fidelity before jumping ship. Montaignac was one who stayed and I went over and pulled him to one side. I took him to the corner farthest from the fire where I felt sure we would not be overheard.
“I need your help,” I said knowing such a request would appeal to his self-importance.
“Certainly,” he replied. Our corner was dark and I couldn’t
really see his face, and his mouth was half hidden by a scarf. While I needed our conversation not to be overheard I also needed to judge the veracity of his replies. I drew us towards a candle guttering on a window sill.
“Tell me about Calvet,” I asked.
“You mean Dominique’s uncle?” he asked, as if I could mean any other.
“Yes, do you trust him?”
“I have no reason not to. I have known him ever since I came to Paris. He has always acted as a friend to me,” he said and his eyes flicked towards the candle. He was being evasive, I was sure. His words were too carefully chosen.
“But there is something, isn’t there?”
“Look, Blackthorne, what is this? Are you investigating the family pedigree before proposing to Dominique?” he said with a smirk on his lips, one that I wanted to wipe off but I restrained myself.
“No. I need to know if he is to be trusted.”
“As I said, I have never found a reason to not trust him,” he said, this time meeting my eye.
“But others have?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do you know of anybody that has found a reason not to trust him?” I asked, trying to make it evident in my tone that I wasn’t being fooled.
“Well…”
“Please Jules, it’s important.”
“Do not tell Dominique that you heard this from me,” he said, flicking his eyes left and right as if she might be listening.
“I won’t, you have my word,” I lied.
“There was a rumour, after Dominique’s parents were killed. Just a whisper really, but there were many such whispers at the time.”
“And what did this whisper say?”
“That it was Calvet who betrayed his brother,” Montaignac said. This was more than I had bargained for.
“Calvet? But why?” I asked.
“There was an inheritance, also Dominique’s father belonged to one of the factions that wanted a more moderate regime. Calvet was an ally of Robespierre and wanted the slaughter to continue, to wipe out the aristos and any who opposed the Revolution. He has since changed his opinions many times in order to survive. Many of us have had to.”
“So he was prepared to betray his own brother?”
“That was the whisper, I am not saying it was so, and if you value your manhood I would not repeat what I have said to Dominique. She loves and trusts her uncle, perhaps that should be enough for you. Many whispers were spoken in those times. Most were not true but many still led to death and betrayal. Such things are best left in the past,” he said, and for once I believed him.
“Is there any way such a whisper could be disproved?”
“The records of the Committee of Public Safety may reveal who really betrayed the Calvets,” he said, and I saw he knew what I would ask next.
“As a deputy could you look at those records?”
“I could make a request, yes,” he said with resignation.
“Did Dominique ever ask you to?”
“Once.”
“Did you?”
“No, I persuaded her that some dogs were best left to sleep. That knowing who it was would do no good.”
“I can’t see Dominique accepting that argument very easily,” I said, falling into that manner of speech that men sometimes adopt with other men with whom they have shared a lover. I regretted granting Montaignac that status before the words had left my mouth. What had passed between Dominique and I was different. Deeper.
“She didn’t, it’s why she now shares your bed and not mine,” he said and I still feel proud I did not rise to the bate and begin to list other more probable reasons. Instead I said that which had been hanging between us since the conversation had begun.
“I would like you to find out who betrayed her parents.”
“Are you sure?” he asked “Once you know you’ll have to tell her. It will bring those times back for her, dark times.” Bless him, he still cared for her, I thought.
“I know, but I must shed some light into those shadows. I need to be sure of somebody else’s treachery, and I can only do that by being sure of Calvet’s fealty.”
“Very well. I will do it,” he said with obvious reluctance. I felt I might have to remind him.
“Thank you,” I said and shook his hand.
“I’ll send word when I have your answer,” he said and left, he didn’t look back. He just strode out as quick as he could, doubtless vowing to forget the conversation we had just shared and the commitment he had made.
“What was that about?” General Pichegru asked as he waved me over to the fire. I didn’t need a second invitation.
“Nothing,” I replied.
We warmed ourselves by the fire and neither of us spoke. Everyone else had left and we were alone.
“Do you think we can do it?” asked the General.
“There is still a chance,” I said. There was still a chance that the Grand Conspiracy could topple Bonaparte off his perch, in much the same way that there would be a chance for a plough horse in a Newmarket race, just not a very good one.
“A chance. Yes, there is still a chance,” said Pichegru staring into the flames of the dying fire.
I had told the General about Duprez earlier in the day. He’d been unconvinced, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to be convinced by the evidence I presented and said he’d have to think on what to do. Looking at him then, with the weight of a nation’s future on his shoulder I didn’t want to ask him what he had decided, but I had little choice.
“Sir, about Duprez…” I began.
“Kill him. Kill the mouchard quickly,” he said using the coarse term for an informer. “Destroy the canker before it spreads. I saw fear on many faces this night. It does not take much for fear to lead to perfidy. Kill the traitor and, as Voltaire said of the execution of your Admiral Byng, it might encourage the others. If they are scared of Lacrosse I want them to be more scared of betraying me, of betraying France,” he said with a vehemence I thought born of desperation.
“Very well. I will see to it tomorrow,” I said, because there was nothing else I could say. The General sighed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you. Goodnight, Ben.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Pichegru left me by the fire. Only the embers were glowing now, pulsing weakly like a dying man’s heart. I’d never set out to kill anybody before, circumstances had always forced me into it. Now I had an order from the General to set against my own doubts about Duprez. I wanted to be certain of his guilt if I was to be his executioner, but I realised that there was no court, no judge or jury and no room for reasonable doubt. I could not wait for the days that it would take for Montaignac to find out if Calvet had betrayed his brother, presuming that he intended to be true to his word. In a way, Duprez’s guilt or innocence had ceased to be the question. For the sake of the conspiracy, action needed to be taken. A sacrifice had to be made. The waverers had to be convinced. Yes, there was still a chance that Duprez was innocent, the plough horse might still win, but I couldn’t gamble on it. I couldn’t take the risk that Dominique would be the next victim of his treachery. I would have to kill him and, as Pichergru had said, it needed to be done quickly. It was going to be dawn in a few short hours. Before the sun set again I promised myself Duprez would be dead, and I would be a murderer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
André Duprez had only minutes to live. As I watched him I wondered what he would have been doing that morning had he been aware of that fact. Would he have diligently placed his affairs in order? Would he have reached for the nearest bottle? Would he have paid a whore to make his last few moments as pleasurable as possible? Or would he have still chosen to browse the booksellers of Faubourg St. Germain? I can think of worse ways to spend my last morning than perusing the volumes in a book shop, hoping that something will catch my eye; an author that I haven’t read or a rare edition. Of course that pleasure might be muted if I knew I wasn’t going to have time to rea
d it.
I’d been outside the building where Duprez lived just after first light. It was a dark and grey dawn. Low clouds deposited just enough sleet to be tiresome. The snow had almost gone and the thaw had made the roads a morass of mud, slush and worse. I had watched Duprez open the shutters and greet the day, such as it was. His last day. I should have done the deed then, but it seemed impolite to kill a man before he had breakfasted. That’s what I told myself anyway. So, I had waited and followed him when he left. Hoping that he would turn down a narrow and deserted alley where I could do what needed to be done. He hadn’t. He’d kept to busy streets and walked quickly and purposefully until he had reached the first booksellers. Then he had taken his time. He must have loved books to wander between the shops so slowly given the weather. I had my cloak collar turned up and my hat pulled low but still tiny icy beads of sleet seemed to find their way down my neck. The booksellers of Faubourg St Germain were many and varied. I had often browsed their myself. The poverty of the former aristocracy meant there was a plentiful supply of books and the illiteracy of the new regime kept many of them on the bookseller’s shelves. Prices were low and the quality was high.
Duprez greeted many of the shopkeepers by name and exchanged a few words with them before looking through the new stock. He was a good customer and soon had several volumes tucked under his arm. He spent so long in some of the shops I felt sure I would be noticed loitering outside. The dagger in the pocket of my cloak was feeling ever heavier, as were the pistols, but it was the knife I planned to use. I knew I couldn’t delay indefinitely. I was beginning to think that I would have to go up to him and feign a chance encounter and then perhaps lead him to some quiet spot, claiming I knew of a good cafe where we could discuss his purchases, but then I saw him. A fellow loiterer and one who didn’t seem the sort to be much of a reader. He was an ugly brute, tall and broad. A former soldier by the look of him. He was picking his nails with a pen knife, glancing up every now and then at the doorway of the shop from which Duprez was just about to exit. I could see him through the window paying for yet another purchase and saying his farewell to the owner.