“No, not at all. I am dry and warm, but—Philip, I don’t wish to pry, but is there something, some way I should or should not behave? Is there any way at all I can be of help to you?”
He turned his head away from the road to smile brilliantly at her. “We always think alike sweetheart. I had just decided that I had better tell you the whole thing now. It is a state secret, you see—oh, do not look so troubled. All that means is that someone has behaved like an idiot and would rather that the whole world did not know of it. Those dunderheads at the Foreign Office—and for all I know at the War Office, too—allowed themselves to be convinced by their own desires and a man called Méhée de la Touche, who I suspect was sent by Bonaparte’s government if not by him personally, that France was ready to rise against the ‘foreign usurper’ and welcome back the Bourbons.”
“But, Philip, that’s ridiculous, Megaera exclaimed. “Everything is so quiet, and even though winter is always a hard season, everyone seems—well, rather content. Oh, I know people were complaining about the taxes and this and that—my French is good enough to understand what they say—but…“
“Yes, but there was no bitterness in it. People always complain. Really, they are quite satisfied, and very proud of their ‘little corporal’. One can see it in their faces. It was a trap, I think—de la Touche, I mean. Actually, it was a rather clever device for drawing the disaffected leaders back to France.”
“It worked?”
“Oh, yes, it worked. In August our government landed a number of men—Georges Cadoudal is the most important—with a million francs in drafts to arrange an uprising.”
“Good heavens!”
“Yes. Well then other information began to come in—“
“Was that what you went for last time, Philip? Oh, I’m sorry, perhaps you can’t tell me.”
“No, no. I came to see whether there was an invasion fleet ready at Boulogne. There had been information both ways and the Foreign Office and the Admiralty did not know which to trust. So many émigrés have been ‘inspired’ by Bonaparte’s victories and have changed sides that one can never be sure for which side a spy is really working. The fear of invasion was tying up too much of our fleet in the Channel and the North Sea.”
“You mean the threat of invasion is all false?”
Philips lips tightened. “Far from it. If Bonaparte has his way, a hundred and fifty thousand men will pour over us—”
Megaera gasped and Philip’s grim expression relaxed.
“Only not this year, love, and if our fleet can catch the French and destroy them, it will never happen. That was the point, you see, to free our ships for a while to go farther away and seek out the French fleet.”
“And you found this out?” Megaera’s eyes were worshipful.
Philip laughed. “It was all luck. I tell you, Meg that adventure made me very confident that we will triumph in the end. God surely had His hand over me.”
He told her the whole story this time, and Megaera laughed heartily when she understood the role the harbor master’s daughter had been designed to play. She said Philip had been rightly served for his evil intentions by having Désirée nearly eat him alive, as female spiders were said to do with their unfortunate mates. However, it was plain that she did not discount his skill, cleverness, and courage. Bonaparte’s intervention was luck, perhaps, but only coolness and intelligence could have seized the opportunity.
“Well, I nearly did not,” Philip confessed honestly. “That man is overpowering. When he looked at me, I felt he could see right through me.”
“But he could not,” Meg pointed out proudly. “And so you were able to use him and get away.”
“I had no choice, Meg, but I can see why he inspires devotion. I said we would triumph in the end, but to tell the truth I fear the end may be far away.” He sighed. “It will be a bitter struggle.”
Megaera slipped her hand out of the cocoon of carriage robes that kept her warm and dry and reached forward squeeze Philip’s arm. “You’re doing your part, my darling. There’s no sense in worrying about the rest.”
Philip shrugged. “You are right, of course, but I cannot help wishing that Bonaparte could be content to rule France in peace and let the rest of the world alone. There is much to admire in him. He has brought the people justice and an honest administration—“
“I don’t think Pierre would agree with you,” Megaera giggled.
Irresistibly Philip burst out laughing which broke his somber mood. “You are right again, my love. In any case, in getting to Boulogne I traveled through Brittany and Normandy and the Pas de Calais as well as other places. I told Lord Hawkesbury there was no unrest—”
“Gracious, Philip, was it because of your information—”
“Of course not! There had been many others who brought the same information. I was only one more pebble on the beach, perhaps a more trustworthy one. Hawkesbury may have been a fool, but at least he is not a stubborn fool. When he added up everything and understood that the situation was hopeless, it was decided that the British government would withdraw and give no further support to so mad an enterprise. However, Cadoudal must be warned of this and provided with a way back to England, if he wants it. One cannot abandon an ally.”
“No, indeed,” Megaera agreed with enthusiasm. Then she frowned. “But will Mr. Cadoudal believe you?”
“He must know the facts himself by now. Frankly, I cannot understand why he did not return. From all I have heard of him, he is an honest and honorable man. I hope he has not been trapped already. However, whether he believes me or not is irrelevant. I have an official letter for him from Hawkesbury.”
Megaera was silent for a moment. “It is in your other boot, I suppose,” she said, “but how will you get it out to give to him? You know, Philip, if what you said about de la Touche is true, Cadoudal must still be free—and carefully watched. You must do what you think is right and best, but I don’t believe it will be possible to meet him secretly. Anyone who has private contact with him will be watched and followed, probably stopped and questioned. I fear a torn boot—so neatly torn—will make them look at the other.”
So surprised was Philip by this perceptive statement that he pulled up his horse so he could turn fully to look at her. “Very clever. I did think he would be watched, but I thought I could somehow tell him to follow me to the jakes. Very well, I will have to carry it—”
“A letter would make excellent bonnet stiffening,” Megaera remarked. “Paper is often used. In fact, it is used in my blue bonnet. I do not think an extra sheet would be noticed. If you wore your uniform that day, anyone could search us forever without finding anything once the letter was handed over. The only thing we need consider is whether our papers are good enough to endure a close scrutiny. Do you think they are, Philip?” She hesitated as she took in the expression on Philip’s face. “Have I said something stupid?”
“No, of course not! You are a heroine, my love, but I could not permit it. It is too dangerous for you—”
“Don’t be silly, Philip,” Megaera said impatiently. “You know it doesn’t matter which one of us carries the letter. If you are caught, I am, too.”
“Not at all. I had no intention of taking you with me to meet Cadoudal. You could—“
“Escape without you? Don’t talk nonsense! Even if I could, I wouldn’t—and I don’t think it would be possible, since I would be suspect the moment I open my mouth. No! There’s no use in arguing about such a stupid thing. If we do it my way, there won’t be the slightest danger. Who would suspect a poor mute girl?”
Philip bit his lip and looked back at the road, slapping the reins on the horse’s back to start it again. For quite a long time they drove on in silence. Megaera was clever enough to hold her tongue. The best method was to assume her proposal had been accepted. She was certain that if she tried to convince Philip, he would become more and more opposed to the idea, if she said nothing, he could accept it gracefully without seeming to hav
e yielded to argument. After a while, when the road grew better rather than worse and it seemed certain they would reach Paris before dark, Megaera asked whether there was any place in particular they were to stay. Philip turned his head briefly and smiled easily.
“There is one place that we will not go—La Maison du Faucon on the rue François Miron. That is where Lord Hawkesbury suggested we stop. It is said to be a safe house, the landlord holding strong Royalist sentiments.”
“Is Cadoudal there?”
“For his sake I hope not. I know there is a leak of information from the Foreign Office, and I think it is from Hawkesbury’s secretary.”
Megaera said nothing, but Philip heard her breath suck in and he could feel her eyes on him. The horse was negotiating the edge of a wide, glutinous mud puddle, and for a minute or two Philip was fully engaged in making sure that avoiding the puddle would not send the carriage into the equally glutinous ditch at the edge of the road. When he was free, he turned his head toward Megaera again.
“You need not worry about us love,” he went on. “I have taken no chances. That is why Pierre obtained papers for us. I have others, from the Foreign Office, but I did not choose to provide the French Ministry of Police with prior notice as to who I was and what information I carried or my port of arrival—“
“But is he to be allowed to get away with this? You have taken precautions, but what about others?”
“I have done my best. After all, Meg, I have no proof. Perhaps I am wrong. It would mean d’Ursine’s ruin. How does one prove one is not something. I have hinted my suspicions to Hawkesbury. Perhaps he will think twice about allowing d’Ursine to handle any really sensitive information about France.”
“I see…yes, without proof… But what will we do about meeting Mr. Cadoudal if we cannot go where he is staying?”
“Arrangements have been made for that. He comes to the cafés situated in the Palais Royale most days between two and four o clock. It is chancy, of course. We might miss each other for several days, but it is far safer than designating one particular place.”
“But isn’t that dangerous to him?” Meg asked. “Isn’t he known to the police?”
“I assume he has changed his appearance in some way—grown a beard or shaved it off. He has been in Paris since September or October and I suppose has been doing this all along. But I cannot wear my uniform as you suggested. I must wear a black bow with my neckcloth. It is done here sometimes, though rather out of fashion, but for a rustic provincial it will not be thought exceptional. Then I must lay that walking stick I have been carrying around, the one with the leaping horse as its head, across the table—or make it obvious in some other way. He will come and ask whether I am not the son or nephew or brother, depending on what our relative ages are, of his old friend Monsieur Fidèle. I will then give him the name Honoré, which is the code reply.”
“And then you must pass him the letter, I suppose,” Megaera said thoughtfully.
“But it would be more natural if he sat down to talk awhile. Surely it would be very suspicious to watchers if he spoke a few words and you and he left together—or even separately. Yes, you must ask him to join us, that would be natural, and you will talk for a while, mentioning that I am a mute, perhaps. Then I will sign that I must go to the jakes. When I return I will sit down and my muff will slide off my lap. He will pick it up and give it to me. That way he can draw the folded letter out without anyone noticing, and you and he will never have been in any place private and it will be seen that you never passed anything to him. You can even tell him quite openly and innocently where we are staying. Then, if there is to be an answer or he wishes to discover how to leave France, after he reads Hawkesbury’s bad news, he will know where to find us.”
“And so will the Minister of Police.”
“I fear he will know that the moment you exchange even one word with Cadoudal. I am sure they will follow anyone who speaks to him.”
Philip considered that in silence. It really was a very good plan. The letter was, of course, on fine paper and folded small and in code. Cadoudal need only thrust his hand into Meg’s muff for an instant, and that action would be screened by the feet and other people in the café, so long as he and Meg chose a table carefully. Surely Cadoudal must stop and talk to innocent bystanders from time to time to cover his more purposeful conversations. Meg was right. They were far better off being very open. That business about giving Cadoudal their direction openly was a clever idea too. It would certainly seem that they had nothing to hide.
“I suppose anyone Cadoudal talks to must be checked upon. Yes, and we can make the whole even more innocent by staying right there. I had thought of taking rooms at Epée de Bois on the rue de Venise, but it would be more natural for a young sightseeing couple to stay in the Palais Royale itself, and at this season of the year we may find accommodation there easily enough.”
Philip was quite correct. Before dark, they were comfortably situated in the Milles Colonnes. Philip had explained Meg’s problem to the landlord and the servants while she smiled like an idiotic angel, dropped her reticule, dropped her muff and bumped into a chair before he got her up to their room. That night they were extra careful, Megaera speaking only in whispers after they were in bed. About five o’clock in the morning she transferred the letter from Philip’s boot to her blue bonnet by the light of the night candle while Philip glued his boot together again and put it back outside the door where the bootboy had left the pair after cleaning.
The next day passed without incident. Megaera and Philip visited various sights around Paris and Megaera purchased several lengths of silk at remarkably good prices. The vendors were touched by her disability and sympathetic to Philip, who was obviously embarrassed by needing to bargain for her. Somewhere along the way the bottle of glue Philip had used was “lost”. At two o’clock they went to the Cafe Foy, where Philip explained again to a waiter who was impatiently expecting Megaera to order. If he would name the dishes slowly, she would sign what she wanted. They ate slowly. Then, since no one had approached them by four o’clock and the sun was not quite set, they took a brisk walk around the square before they returned to their own establishment.
The second day was much like the first, except that they ate at the Café Carazza. Again Megaera’s condition was explained and the complexities of sign language for ordering displayed. Megaera’s muff slid from her lap twice while her hands were engaged in the signs, to be retrieved once by Philip and again by a waiter, but the careful preparations were useless. That night Megaera said to Philip just before they drifted off to sleep after making love that their friend had better find them soon or people would begin to notice how often she wore the blue bonnet.
The third day, to avoid that problem Megaera and Philip dined at the Milles Colonnes. They were both dressed to go out after their meal. Megaera wore a fetching green bonnet with pale green trim, and her muff slid to the floor so often that Philip told her to put it on the chair next to her. At three-thirty they were about ready to give up when a gentleman entered the room and looked around for a moment before moving toward an empty table near them. Philip reached for the wine and his foot hit his walking stick, which had been prominently propped against the wall beside him, so that it toppled to the floor with a crash. The gentleman naturally looked at the cause of the noise—as did all the other diners—then at Philip who was retrieving the stick.
“I beg your pardon, m’sieu,” he said quietly but not secretively, “you have the very look of an old friend of mine, Monsieur Fidèle. Is it possible that you are related?”
“If you mean Honoré Fidèle,” Philip replied, “I am his nephew.”
“Indeed, dear Honoré… Then you must be—”
“His sister’s son, Philippe Saintaire, sir.”
“And I am Monsieur Georges.”
Philip got to his feet at once, exclaiming, “Monsieur Georges! Of course! I have heard my uncle speak of you many times. Will you not join us? This i
s my wife, Marguerite. Unfortunately she cannot speak, but… Marguerite, my love, take your muff off the chair so that Monsieur Georges may sit down.”
Megaera’s heart was beating like a hammer in her breast but she moved her muff to her lap and smiled as naturally as she could. She realized then that she had never really believed this would happen. It had been like a story to her, exciting but unreal. Only it was real. She could only thank God that her French was so bad Philip had decided on the “mute” role for her. She knew she could never have controlled her voice. It would have squeaked or been too loud or come out in gasps.
Concurrently with that knowledge, her admiration for Philip rose. He was perfect, smooth and natural with a flow of small talk about his imaginary uncle and family. Well as she knew him, she could see nothing in his face other than simple pleasure. Now he was urging Monsieur Georges to order dinner, but Cadoudal refused, saying he had eaten already and had come to have coffee with a friend. Philip looked around and said that since the friend was late, Monsieur Georges should do them the honor to have coffee with them. It seemed to Megaera that Cadoudal was looking a trifle worried. They had better give him his message before he became alarmed and ran away. She touched Philip’s arm and made the agreed on signs.
As she rose Cadoudal did so also, but Philip seized his arm and leaned a little closer as if to mention something “indelicate”. What he said was, “Pick up my wife’s muff when she drops it. There will be a message inside it.” As he spoke, however, he twisted his lips in a slight leer, like a man who complains that his woman “always” has her flux or has a weak bladder. It was clear to him that Cadoudal was in two minds at once. One part believed he was in a trap, and the other told him it was too late to run and if there was a message, he must have it.
Philip could only hope that Meg would be quick and that Cadoudal would not lose his nerve. It was then, while he was quickly scanning the room to see whether any new faces had appeared, that he saw Meg’s muff still lying on her chair where she had put it automatically when she rose. Philip’s heart sank. Cadoudal had also seen it, and he looked at Philip with a mingling of hatred and despair that made Philip burst into a long, uninterruptible description of his work as a Customs officer.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 38