Plainly Cadoudal believed Meg had gone to warn the authorities of his presence, and was only hesitating because he did not know whether to try to take a run through the kitchens or whether that had been foreseen. Just as Philip was sure Cadoudal was about to escape, Meg appeared at the door, her cupped hand with a handkerchief in it at her mouth masking a cough.
Philip’s heart had not been the only one that sank when he saw the muff had been forgotten. As she set her foot on the stairs to go to their room, Megaera realized that in her excitement and nervousness she had left the muff behind. For one instant she was paralyzed, half turning to go back but knowing that it would be too suspicious-looking if she went to get a muff and carried it upstairs. She would just have to conceal the message somehow and put it in the muff when she came down.
At first, as she snipped the threads of her bonnet, her mind was a terrified blank. Tears of fright came to her eyes, and she snatched a handkerchief to dry them, knowing that she dared not show red eyes. She was still clutching the handkerchief in her ring finger and little finger when she drew the letter out. It came to her instantly how she could conceal it and then, in a rush, that this was much better. Anyone who noticed her carrying the muff would have realized that was an odd thing to do and wondered why she should have taken it when she did not intend to go outside.
This happy accident restored Megaera’s confidence so that when she came down she tripped happily across the room, picked up the muff so she could sit on the chair, and thrust her handkerchief into it. Cadoudal, who had started to say goodbye very firmly, abruptly changed to a compliment to Megaera and a question about something Philip had said. Megaera poured herself another cup of coffee and began to make signs to Philip. As she did so, her muff slid to the floor as it had done a hundred times in the past few days. Most politely, Cadoudal bent to pick it up. A few minutes later a new person entered. Cadoudal rose at once, saying his friend had arrived and, no doubt, he would see Philip again.
After the barest hesitation Philip said, “We are staying right here at the Mille Colonnes, but only until tomorrow. My wife has conceived a desire to see Versailles and insists, even though I have told her there is little open to the public worth seeing. And do not smile. She can be quite vehement, even in silence.”
“At least stay one day longer so that we can dine together. I would like to give you a little present to take to your uncle.”
Philip glanced at Megaera, and she nodded and smiled, but he was aware of a sudden stab of fear. It was not going to be so simple after all. He had assumed that, knowing the situation, Cadoudal would have returned to England already if he intended to return. Now he wondered whether the man had remained because he had no way out. If so, Philip was committed to help him, and that would be dangerous, very dangerous. What a fool he had been to bring Meg along.
Then he hoped that Cadoudal might think that a return message would be necessary. He should have guessed from what Philip said that none was expected; however, Philip now realized that Cadoudal might have something new to propose or some other message of his own that would take a longer time to transmit. There was no doubt in his mind that this second meeting would increase the danger of being associated with Cadoudal and, therefore, of being caught, and as he agreed with Cadoudal’s proposal he began to seek some scheme to ensure Meg’s safety.
Chapter Twenty-One
That night a fierce argument raged in whispers. Philip wanted Megaera to pretend to be ill and let him go to “dinner” with Cadoudal alone. Megaera would not hear of it. She pointed out that she would inevitably be caught, either as soon as they—whoever “they” were—realized she was not with Philip or as soon as she tried to escape from Paris. In fact she would be in more danger alone. If anyone tried to arrest them when they were together, she could provide a diversion, which no one would expect from a mute woman, so that they could escape or fight their way free. Alone, she would be helpless.
Philip argued that she would have no problem getting to Dieppe. All she had to do was write her destination down. She had plenty of money, and everyone would pity a poor mute girl. They certainly would, Megaera agreed, and that muteness would mark her trail so successfully that she could be followed no matter where she went. All that could be accomplished by her escape would be to lead the police agents to Pierre. This was a sufficiently cogent argument, added to Philip’s reluctance have Meg wandering around totally unprotected, to silence him. He had some hope that they were unsuspected, too. He had been watching the room carefully and he had not seen anyone enter except the man whom Cadoudal claimed as a friend. Since they had left separately and Philip and Megaera had not gone out at all, Philip had some hope that Cadoudal’s followers, if there were any, would think he had come to meet that man and no one else.
This hope showed Philip’s ignorance of the way an effective police-spy network functioned. It was true that Cadoudal was discreetly followed by Fouché’s men, but they had no need to do anything so crude as to trail their subject into a room, making their purpose obvious. Long ago as far back as the days of the Terror, Fouché had developed sources of information in many of the cafés and hotels of Paris. When he became Minister of Police, the network was elaborated until there was hardly a single poor wineshop that did not have an employee who would pass information to Fouché’s agents.
Thus, some time after Cadoudal had left Mille Colonnes, a waiter responded to a signal, served wine, and acknowledged credentials he recognized. Later he met the man just outside, and acknowledged he had seen Cadoudal, whom the agent described precisely. In response to several, perceptive questions the waiter described the meeting between Cadoudal and Philip quite accurately, and as much of the conversation as he had heard, which fortunately was very little indeed. The agent however was not interested in the conversation, which he knew would be perfectly innocent. Cadoudal made a practice of stopping to speak to people who, after checking and rechecking, were found to be totally clear of any disaffection.
What the agent wanted to know was whether Philip had passed anything to Cadoudal or vice versa. This the waiter answered in the negative. He was sure, he said, that Monsieur Saintaire had not touched the other man, except once to lay his hand on his shoulder, nor given him anything. He did not mention Megaera leaving the table nor the fact that her muff had fallen to the floor and Cadoudal had picked it up. In fact, he had not seen that happen, but even if he had, he would not have mentioned it. He picked up Madame Saintaire’s muff, at least ten times. It was always slipping, and besides, of what interest could a woman’s doings be to Monsieur Fouché?
The agent then listened to a description of the second man Cadoudal had met without much interest. They knew all about him. The agent was not terribly interested in Philip either. This seemed simply another case of Cadoudal’s laying a false trail. However, men who worked for Monsieur Fouché did not trust too much to their own judgments and left no stone unturned. He asked whether the waiter knew anything at all about Philip besides his name.
“Yes, indeed, Monsieur Saintaire is staying here with his wife—ah, poor woman, she is dumb.”
“Where are they now?”
“Above in their chamber.”
“They went out after my man had left?”
“No. They had intended to do so, I think, but it started to rain again and they stayed within. They played cards together, laughing very much. Ah, yes, before your man left he asked their direction.”
That, plus the change in plans might or might not be suspicious, the agent thought. He confirmed that Philip and Megaera were expected to stay, as far as the waiter knew, passed the agreed fee, and then decided to step inside again to ask the landlord some questions. He wanted to be sure that the waiter was right. If this couple suddenly decided to leave the next day, that would cast a different light on the matter.
What he learned made Philip seem even less likely as a suspect. A clerk in the bureau de service of the Customs with a commendation for finding a cache of smu
ggled goods (Pierre’s forger had made good use of the letter Philip had received from the director at Boulogne), a young man obviously very much in love with his afflicted wife, did not seem, a good prospect for a conspirator. Nonetheless he ordered the landlord to delay them and to send a message to him if they tried to leave early in the morning. Having taken what he felt were sufficient precautions, he troubled no more.
In any case, Saintaire was fixed for the night and could not leave without notice. There was no emergency about communicating the information. The morning, when he made his regular report on Cadoudal’s activities, would do quite well. That next morning, however, Monsieur Fouché was very much occupied. It was becoming more and more obvious that the First Consul would recall him to office as Minister of Police, and he had many “unofficial” visits and conferences with members of the Council of State. That morning the conference was with Consul Cambacérès, the man most closely in sympathy with Bonaparte’s desires and deepest in his confidence. Such a meeting could not be interrupted for a routine report on Cadoudal’s activities, even if there were a minor variation. Cadoudal had been in Paris for more than three months, and the landlord had not reported any suspicious activity on the part of the Saintaires.
Only shortly before dinnertime did Fouché’s agent get to give his report. The white face was expressionless, the frightening eyes masked by the white lashes until the agent mentioned the name “Saintaire”. Joseph Fouché was not a man to use obscenity, but he said Merde! with such force that his agent recoiled. Before the agent could catch his breath to speak again, Fouché had regained his poise and his voice was soft and pleasant when he assured the agent he did not blame him.
“He is an English spy, this Saintaire, I am sure. I had word of his coming from our agent in the British Foreign Office, but you say he is a Customs officer with a young wife. Hmmmm. This is the second time I know of that d’Ursine has led us astray—just a little astray, just enough so that, had we not been especially watchful, we would have missed the man completely this time also. I wonder…”
“Pardon,” the agent interrupted anxiously. “I left word to be warned if Saintaire intended to leave Paris, but I did not put a man to watch him. He could have met Cadoudal—“
“Calm, be calm. If he has, we will know of it through the man watching Cadoudal. If he has, then we will seize them both immediately, but they have gone to great lengths to make this meeting seem accidental. Thus they should try to make their next meeting, if there is to be one, a natural thing. I think they will meet for dinner—that would give the longest time for talk. Send at once to the Milles Colonnes to learn of Saintaire’s activities.”
The agent ran out to do so and Fouché sat with steepled fingers, thinking. When his man returned, he asked, “If they meet for dinner, can you guess where?”
“Almost certainly at La Maison du Faucon. It is a nest of Royalists where Cadoudal conducts most of his business. But it does not matter, I sent a man to watch Saintaire and the one watching Cadoudal will send word if he goes out or meets anyone. That is arranged.”
“Good. Three men should be enough. It must look as if the suspicion is directed only at Saintaire and that the search of Cadoudal is a mere formality because he was found in suspicious company. Saintaire is to be questioned first—by any means necessary—and then killed.”
“What of the woman?”
“Kill her also, but not until the man has answered all questions. We want to know what message he brought and, most important, which Bourbon is coming and where he will land. If direct persuasion cannot convince Saintaire to answer, try working on the woman where he can see and hear it. There are many men who cannot endure that, particularly when it is their fault that the woman is in difficulty. Even if they are not lovers, which they probably are since they claim to be husband and wife rather than sister and brother, he may give information when she is hurt more quickly than he would to ease his own.”
“I suppose since she is mute we cannot get information from her?”
“Why not? She may be able to write but I do not think it worthwhile. She may be a blind, picked up on the way. D’Ursine would not go so far as to fail to mention her if her presence had been planned in England. This Saintaire may have known her from before. He may have spent considerable time in France before we knew of him. You say he is a young man?”
“I did not see him myself, but there can be no doubt. The woman is young, and if he were older the waiter would have remarked on it.”
“Yes. It must be the son. I met the father in 1792? Or 1793? He was a ‘gunsmith’ using the name Saintaire—funny how those men cling to their own name. I met him again 1802 and learned he was an English barrister, St. Eyre by name. He said he had been trapped during the Revolution, but I think he was always an English spy. He worked with a woman also. I think she was an aristocrat. Later he married her. Yes, from your description it must be the son. The looks are much the same, except the father’s eyes were blue.”
The agent sat silent, listening. It was not common for Monsieur Fouché to say more than what was necessary. Therefore, he expected the agent to use the information in some way, possibly during the questioning of the prisoner. He rang a bell, a secretary entered, and was directed to bring the file on d’Ursine. Fouché studied this for a time, and made a moue of distaste.
“It is time to make sure of d’Ursine. I am beginning to think he may be a double agent. In any case he has near outlived his usefulness. The administration is about to change in England. That means his employment with Hawkesbury will not place him in a position to send information of value. Doubtless he will use that as an excuse to come back to France.”
Fouché looked into the distance. The agent, who knew how his mind worked—if any man knew how Fouché’s mind worked—believed he was considering whether d’Ursine would be useful in France. False information could be sent to England through him if he was really a trusted double agent. Fouché did not voice those thoughts but summoned his secretary again. He instructed the secretary to send a footman for François Charon, the spy who had brought d’Ursine’s message to France first, and when that was done, to add a pass so that Charon could use government horses to take him to the coast at top speed.
Then Fouché himself wrote to d’Ursine. The letter was cold and brief. It stated that Philip Saintaire had been killed on d’Ursine’s recommendation and that Fouché believed this to have been a grave error. “I feel,” Fouché wrote, “that this was a most cruel and unnecessary waste of life. The young man was a scion of an honorable English family, as you must have known. He should, even if he were engaged in spying, have been taken prisoner and held for exchange.” In the future, Fouché added, d’Ursine should transmit more accurate information, not instructions that, owing to ignorance, were bound to be incorrect.
It would be interesting, Fouché thought as he signed and sealed this missive, to see d’Ursine’s reaction to this criticism. If he were sincerely with the French cause, he would redouble his efforts to redeem himself—and that would be useful. If he were a double agent, he would be far more careful about the information he sent. And if by some mischance the letter should fall into the wrong hands it would clear Fouché of any suspicion of guilt in the death of an Englishman whose father might possibly have friends in high places. At the very worst, if d’Ursine should be clever enough to take fright, because the letter was not in code and was signed and sealed by Fouché himself, it would save the trouble of having him killed when he came back to France.
When everything was ready, Fouché handed the parcel to the waiting agent. “François Charon is waiting in the antechamber. He is to be one of the men who raids La Maison du Faucon—or wherever you trap Cadoudal and Saintaire. If Cadoudal has given Saintaire a message to carry, lift the seal carefully, make a copy for me, and let Charon take the original to England. He can report the sad death of Saintaire and deliver Cadoudal’s message which will reassure the English as to his reliability, and he can pa
ss my letter privately to d’Ursine.”
While Fouché was writing his letter, Philip and Megaera were climbing the stairs to a private room in the Epée du Bois. That morning a ragged boy had delivered a note for Philip, inviting him to dinner at the Faucon. Since the boy had been instructed to wait for a reply, Philip had the opportunity to write that there was some reason to believe the Faucon “no longer served the kind of dinner we wished to eat”. Could they meet instead at the Epée du Bois on the rue de Venise off the rue St. Martin? If so, no answer need be sent.
Although Philip was totally unaware that he was already suspect, he and Megaera went to the meeting armed and ready for trouble. Philip was very much afraid that this second meeting would mark them and that an attempt would be made to arrest them after they left Cadoudal or when they returned to their hotel. He was not even sure they should return to the hotel at all. Their baggage was still there, but that did not matter. They were warmly dressed and had all their money and their papers with them.
Cadoudal had changed overnight. He was gray with fatigue and grief and seized Philip’s hand, apologizing for asking him to come. He looked, with haunted eyes at Megaera. “Why did you bring her?” he whispered as if her muteness rendered her hard of hearing also.
“Because I would not stay behind,” she replied softly in English, smiling at him. I’m ‘mute’ because I speak little French. Don’t worry about me. I’m well able to take care of myself.”
“Ah, the gallant English ladies,” Cadoudal said. His expression lightened for a moment, although he did not really approve of such boldness in a female. This minor matter could not hold his mind, and he went grim again as he looked back at Philip. “I had to ask you to make this sacrifice because, although one hope is dead, another has risen in its place. We were fooled about the attitude of the people toward Bonaparte, but their satisfaction is not shared by many of his own high officials. They see now that he will not be content to rule within a constitution. He seeks to make himself even more absolute than the king.”
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 39