Catherine Delors

by For the King (v5)

  Of course, he harbored no illusions as to the Minister’s motives. Fouché had not acted out of benevolence, but simply needed a dependable man, a man who owed him everything, within the Prefecture to spy on Dubois. Roch understood those things, and Fouché’s reputation did not bother him. The horrors of Lyon had taken place seven years earlier, after all, and the Nation had been in great peril then. Was not a man like Fouché just as respectable as the imbecilic Dubois, who had done nothing, and had nothing but his outstanding mediocrity to recommend him?

  Roch finally reached the splendid Juigné mansion, where the Ministry of Police was located. It was probably no coincidence that the Prefecture had been assigned its shabby premises on the Isle of the Cité. Fouché wanted to make his superiority of rank over the Prefect perfectly clear to the most casual of observers. Roch was shown without delay into the office of Marain, the Minister’s private secretary.

  “Well, if this is not Chief Inspector Miquel!” The man raised his eyebrow. “An unexpected pleasure, I must say. It is two days early for your appointment with the Minister. Did the collections from the bawdy houses come ahead of schedule?”

  “No, but I need to see the Minister. It is urgent.”

  Usually Marain greeted Roch with friendliness and showed him promptly into Fouché’s office. Now he seemed in no hurry. “I will see whether the Minister can receive you.”

  Marain disappeared for a few minutes. He returned with a grave look on his face. “You have five minutes,” he said.

  Roch could not find himself in Fouché’s presence without marveling at the resemblance of the man’s face to a skull. The sallow skin seemed glued to fleshless bones. The gray hair, brushed forward onto his forehead and temples, gave the impression that he had been hit from behind by a powerful gust of wind. His eyelids were no more than half open, though Roch never suspected the Minister of being sleepy.

  Fouché was writing at his desk and did not look up. “What good wind brings you here, Miquel?” he asked.

  “I apologize for disturbing you in such a manner, Citizen Minister, but it is about my father. He was arrested.”

  Fouché looked up at last and put down his quill. “Arrested, was he?” he said in a flat tone. The Minister never expressed much emotion, but this was obviously no news to him. Roch felt a knot in this stomach.

  “Yes, Citizen Minister, arrested. And he was taken to the Temple, so his must be deemed a political case. Is this related to the Rue Nicaise attack?”

  “I would not be surprised if it were.” Fouché nodded in the direction of a seat. “Make yourself comfortable, my dear Miquel. You seem ready to pounce on me, hovering like this over my desk.”

  Roch sat on the edge of the chair. Fouché joined his hands as though in a gesture of prayer. “Your father, need I remind you, is a former Jacobin. He should have remembered that many of his friends only narrowly avoided the guillotine after Robespierre’s execution, and some were not so fortunate. But no, instead of letting the past be forgotten, as it should be, he has expressed his opinions rather freely. About the First Consul, for instance. About me too, I might say, though that does not matter. I am accustomed to these kind of remarks.”

  Of course Old Miquel had never made any mystery of his opinion of Fouché. The conversation was not taking the turn Roch had hoped. “This is all harmless banter on my father’s part, Citizen Minister.”

  “My dear Miquel, what passed for harmless banter a few days ago is now a threat against the safety of the First Consul. Which is to say, a threat against the survival of the Nation.” Fouché paused. “And we are talking about more than banter in this case. Topino-Lebrun, that painter arrested for the Conspiracy of Daggers, was seen drinking in your father’s establishment with some of his friends.”

  “Surely, Citizen Minister, all the owners of all the taverns Topino ever patronized can’t be arrested. My father never had anything to do with that plot, and you know it.”

  “What matters is not what I know, but what the First Consul believes, and still more importantly, what he wants people to believe. And people have been shocked, outraged. Women cry over the fate of that little street vendor, that . . . What is her name again? That Peusol, or Pensol girl. They demand justice. And do you know what people mean when they clamor for justice? It is revenge they want, and they care not a jot whether those punished be innocent or guilty, as long as the punishment be exemplary. No one is inclined to question the judgment or truthfulness of our great leader at this time of national grief. Later people may come to see things differently, but now they absolutely trust the First Consul. And the First Consul ordered me to have a great many Jacobins arrested. I obeyed.”

  Roch glared at Fouché. “So you ordered my father’s arrest.”

  A thin smile appeared on Fouché’s face. “I did not. Our esteemed Prefect did. Oh, he came here to ask for my permission beforehand, of course. No doubt with the notion that I would oppose that measure and that he would then hurry to the Tuileries to denounce my own Jacobin sympathies to the First Consul, who would then overrule me. It is very easy to thwart poor Dubois’s schemes, because they are always so pitifully obvious. In this case I complimented him on his zeal. He left my office looking very much puzzled. But, as you know, it is not unusual for him.”

  “But my father is innocent. You could explain it to the First Consul.”

  “Not with any chance of success under the present circumstances.” Fouché’s sleepy eyes, which had been fixed on the fireplace, traveled deliberately to Roch’s face. “I should tell you, Miquel, that things will not stop at mere arrests. The news will be made public tomorrow. The First Consul has asked me to prepare a list of 150 Jacobins, who will be deported to Guiana.”

  Roch clenched his jaw. When he had been an Inspector, he had attended the departure of the deportees from Bicêtre. Their heads had been partially shaven, their clothes and hats hacked off in a ridiculous manner to make them easily recognizable in case of any escape attempt. That seemed unlikely in any event, for long chains linked the iron collars that encased the necks of the convicts.

  Once overseas, those who had lived through the rigors of the voyage were starved and beaten. Most convicts did not survive this regimen for more than a few months. Deportation was called the guillotine sèche, the “dry guillotine.”

  It was unbearable to imagine Old Miquel, chained like a criminal in the middle of the vast courtyard of Bicêtre, ready to leave France and his son forever. Roch struggled to steady his voice. “No court of law will sentence my father to deportation for speaking ill of you and serving a few mugs of wine to Topino.”

  “But you do not understand, Miquel. Who is talking of courts of law here? The First Consul believes that trials are unpredictable, fussy, disorderly proceedings. No, those Jacobins are to be deported by way of executive orders. The First Consul will request from the Senate, and no doubt receive the authority to issue such orders in case of an emergency.”

  “And I suppose the emergency will be left to the First Consul’s appreciation.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, Citizen Minister, you will establish that list of deportees?”

  “What choice have I? Believe me, I would much rather not. Some of those men are, or used to be, my friends. Yet if I were so unwise as to decline, someone else would be happy to undertake the task, and even zealously add a few hundred names to the list.”

  Roch glared at Fouché. “What about my father? Will you keep his name off that list?”

  “Ah, that is the question! The good news for your father, my dear Miquel, is that his fate depends on you. You will forgive me for doubting you, but I worried that you might defect to the Prefect’s side. So many of my friends have already abandoned me in the course of a few days.”

  “Then you must not know me very well, Citizen Minister. What have I ever done to make you doubt my loyalty to you?”

  “Nothing, I grant you. I apologize for my suspicions. I do, most sincerely. Indeed I trust you
, Miquel, as much as I trust anyone. Unfortunately, this is not saying much. Recent history teaches us that one cannot be too mindful of one’s safety when circumstances become dire.”

  Fouché rose from behind his desk and put his hand on Roch’s shoulder. Roch repressed an instinctive movement of disgust. Maybe there was hope.

  “Now, Miquel, listen to me,” continued Fouché. “The British fleet now controls much of the Atlantic, and the First Consul does not want to put a large ship at risk for the sole purpose of ridding France of that vermin, as he calls the Jacobins. He wants the deportees embarked in small groups of no more than forty, on light schooners.”

  Roch struggled to contain his impatience. “Pray what is this to my father? What difference does it make whether he is deported on a frigate or a schooner?”

  “A very great difference. Since schooners are going to be used, and the First Consul does not want an armada to attract the attention of the British fleet, the deportations will be staggered over several weeks.” Fouché withdrew his hand from Roch’s shoulder and began to count on his fingers. “Let us see . . . Today is the 7th of Nivose. The last schooner might leave in a month or so. Around the end of January in the old calendar, the 27th to be exact. What I can do, out of friendship for you, is keep your father’s name off the list of deportees until that last schooner sets sail forth. This gives you a month. More than enough.”

  Roch gaped at Fouché. “Enough for what?”

  The Minister returned to his position behind his desk. His eyes were wide open now, and he was looking intently at Roch. “You received, I trust, my note about those two Chouans, Saint-Régent and Carbon. I want them both arrested. Then your father will be safe.”

  Fouché seized his quill and the interrupted letter. “Time presses, Miquel, for me and for you. You have one month to arrest those two men. Your father, in the meantime, will remain in the Temple. I hear that Citizen Fauconnier, the turnkey, is a friendly, congenial character.”

  Fouché had resumed writing. “It is always a pleasure to chat with you, Miquel. Thank you so much for calling.”

  Roch rose, shaking with anger. He strove to contain himself. This was not the time for rash action. “If my father is to remain in the Temple, I must visit him.”

  Fouché raised his eyes from his letter. “I believe you will make a wiser use of your limited time by concentrating on the task I just assigned you.”

  Roch bowed and left without another word. He paused along the Malaquais Embankment for a minute to catch his breath. He quickly wiped a tear with his gloved hand. It was the sharpness of the wind, and his eyes prickled from a feeling of sorrow, of rage, of humiliation. He had come to the Ministry in the hopes of securing Old Miquel’s release. Not only had he failed, but now his father was threatened with a slow, painful, disgraceful death.

  He had been very naïve to hope for Fouché’s help. What had he expected? Gratitude for his past services? He was nothing but a pawn. Sobry had been right. Fouché was a traitor, and a man who could not be trusted could not bring himself to trust anyone.

  Roch shook himself out of these reflections and headed for the Prefecture. All of this bitterness served no purpose. Certainly it did not help Old Miquel. Roch had no choice but to do the Minister’s bidding, and do it fast, before the allotted month had elapsed. Right now he would send the turnkey of the Temple 200 francs. That would at least ensure that Old Miquel received a bed and decent food.

  Back in his office, he found a letter waiting on his desk.

  Dear Roch,

  Things were so hurried when I last saw you that we had no time to discuss some practical matters. I had meant to tell you that, unless you instruct me otherwise, I will keep the Mighty Barrel open in your father’s absence. I believe that is what he would wish.

  I cannot tell you how very sorry I am for what happened. Please do not lose heart: all of your father’s friends, and yours too, stand ready to help. My own father sends word that, should you need any money, he will be more than happy to lend you whatever is necessary.

  As for me, I went to the Temple to see your father, but was told that absolutely no one is allowed to visit him. This can only add to your sorrows, but he is a brave man, Roch. I am sure that he will bear this ordeal with his usual courage. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you may need.

  Your devoted friend,

  Alexandrine

  Roch let out a groan. Why did Alexandrine, like everyone else, feel the need to bring up Vidalenc’s money at every opportunity? Roch would die before touching a sol of it. And that talk of friends! As if he and his father could still count on any at this point.

  He reread the letter and realized that he was unfair to Alexandrine. She meant well, and she was right on one point. Old Miquel would want the Mighty Barrel to remain open in his absence. She would know how to manage the waiters, keep the patrons quiet and happy, and do the accounts. She understood business. She was Vidalenc’s daughter, after all.

  19

  Outside the sleet was giving way to snow. Joseph de Limoëlan, seated at a little table by the window of his room, was nursing a mug of mulled wine between his hands, relishing the warmth of the beverage. He breathed in the sweet aromas from the bakery downstairs.

  On the table, next to his blond wig, was the note his mother had sent him.

  My Son,

  The Minister wishes to speak to you.

  Renée-Jeanne de Limoëlan

  Madame de Limoëlan was not given to exuberant displays of maternal fondness, especially when it came to Joseph. She had never forgiven his political positions.

  Madame de Limoëlan loved comfort, peace and quiet. She used whatever she had managed to salvage from her late husband’s vast fortune to keep an elegant but discreet house in Versailles, three leagues west of Paris, far from Brittany and its troubles. There she lived, with her four grown daughters, all unmarried, and a dozen servants. The girls were a bit past their prime, and suitable matches were few, for she held any prospective sons-in-law to high standards. Dear Marie-Thérèse, Joseph’s favorite sister, had found her true love in the person of a distant cousin, but the gentleman’s suit had been dismissed by Madame de Limoëlan on account of the uncertain state of his finances.

  When Joseph had arrived in Paris last June, he had visited his mother and sisters and discovered with horror that she had been paying an active court to Fouché, that criminal whose hands were stained with the sacred blood of King Louis XVI. But that did not repel Madame de Limoëlan. She had even insisted that Joseph meet the Minister. At first he told his mother that he would not have anything to do with a régicide. Limoëlan also suspected a trap. But Fouché had given Madame de Limoëlan sufficient assurances of safe passage for her son, and the two men had met three weeks before the Rue Nicaise attack. Limoëlan had expected the Minister to ask him to betray the cause, and he was of course prepared to refuse. But nothing of the kind had happened. Fouché had in fact been quite conciliatory, almost friendly.

  Now he wished to see Limoëlan again. Why? Did he now want Limoëlan to betray Saint-Régent and Francis in exchange for immunity? Limoëlan had no taste for this kind of bargain, and the risk of arrest was far greater now, after the failure of the attack. Ignoring an offer from Fouché was a dangerous move, but less dangerous than agreeing to meet the scoundrel. And Limoëlan had no intention of climbing the steps to the guillotine as his father had done seven years earlier.

  Joseph had not witnessed the execution. Then twenty-four, he had been abroad, in Jersey, already an émigré. Yet he could picture with perfect clarity the scene that had taken place in Paris, the double row of gendarmes on horseback accompanying the two carts, the outline of the guillotine sitting on the stately Place de la Révolution. The waters of the Seine River, the bayonets of the gendarmes, the triangular blade of the machine reflecting the glare of the June sun.

  It was Father de Clorivière who had told his nephew Joseph of the scene. That afternoon the good priest, disguised in the
coarse trousers and jacket of a workman, stood in the midst of the crowd. His eyes shifted from the approaching carts to the guillotine, a few dozen yards away.

  Some around Father de Clorivière were jeering, some cheerful. Before his eyes the business of death proceeded briskly. Several decapitated bodies were already piled in a waiting cart when his sister, her graying hair cut short on her nape, climbed in turn the steep stairs to the scaffold. Her step was steady, but Father de Clorivière’s courage failed him. He felt light-headed and had to close his eyes now. His lips were moving silently in an ardent prayer for the repose of her soul as he heard the dull thud of the machine.

  When Father de Clorivière opened his eyes again, he recognized his niece Angélique. He had not seen her in years, since the time when she was barely more than a pretty child. The crowd quieted all of a sudden. It went very fast. The young headless body too was thrown into the cart. Her skirts, caught on the uprights, revealed pink stockings and white thighs.

  “A pity,” said a buxom woman, standing next to Father de Clorivière, to a friend of hers. “Look how fair this one was. An’ youn’ too. She couldn’t be much more’n twenty!”