Roch was twisting in his pocket Blanche’s last letter. Again she had slipped away when she had seemed so close. Yet to her too Limoëlan’s escape was good news. If Francis and Saint-Régent persisted in protecting her, she might not even be suspected. Roch himself did not intend to reveal her part in the conspiracy.
It was Blanche who had in fact led him, unwittingly or deliberately, to all three men in stallholder jackets. She had informed Francis’s sister of the short man’s presence at the Convent, which had indirectly caused his niece Madeleine to reveal his hiding place. Then Blanche had betrayed Saint-Régent. Now she had risked her life to allow Roch to capture Limoëlan. Had she hoped to find an escape from her troubles and sorrows in death? Roch clenched his fists at the thought that he had let Limoëlan escape, but that very escape, hopefully, would secure Old Miquel’s freedom. Yes, what mattered now was the fate of Old Miquel.
Roch shook himself out of his thoughts. “Let’s talk about you, Pépin. I haven’t thanked you yet. Let me do so.” Roch put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your help.”
Pépin smiled proudly. “I aimed good, eh, Citizen Chief Inspector? Right in his spe’tacles. I’d have gotten him earlier, but I’d to find jus’ the right stone. I knew I couldn’t miss.”
“You did very well.”
“I kept an eye on Madame Coudert, like you’d said. When I saw she was leavin’ her home in a hackney, I jumped onto the back. It dropped her over there.” He pointed in the direction of Place de la Révolution. “I almost thought I was too late to save her.”
Blanche must have already reached her house on Rue de Babylone. It was no more than a fifteen-minute walk from the bottom of the Champs-Elysées. Roch, his hand still on Pépin’s shoulder, headed for the Place de la Révolution. The familiar outline of the Statue of Liberty was no longer to be seen against the night sky. It had already been demolished to make way for a monumental tribute to Bonaparte. Roch remembered his conversation with Old Miquel on the night of the Rue Nicaise attack.
“So where’re we goin’, Sir?” asked Pépin.
“To my lodgings. I can’t leave you to freeze on the streets after what you did for me. I want you to sleep in a warm bed tonight, with some soup in your stomach.”
The boy grinned broadly. “Well, that’s awful nice of you, and—”
“Believe me, you won’t feel the least inclination to thank me once you set eyes on my maid. She is a redoubtable woman. She will scour every inch of your skin without mercy.”
“Why, if she ever tries to—”
“Oh, it will take her but a moment to get the better of a shrimp like you.”
Pépin sighed, apparently resigned to the prospect of a forced bath. “So long’s it makes you happy. But, remember, Citizen Chief Inspector, you talked about a ’prenticeship th’other day . . .”
“I have changed my mind.”
Pépin’s lips formed a silent Oh of disappointment.
“I will send you to school instead,” added Roch, “though it won’t be easy to find a teacher brave enough to undertake your education.”
Pépin breathed in sharply. “Ah, no, Sir, you can’t do that! After I saved your life too! Don’t you know they whip boys in schools?”
“They do, fiercely so. But better men than you have gone through that ordeal, and lived to tell the tale. I am afraid, my poor Pépin, that many changes are coming your way, like it or not.”
They walked in silence until they reached Roch’s lodgings twenty minutes later. He pulled his astonished maid from her bed and delivered Pépin to her care. The boy followed her with surprising meekness. She brought Roch a mug of honeyed tea. He seized a carafe on the sideboard and added a generous swig of plum spirits to the hot beverage. He needed to brace himself for the task ahead.
62
It was barely six in the morning when Roch was shown into the Minister’s private apartment at the Juigné Mansion. He could not help staring at Fouché, the millionaire, the head of the Nation’s police, the most powerful man in France after Bonaparte. Gray stubble made the Minister’s face look still more cadaverous than usual. He wore a yellowed flannel waistcoat over his nightshirt. Its collar floated around his gaunt neck, where tendons pulled like ropes on wrinkled skin. Toes stuck out of the pierced slippers on his bare feet. A nightcap rested on the fireplace mantel, next to a box containing a bar of the cheapest shaving soap.
“Always good to see you, Miquel,” said Fouché. “I gather that you are all for early visits. I am not adverse to them myself, but you will have to allow me to complete my ablutions in your presence.” The Minister pointed at a chair. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Roch remained standing. “I saw Limoëlan last night.”
Fouché took a deep breath. “Did you now? Did you arrest him?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Did you kill him?”
“He escaped.”
The Minister seemed very thoughtful. “Escape, did he? That is most unfortunate.”
“It depends on one’s point of view, Citizen Minister.”
Roch expected a valet to enter to shave Fouché, but the Minister seized a leather strap and proceeded to sharpen a horn-handled razor himself.
“And where would you have seen Limoëlan?”
“At the bottom of the Champs-Elysées, by the pier.”
“Are you sure that the man you saw was Limoëlan? I doubt it, because I believe the scoundrel is dead. He died on the 3rd of Nivose, on the very night of the attack. Do you remember that man who owns the bathing establishment next to the Liberty Bridge? A Citizen Viger, or Vigier. He heard someone jumping into the Seine on the night of the attack. That must have been Limoëlan, driven to suicide by remorse over the horror of his crime.”
“The man I saw last night, Citizen Minister, looked very much alive for someone who had drowned over a month ago. But you know that. You have always protected him. You met with him before the attack, you knew of his plans. Yet you did nothing to stop him, and nothing to put me on his track afterwards.”
Fouché was lathering his cheeks. “And what about you, Miquel? Have you been forthcoming lately? You have known for some time of fair Madame Coudert’s involvement in the conspiracy, and yet you have said nothing. Love, I suppose.”
Roch started. Fouché was better informed than he had expected. The Minister smiled with indulgence through the lather that covered his face. “Ah, it is a fine thing to be young, Miquel. Enjoy it while you can.”
Fouché walked to a small mirror hanging from a nail on the wall, under a sconce. He began to shave one of his cheeks, then paused. “I know Madame Coudert’s husband fairly well, and have met her on a few occasions. So young, so charming. Very reckless too, very unwise in her choice of friends. No flattery intended, Miquel, but I believe the only occasion in which she showed any taste in men is in her choice of you as a lover.”
Roch was furious with himself. Of course Fouché had known all about his liaison with Blanche. “And what, Citizen Minister, do you intend to do with regard to Madame Coudert?”
“She has been extremely fortunate, in that none of those arrested so far have mentioned her name. Frankly, under these circumstances, I see no need to press charges against her. Is this the face the First Consul wishes to give his enemies? Why make a Royalist martyr of one of the beauties of our age, the flower of Paris society? Carbon, with his brutish face, that cold-bloodied killer Saint-Régent, even a dour old maid like Mademoiselle de Cicé, these will do very well for the trial.”
Roch held his breath, overcome by relief. So at least Blanche would escape the guillotine.
“But this does not mean,” continued Fouché, “that her grave imprudence will be forgotten. I believe her husband owns a château in some remote valley in the Alps. She will be invited, for the sake of her health, to retire there permanently. You will agree, I believe, that she has a rather easy escape.”
“Indeed, but so do others. You have not re
sponded to what I said of your awareness of the plot to assassinate the First Consul. You did nothing to stop it.”
Fouché turned around and pointed his razor in Roch’s direction. “Now, this is a rather shocking accusation. A false one as well. I am not at all worried on that point, for I did my duty. Indeed I was well apprised, through several of my informers in the West, of the conspiracy. So I wrote a detailed report to the First Consul, setting forth all I had learned about the clandestine arrival in Paris of several notorious Chouan leaders, in particular Limoëlan and Saint-Régent. I omitted nothing of importance to warn General Bonaparte of the impending attempt against his life. Of course, I also mentioned that some of his new friends, such as the Count de Bourmont and his lovely wife, and many other ci-devant aristocrats, were linked to the plot. The First Consul treated my report as I had expected: with anger and contempt. He did not even forward it to General Duroc, who is in charge of his personal safety, or to the Prefect.”
“The Prefect! What part has he played in this affair?”
“Dubois? Play a part? You give the poor man too much credit. Oh, he is capable of some awkward scheming on occasion, but in essentials he is pretty much what he appears to be, and we both know what that is.”
The Minister, his face half lathered, half shaven, wiped his razor on a towel. “To go back to the First Consul, he is very desirous of gathering a new Court around himself and charming Madame Bonaparte. That is why so many names have been erased from the lists of the émigrés lately. He wants to attract those ci-devant nobles to Paris, to tame them, to shower them with favors. It will give him some legitimacy as France’s new sovereign, and it also flatters his vanity. The last thing he wanted to hear was that his newly found courtiers were conspiring to assassinate him. He ordered me to drop that line of investigation altogether.”
Roch posted himself behind Fouché, a foot away from the Minister’s back. “You were content to write your report, while certain that it would be disregarded? You did nothing?”
“Well, the First Consul himself instructed me, in no uncertain terms, to do nothing. I am only the Minister of Police, after all. He is the glorious leader of the Nation. I obeyed.”
“Yet when it suits you, you do not hesitate to provoke the First Consul. You had Bourmont arrested at his doorstep.”
“Ah, yes.” Fouché chuckled. “I indulged in some juvenile fun there. The best part of it was that the First Consul had to admit that I had been right, once I explained to him the close relationship between Carbon and Bourmont during the months leading up to the attack. Quite entertaining, and it also allowed me to make the point that those who disregard my warnings do so at their own peril.”
“But Bourmont, though compromised by association, never played any active part in the plot. Limoëlan, on the contrary, is our main suspect, and should be our main concern. I am sure that he cannot have gone far. He is still in Paris, within our reach.”
Roch looked straight into Fouché’s eyes. “And Limoëlan, once arrested, would have many interesting tales to tell. He might, for instance, reveal his dealings with a high official, a member of the government no less, who has established contacts with George and the Royalist government in London. Someone who has been scheming for the King’s restoration, and his own future of course, in case the attempt on the First Consul’s life was successful.”
Fouché put down his razor on the fireplace mantel. “My dear Miquel, you are carried away by misguided zeal. These are wild suppositions.”
“Quite the contrary, Citizen Minister. I have proof of this. I was able to seize from Limoëlan, before he escaped, some correspondence between him and George discussing said Minister’s offers of service. I have entrusted these letters to a friend, with instructions to bring them to the Prefect should anything untoward happen to my father or me. And I am sure that the Prefect, despite his limitations, will understand their import and know what to do with them.”
Fouché was staring into the bright fire in the hearth.
“Well, of course, your father,” he said after a while. “There is no compelling reason to keep him in jail any longer, is there? I will speak to the First Consul about it. Today, in fact. You may count on his release this evening.”
Fouché was wiping his cheeks with the towel. “There is only one thing, Miquel. The First Consul believes that vociferous Jacobins have no place in his good city of Paris. I am sorry, but it will not be in my power to change his mind on this point. Your father’s rants have been zealously reported by Dubois. There was barely a night when one of the Prefect’s mouchards did not patronize the Mighty Barrel. It follows that the First Consul is well informed of your father’s opinions and will not tolerate his presence in Paris any longer than necessary, let us say beyond a few hours. Your father will have to leave by the next stagecoach to his birthplace of Lavigerie, and remain there.”
Roch glared at Fouché. “This means that my father will not be allowed to stir from Lavigerie? But he has not set foot in Auvergne in thirteen years, since my mother’s death. His entire life, all of his friends, are in Paris.”
“That may be, but there is nothing you or I can do about it at this point. Perhaps in a few years your father may be allowed to return to Paris. It all depends on his behavior. In the meantime, no one, not even I, can undo the effect of the Prefect’s reports.”
Fouché put his hand on Roch’s shoulder. “Come, Miquel. Your father will go back to the old country. Of course, in the beginning, people will be wary of associating with man exiled by the government. But after a while some of his acquaintances may be willing to renew old friendships. He will be the richest man around. He can afford to buy the best house in town. He will hire a peasant girl as a maid, and hopefully he will choose her pleasant and comely. Certainly, after the bustle of Paris, small-town life will seem tedious to him. Besides, he is not much over fifty, is he? The unavoidable will happen, that little maid will be with child, and, because your father is a decent man, he will marry her. Now, is this so terrible?”
Fouché removed his flannel waistcoat. “With your permission, I would now like to dress outside your presence.”
“Can I fetch my father from the Temple?”
“I suggest that you go home and enjoy a well-deserved rest. I will let you know in the course of the day when the time comes.”
Roch bowed and left. He had some trouble believing the good news, and still more trusting Fouché. Yet as soon as he reached his lodgings and lay down on his bed, he fell into a dreamless sleep.
63
Roch did not awaken until midafternoon, when his maid shook him forcefully to hand him a note from Fouché. He cursed his own laziness and tore it open. It announced that Old Miquel would be released at six o’clock that evening, in time to depart by the next stagecoach for Auvergne, which left from Sceaux a few hours later.
It had been exactly one month since Roch had seen his father. He had hoped to return to the Mighty Barrel for friendly evening chats in the Roman language, with Old Miquel restored to his rightful place at the helm of the tavern. That was not to be. Things would never be the same. The two men would be apart now, for the first time in many years. Roch could not imagine his father exiled from Paris, or Paris without Old Miquel’s presence.
When Roch was shown into the clerk’s office at the Temple, he had the surprise to find his father already there, sharing a pint of wine with Citizen Fauconnier.
“Yes, I received my orders in the afternoon,” said the man. “I, for one, am sorry to see Citizen Miquel père leave. And I won’t be alone, let me tell you.”
“God, I missed you, son,” said Old Miquel, wrapping his arm around Roch’s shoulders. “But then I guess I’ll have to become used to seeing you not so often as before.”
Roch had dreaded making this announcement. “You . . . you know, Father?”
“About being exiled from Paris?” Old Miquel pointed at the clerk. “Oh, yes, Citizen Fauconnier was kind enough to tell me when he gave me
the good news. Now I’ve settled everything that needed settling, so we can be on our way. We’ll have a bit of time to talk before the stagecoach leaves.”
Roch took his father to the hackney that waited outside the prison doors. He held the door open for Old Miquel and climbed in after him.
“We still have time to stop by the Mighty Barrel, Father,” he said.
The older man shook his head. “I’ve thought about it. You see, Roch, I’m leaving Paris for good, and the Barrel’ll be sold, so there’s no point in looking back. That part of my life’s over.” He paused for a minute. “Tell Alexandrine I won’t be able to thank her in person, and that I don’t want to compromise her by writing her either. All of my letters’ll be opened now. So please tell her that I’ll never forget her kindness.”
“I will, Father.”
Old Miquel patted Roch on the thigh. “I know I must’ve pestered you to death about her.”
Roch opened his mouth to protest.
“Well, Roch, I was wrong. You’re such a dutiful, respectful son, you never told me to mind my own business. Now I’ve had plenty of time to think about that in jail. If Alexandrine’s not to your taste, there’s no arguing about it. Maybe you’re not ready to marry anyway. And maybe she’s not fancy enough for you. You’re Chief Inspector, you’re an important man at the Prefecture.”
“I have realized over the past month how unimportant I am, Father.”
“Don’t say that. Look at what you’ve managed to do. You arrested the scoundrels who killed those poor innocents, you kept me from being deported and now you’re pulling me out of jail. And you’ll go higher than Chief Inspector yet. When it comes to men, nowadays people look at what you are yourself, not at your father. But for a woman, it’s not the same. People still ask: And who’s her father? And then what’d you say if you married Alexandrine? That your wife’s the daughter of an old rogue of a wine merchant who can’t even read or write?” Old Miquel shrugged. “People’d say you married her just for her money. You’d grow ashamed of her.”
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