Sadly, the sun had risen this morning in a haze of orange fire, climbing higher and higher over the green Maryland hills beyond the river.
In the hall, row upon row of scroll backed wooden chairs filled the front with benches crowded in behind. The auctioneer started the morning's business slowly, his gavel rising and falling at a pace which might have mirrored the level of alertness of many of those seated before him. Unaccustomed to early morning hours, they huddled in their seats, searching with sliding eyes for the trays of tiny coffee cups with which ushers sought to appease the crowd.
Claude Devereux sprawled across two front row places, his legs thrust out before him, an empty cup occupying the caned seat of the chair upon which rested one arm. He had arrived early, indeed, had awaited the appearance of the employees of the house. Watching him, one might have been attracted by the thought that he was not really listening to the steady drumbeat of the auctioneer's voice, so absorbed was he in the conversation of two Federal officers seated beside him.
These were so similar in the face that their true relationship as brothers was immediately clear.
The three men were preoccupied with some subject of great interest to them all. The sale of property taking place before the crowd did not seem to be important to them.
Joseph White sat alongside one of the dark young men who operated the levers driving the air circulating mechanism above. Corduroy trousers,
The Auction 21 a cotton jacket, a clean shirt and string tie gave him an appearance to which some of the white men gathered on benches in the back should have aspired. He listened intently to the business of the auction.
From time to time he held up, chest high, one of a variety of pasteboard squares marked with obscure symbols. These signals always brought Devereux's attention fully to bear on the progress of the business at hand. The relaxed figure in black broadcloth then bought the object in question. Competing bids met with friendly glances and casual gestures of the hand or head to the auctioneer. These steadily drove up the price until Devereux bought the piece in question.
The morning passed, and the auctioneer more and more grasped what was expected of him. As bids rose on a given lot, he would watch Joe White closely. The flash of a pasteboard card riveted his attention upon the man in black seated in the front row. He appeared to be slightly confused by the way in which Devereux pursued his adversaries' offers without mercy, driving the game relentlessly, talking and chatting the while with his two neighbors.
White recorded each acquisition painstakingly in a large ledger which rested on his knees.
The sale went on.
After a while, a pattern emerged. Devereux was buying old silver, linens, paintings and furniture. From time to time a signal from Joe White caused him to sweep the room with his eyes, seeking the identity of a bidder. Now and then, he abstained from participation in the contest. In three cases, he bought specimens of the same Hepplewhite chair.
Commander Richard Braithwaite watched this performance thoughtfully. At last, seeking a respite from his brother's insistent pursuit of Devereux's help in arranging capitalization of one of his railroad schemes, he asked why the Virginian wanted all these things.
"Well, I have a lot of friends. And a host of relatives in various places, including my mother's people in France...” The exchange had hardly interrupted Devereux's purchase of an eighteenth century sideboard.
The sale went on.
Ten rows back a small group of men sat together. The clothing of several suggested a decline from previous levels of prosperity which characterized many of the old time residents of the town.
The auctioneer's helpers carried the previous lot away as one of these men spoke to another. "I don't quite understand this. Young Devereux sitting there with these, people, and buying up all these things! Surely, he must know that the government has seized all this in houses taken for non-payment of property taxes, surely he knows that! You are his father's partner! What is this?"
Harrison Wheatley meditated on the question. "I can see the way of it. You are right, Philip... Claude is too well known. He should not do this again. We must have a larger group of, buyers." He turned to look directly at the men near him. "We think that you all will do nicely."
Another of the elderly men spoke. "We have no money."
Wheatley said nothing. His silver hair and bodily beauty made him stand out in a group to which he naturally belonged. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Where are you keeping it all,” someone asked? This was the tallest of the group, a man so advanced in years that his great height was partially hidden by an unavoidable stoop.
"We have a warehouse in Washington City, just by the Navy Yard," he smiled. "Some years ago Charles bought the structure so that Clotilde might offer the use of it to charitable activities in which she played some part. Over time we have used it for a variety of purposes. These things will never fill the place. We have them sorted and marked by family."
On the platform the auctioneer's helper held up a deeply carved crystal punch bowl. On the side, an oval cartouche held initials.
An army officer in the second row offered ten dollars. A civilian in the same row raised the bid to fifteen. A third cried "Twenty"!
Joe White raised a card marked with an outline drawing of a horse.
Devereux turned to see the bowl. He opened his mouth.
The tall old man raised his head. "Twenty Five!" He bowed slightly as Devereux turned to see.
The younger man smiled, and nodded back.
"Well that's one you won't get Claude," the army officer beside him said.
"You're right, Frederick. In fact, I think I've had enough of this. Shall we go?"
Chapter 4
Balthazar
-September, 1863 (Paris)
A certain aura surrounds buildings which have seen events which shaped the fate of nations. One such place is the Palais d'Orsay, the home of the foreign ministry of France. This magnificent building has stood for many years on the left bank of the Seine near a broad esplanade which extends from the river to the Hotel des Invalides.
In the era of the Second Empire, Paris was at the height of its beauty. Its reputation as the capital of the civilized world was unchallenged. The Palais d'Orsay served as a perfect setting for the diplomacy of Louis Napoleon’s government. Its elegance and glittering decor gave a certain tone to the business conducted within.
The reception room was magnificent. It seemed a place made for gods, not men. Sunshine poured through vast windows along one side. Crystal panes glittered in the morning light. They reached almost to the towering height of the carved plaster ceiling. Through the windows, one could see and sense directly the vitality of the city. Carriages and wagons rumbled in endless profusion of type down the Quai d'Orsay. Beyond the traffic, the Seine flowed by on its way to the Channel. Steam tugs pushed barges forward, passing slowly beneath the stone bridges. The light had the lovely clarity and slightly golden tone that early autumn often brings in illuminating our memories of better days.
A man stood alone at the center of the wall of windows. His back to the room, he seemed to contemplate the heart of France. Framed against the brilliance outside, he made a striking picture. Red, baggy pants and a thigh length blue black tunic marked him as a soldier. His rank was conspicuous in the gold and silver rows of narrow braid forming elongated Austrian knots on his coat sleeves. They reached from the cuff to a point just below the shoulder seam. On his breast was hung the red glory of the Légion d'honneur. His white gloved hands grasped each other firmly in the small of his back. In truth, the solidity of his posture did not reflect the state of his mind. The watcher looked out on the passing crowd with hope, but only that. He felt that this morning's summons must hold some special meaning for his future, something better than his present situation. He hoped for a sign. As he inspected the scene below, a river boat hand looked up at him, holding his eyes for a second. The sailor raised a hand and the officer b
owed slightly from the waist.
A tall, slight young man entered the room, crossing to stand just behind the soldier. Clearing his throat, he spoke. "Bonjour, mon commandant". The blue and red figure turned to look at him. Jean-Marie Balthazar d'Orgueil looked down his long, high-bridged nose at the man who addressed him. An expression of studied disdain was almost hidden behind a fixed stare and long, waxed mustaches.
The contrast between the two men could hardly have been greater. D'Orgueil stood five foot, ten inches tall in regulation shoes. He possessed the figure characteristic of his Gascon heritage. It is said of the men of Languedoc that they are "as wide as they are tall". His broad torso and bull neck supported a head that looked like a tree stump. Between the open lapels of his coat there was a wide expanse of blue sash partly hidden by a black waistcoat with small brass buttons. A curved Zouave saber hung at his side.
The other man wore grey morning clothes. He carried himself with the air of confident correctness so common in career diplomats. "I am so pleased that you could join us,” he said. “General Druot is in with the minister now. Would you like coffee?"
An aged footman of immense dignity stood to one side waiting for orders. The stooped, white haired man wore black formal dress. Across his stomach a gold chain closed the front of his coat.
"Yes, why not", laughed D'Orgueil. "I suppose we will wait for the great ones to finish their little chat.. I assume that you have no Turkish coffee hidden away in the depths of this mausoleum?"
The old man shook his head. "You would assume incorrectly, sir. We have many foreign visitors."
"Wonderful! Medium sugar. I hear from your voice that you are from the Southwest. Where?"
"A lbi."
D'Orgueil strode across the room to one of the artfully arranged seating areas. He warily lowered his considerable bulk into a Louis XVI chair and looked up to inspect the tapestry hanging on the wall before him. It depicted a mythical scene of uncertain origin. The center of the piece was commanded by a banquet table at the center of which sat Janus, the two faced, two headed god of beginnings.
"Nice town, Albi," d'Orgueil remarked without taking his eyes from the god. "Although I can't say that I care much for the cathedral. Too much painting for my taste, too much painting of death, too much judging of, of, everyone really." He looked at the waiter. "How long have you been in Paris, in the North?"
"Thirty years, sir."
D'Orgueil frowned, the brown eyes disappearing in the general contraction of his deeply tanned face. "A long time, I have never lived in the north. I was in Africa. My wife wanted me to take this post. She wanted to leave the ‘bled.’ She thought it would help my career. Now she is gone, and I am here...” The pain crept up close to the surface for a moment.
The waiter looked away. "I will bring the coffee, sir." He bowed, and limped away toward a door.
The seated man glanced about, seeing with relief that the diplomat was no longer there to hear what he had said.
In the next room, the minister of foreign affairs and the chief of staff of the Imperial Guard met to decide his fate.
"Forty years old, and still a major! Does that tell us something?" the minister asked, looking up from the dossier before him.
General de Corps D'Armee Henri Druot picked an imaginary thread from his tunic while suppressing an impulse to say that such things did not properly concern the foreign ministry. "Only that he has a pronounced distaste for service in higher headquarters, and a preference for his beloved Africa," he said. Resplendent in gilt epaulets and buttons, he felt himself obliged to defend the army's indifference to the opinions of the civilian government.
The minister looked doubtful. "And why would he feel that way?"
Druot began to be uncomfortable. He had approved d'Orgueil's selection for a special mission. He now suspected that the minister mocked him.
"He is a fighter," the general said, surprised at the words.
"Aren't you all?"
"Yes, we are, but some really cannot live without it." Druot had to admit to himself that what he had said was true. "His whole family is this way," he continued. "They, fight. They always have." He looked moderately confused.
The minister lowered his gaze to search in the papers on his desk. "D'Orgueil," he read. "The family first appears in recorded history in the 11th century as protectors of an area of infertile plateau on the south bank of the River Lot 150 kilometers east of Bordeaux. There, they constructed a fortress around which a considerable town grew up. Liege men of the counts of Toulouse, they were strongly suspected of adherence to the Cathar heresy in the early 13th century. As proof of this, the Inquisition pointed to their evasion of service in the crusade against the Cathari. Several parties of Inquisitors who ventured into their lands to search for Cathar Perfecti who might be hidden there were never heard of again." The minister peered at the general over his pince-nez.
Druot shrugged. "Ancient history," he laughed.
The minister looked down and continued. "This development, and their firm profession of the Catholic faith after the fall of Carcassonne to the crusaders, caused the attention of the church and the king to be directed elsewhere."
"Where did you find all this?" Druot demanded. "We do not have such information in army records!"
"I am so fortunate as to have the benefit of the help of my young friend, the baron, who sits behind you."
Druot turned to see the slight figure in grey, seated by the door which led to the ante room. He turned back to the minister. "And does this matter?"
"Perhaps not, but I wish to know precisely with whom I am dealing. May I continue?"
"Of course!" Druot looked baffled.
"At the commencement of the Hundred Years War, the Seigneurs d'Orgueil pledged themselves to the Duke of Aquitaine, who was also, of course, King of England."
"A common enough thing among the ancient Gascon nobility of the sword," the general remarked defensively.
"Quite so. Quite so. Their castle was taken by storm in the course of the war. It, and the surrounding town, were utterly destroyed by the French forces."
"Really? Destroyed?" Druot was astonished.
"Yes, destroyed, and most of the family executed on the site," the baron remarked from behind him. "Unusual. I take it to be indicative of the grave injuries which they had previously done to the cause of France."
"And what then? What happened then?" the glittering general asked, taken up in the story despite himself.
"They fought on," the baron said softly. "They led a "Free Company" which was directly in the pay of the English king. It seems to have been recruited from Englishmen, Spaniards, and the peasants of their former lands. The final defeat of the English was the occasion for further executions. The male survivors fled to Britain and Spain for a time, returning only when there came an opportunity to take service with the Catholic forces in the Wars of Religion. This, of course, accomplished their, rehabilitation."
"And the women?" the general asked.
"The d'Orgueil women have always married well enough to insure the persistence of the family," the baron said.
His master, the minister listened attentively and motioned that he should continue.
"The blood is widespread among the minor nobles of the Southwest, as well as in several prominent merchant families of Bordeaux, and London."
"London!"
"Yes, their alliance dates back to.."
"The Hundred Years War?"
"Just so,” the baron said. “It should be mentioned that the men have devoted themselves to the military profession with astonishing perseverance. They have cultivated the soil on the same stony heights, and they have followed the drum, all these years. Surprisingly, there are not many priests among them." He discovered that no one was listening and fell silent.
Druot ruminated for a time. "His wife was English," he finally said. "A lovely woman, so blond, so refined. A great tragedy, her death last year, so unexpected."
"She was a dist
ant cousin,” the baron said. “The d'Orgueils are connected to some of these families in almost every generation." The baron seemed to relish the idea. "They all speak English easily. It is a family tradition."
The minister appeared thoughtful.
"And, the American connection?" General Druot asked.
"A h!" The minister exclaimed, searching through the papers. "Our friend's grandfather was the brother of the grandmother of Monsieur Devereux, the secessionist agent at Washington. Colonel Jourdain's friend," he added.
"This was part of the pattern of their alliances?"
"The Champagne military family of Berthier is well known, I believe?" the baron asked.
"But, of course! Ah! Yes! It is the pattern." After a moment Druot spoke again, suspicion in his voice. "Jourdain asked for d'Orgueil by name."
"Devereux suggested him when the colonel raised the question of an observer," the baron said.
"It is only natural," the minister commented. "They are cousins, and know each other slightly."
"How is that?"
"Their little bank has a branch here, just by the Bourse," the baron replied. I believe that Devereux aided his kinsman in some small affair of farm finance several years ago when he was the director. Actually, I think Devereux visited the place."
"What place?"
The minister searched.
"Cabanac, in Quercy." the baron said. "It is hard by the site of the destroyed castle. The church still stands. 13th century Romanesque, I am told, very picturesque. He was baptized there, our Comandant d'Orgueil. His parents are buried in the churchyard."
"What do they grow there?"
"Grapes, and goats. Nothing else will grow on those stony heights." "Are they loyal?" the minister enquired of the general.
Druot held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, and waved one at the baron. "As he says, they have been an enduring presence in the army for as long as anyone can remember. They adhered to the late Emperor's cause early and fought all the way to the end. One of them died at Quatre-Bras. They seem always to seek the enemy's presence on the battlefield. Their losses were terrible." His voice trailed off.
Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 3