The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  How, Roger wondered, with Barras still the most prominent man in the Directory, had Fouché not only secured permission to return to Paris but become Minister of Police, the most powerful official in the capital? Before opening Fouché’s letter he had felt so fully assured of his own security. Now, as he slowly drank his wine, he endeavoured to assess how seriously it might be threatened by this extraordinary change in the fortunes of his old enemy.

  Had Fouché emerged again as a private individual or even in some minor post, Roger would have had little to fear. Apart from occurrences during his first year in France, of which only Talleyrand and Fouché knew, his record was unassailable. With his many friends in high places, Barras and Bonaparte among them, he could have laughed to scorn an accusation by any ordinary ex-terrorist; but if the Minister of Police personally vouched for it that he knew Colonel Breuc to be an Englishman and a secret agent, that would be a very different matter.

  In France, for the past eight years, all protection of the liberty of the individual had ceased to exist. There was no such law as Habeas Corpus, or any Court before which an accused person might demand to be heard. The country had been ruled by a succession of tyrants who maintained themselves by giving full powers to their secret police to suppress all opposition. Many thousands of people had been arrested merely on suspicion and had been imprisoned indefinitely or shipped off to die in the fever-ridden penal settlements at Cayenne. So Roger now had to face the appalling thought that Fouché could arrest him and, unless he could very speedily get help, order his immediate transportation. Roger had no doubt that Bonaparte would intervene on his behalf. But the Corsican must be immersed as never before in his secret struggle with the Directory; and he might not even hear of Roger’s arrest until the latter was a prisoner in the hold of a ship well out in the Atlantic.

  Before many minutes had passed, he decided that his one hope of protecting himself lay in informing his friends of his danger so that, should he fail to return from his interview with Fouché, they would at once take steps to do what they could for him. Yet he also saw that for him to run round Paris telling all and sundry that he feared he was about to be arrested as an English spy was out of the question. The old adage, ‘qui s’excuse s’accuse’ flashed into his mind. As yet he had not even been accused, so what possible grounds could he give for fearing that he would be?

  It was then he recalled that, at the moment he had received the bombshell, he had been about to freshen himself up before going to call on Talleyrand. He finished his wine at a draught, then went up to his room. Talleyrand was the one man who knew as much about him as did Fouché, so he could at least consult him without throwing suspicion on himself. It was most unfortunate that the ex-Bishop was no longer Foreign Minister; but though he now lacked the power to protect a friend he could still be counted on for good advice.

  Fifteen minutes later Roger left La Belle Etoile in a sedan chair for the Rue Taitbout, where he learned that Talleyrand had moved on leaving the official residence of the Foreign Minister in the Rue du Bac. Darkness had come and rain with it, converting the surface of the streets into inch-deep mud. As his chairmen sloshed through it Roger thought how terribly the state of Paris had deteriorated since he had first known it.

  Then, though the streets were narrow, they had been reasonably clean and there were scores of fine mansions in which hundreds of wax candles burned every night. Now, the streets were pot-holed and half choked with refuse. Hardly a glimmer of light was to be seen. The mansions had leaking roofs and broken windows; most of them had become rat-infested tenements, while many of the formerly splendid churches had been turned into shoddy dance halls or gaming dens. The Armies of France had sent back thousands of millions of francs, extorted from conquered countries, yet the Governments had been so corrupt and inefficient that money was never forthcoming to stop the capital from falling into an ever-worse state of rack and ruin.

  Talleyrand’s house had a courtyard flanked by two pavilions. It was one of the few that, owing to his genius for acquiring money, and a good taste that no money could buy, was kept up with the same elegance that had graced those of the old nobility. After Roger’s many months spent in the cramped quarters of ships going to and fro across the Mediterranean, and in the insalubrious East, the very sight and warmth of the handsomely furnished hall cheered him a little; but to his annoyance he learned that the master was out, making a round of the salons.

  When he said he would await M. de Talleyrand’s return, the footman fetched the Majordomo. This portly factotum recognised Roger and said he feared his master might not return home for several hours. But Roger said it was imperative that he should see M. de Talleyrand that night; so the Majordomo showed him into an ante-room, had the footman bring him wine and biscuits, then left him.

  For a while he continued to muse over the alarming turn his fortunes had so suddenly taken; but after a time it struck him that no good could come from his spending half the night brooding, so he had better find some other way to employ his mind. The ante-room contained two bookcases and a large, mahogany rack containing news-sheets. On glancing at these he found that they were the files of the Moniteur for several months past; so he spread out some of the sheets on the table and began to look through them.

  He already knew that in the previous June there had been a further change in the Directory and another bloodless revolution, termed the coup d’état of Prairil. Now he was able to follow its course through the official reports of speeches in the Five Hundred and, from his knowledge of the principal participants, more or less read between the lines what had taken place.

  It was clear to him that, when Rewbell had retired from the Directory in May, the Abbé Sieyès—then the Ambassador of France in Berlin—had been elected in his place, not because the remaining Directors wanted him but because the Assembly had forced him upon them.

  That they had done so was further evidence of the country’s desperate desire for an end of corruption and inefficiency. Sieyés at least had a reputation for honesty and although he was cunning enough to make few public pronouncements, he was credited with profound wisdom. The Directory had failed so dismally as a form of government that it was felt on all sides that a change in the Constitution was long overdue. Who could produce one with more likelihood of converting the muck-heap inherited from the Revolution into a modern Utopia than this dry-as-dust little Abbé who, for years, had posed as another Solon? Moreover while on the one hand he had never been an active terrorist, so would curb the Jacobins, on the other he was a veteran anti-Royalist and had voted for the King’s death, so could be trusted to preserve the principles of the Revolution.

  But by the time Sieyès had arrived from Berlin new elections had taken place, greatly strengthening the Jacobin Party in the Five Hundred. They had violently denounced the Directory and forced through a law restoring freedom to the Press. This had led to scores of articles and pamphlets appearing, attacking the Directory and especially the opposition to reform displayed by Lareyellière, Merlin and Treil-hard. Sieyés had obviously seen the necessity for getting rid of them, and Barras, playing as ever for his own hand, must have aided him.

  As a first step, although Treilhard had served on the Directory for a year, an illegality disqualifying him from holding office was suddenly discovered, and Gohier, a staunch Republican who had formerly been a Minister of Justice, was elected in his place. Then, on the 30th of Prairial, they had put on the time-worn act of sending a message to the two Chambers, declaring the country ‘to be in danger’. Uproar had followed and that evening, to prevent bloodshed, Larevelliére and Merlin had agreed to resign. To succeed them the Councils had elected Roger Ducos—who, like Sieyés, never committed himself to anything for which he might later be called to account—and General Moulins, a morose and incompetent man who had been put up because he was too stupid to prove a menace to anyone.

  If the object of all these intrigues, vitriolic articles and night-long hurling of insults in the Two Chambe
rs had been to introduce a more moderate form of government, then it had failed dismally. The Jacobins, not so much through numbers as by threats of violence, now dominated the Five Hundred, and both the Anciens and the Director appeared incapable of controlling them.

  They had resurrected the Jacobin Club. Over one hundred and fifty Deputies joined it and its sessions were held in the Manege, where Danton had thundered, Robespierre had advocated merciless decrees and the King’s death had been voted. They had formed a Committee of Eleven which was laying claim to the powers of the old Committee of Public Safety. All this had the full approval of the two fanatically Republican Directors—Gohier and Moulins—and three Generals of the first rank—Bernadotte, Jourdan and Auger-eau—belonged to their party.

  Their attitude was typified by the Law of Hostages, which they had succeeded in pushing through in July. Hoche, by securing a degree of toleration for the Catholics in La Vendée, had at last succeeded in pacifying Brittany; but the Government had not kept its side of the bargain, so fresh disturbances had broken out there. To suppress them it had been decreed that, in the twelve rebellious Departments, the Republican authorities should choose hostages from among the relations of émigrés and ci-devant nobles. These innocent people were to be imprisoned forthwith. Then, for every Republican killed by the partisans, four hostages were to have their entire property seized and to be transported to Cayenne.

  The Jacobins were hated by the vast majority of the people, but they were also feared; for their ruthless minority included among its members not only Directors, Generals and many Deputies, but a great number of officials in the administration and the police. It was reported that at the Café Godeau, near the Tuileries, the revolutionaries who assembled there had vowed that they would slaughter ten thousand victims to the shade of Robespierre, and that they drank nightly to a return to the days of ’93 when they would again see the guillotine at work in the Place du Carrousel.

  As Roger absorbed all this he no longer had cause to wonder how it was that a man with Joseph Fouché’s record had succeeded in getting himself made Minister of Police.

  It was past midnight when Talleyrand appeared. Despising cloth for evening wear as plebeian, he was dressed in wine-coloured satin and, indifferent to the jibes of the Jacobins, still wore his hair powdered. Raising his quizzing-glass on its broad black ribbon, he eyed Roger through it from the doorway, bowed and said with a smile:

  ‘My poor friend, I am told you have been waiting here for hours. If only I had known——’

  ‘But you did not,’ Roger said quickly. ‘And it is I who should apologise for bothering you at such an hour. I trust, though, that you will give me a few minutes, as the matter is urgent.’

  ‘Why, certainly. But what do I see?’ The statesman’s glance fell on the table. ‘Cold Claret and a few biscuits. My people have neglected you shamefully. This is no fit fare for that gallant soldier “le brave Breuc”.’

  Roger flushed slightly. ‘I’ve done little to earn such an appellation and wonder that anyone should have told you of it.’

  ‘One hears things, you know; one hears things.’ Talleyrand turned to the footman behind him. ‘Henri, have the centres of some brioches removed and the shells stuffed with foie-gras; and fetch a bottle of champagne from the ice locker.’ Turning back to Roger, he added:

  ‘Champagne is the only possible drink after midnight’ Tell me, now; in what way can I be of service to you?’

  ‘It seems,’ Roger replied, ‘that you have heard something of the way in which I have risked my life several times during the past seventeen months. May I ask whether you are now fully convinced about what I told you when last we met—that, since joining General Bonaparte’s Staff, I have regarded myself as a Frenchman?’

  ‘Why, yes. That is, dear friend, as fully convinced as my unhappily low assessment of human nature ever allows me to be about anything. But at least I know you to be no fool. Having laid the foundations of such a promising career for yourself in France, I cannot think you would be so stupid as to risk throwing it away by aiding France’s enemies.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it; for one person remains who, like yourself, knows that I am Admiral Brook’s son. And I have reason to fear that he intends to ruin me.’

  ‘Who is this tiresome individual?’

  ‘Joseph Fouché.’

  Talleyrand raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed! That is most unfortunate. Fouché is the most dangerous blackguard unhung, and if you have made an enemy of him in the past your case is serious.’

  ‘Alas, I have; and this evening I received a letter from him requiring me to report to him at his Ministry. Should he arrest me, I was hoping that I might count on your protection.’

  Before replying, Talleyrand took out his snuff-box, tapped the lid, took a pinch and dusted the specks from his satin coat with a flick of his lace handkerchief. Then he said gravely, ‘I would give it you willingly, had I the means; but I am at the moment no more than a private citizen.’

  Roger nodded. ‘I knew that you were no longer Foreign Minister. A rumour reached us in Egypt that you had been deprived of your post owing to a difference of opinion with some Americans, and I was most distressed to hear it.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Talleyrand gave his low, rich laugh. ‘My compliments on the delicacy of the way in which you put it. Our “difference of opinion” was that those boors refused to subscribe to accepted European custom and pay me a miserable hundred thousand francs before I would enter into negotiations with them about some of their ships we were holding. But I was not deprived of my post. I resigned, and that although no pressure was brought on me to do so.’

  ‘You surprise me.’ Roger raised his eyebrows. ‘May one ask what led you to give up such an interesting and er … lucrative post?’

  ‘You may. I had made enough out of it to live respectably for some time to come and, although I should resent anyone else terming me a rat, you will know the old proverb about rats leaving the sinking ship. The Directory is doomed and I have an aversion to being drowned. Moreover, the canaille had become so vociferous about me that I felt it politic to retire into private life for a while. When the Legislature again gave freedom to the Press I became the target for every kind of abuse. They even had the impudence to write most scur-rilously about my private life and, still worse, to question my foreign policy. As you are aware, I have always maintained that the only hope for lasting peace and prosperity in Europe lies in a rapprochement between France and Britain. They dubbed me an emigré Anglophile and asserted that my aim was to wreck the Revolution. As though it could be wrecked further than it already had been by those foul-mouthed, bloodthirsty Jacobins.’

  At that moment the footman arrived with the champagne and brioches. Standing up, Talleyrand limped over to the table and poured the wine himself. As he handed a glass to Roger he went on, ‘So, by resigning when I did, I both diverted the attentions of the mud-slingers from myself and gracefully bowed my way out of this Government that is now execrated by everybody. But, of course, I took steps to continue doing what little I could to prevent the Directory from further poisoning our foreign relations. I persuaded them to appoint my old friend, Reinhard, in my place. He is a most admirable man and accepts my guidance without question. He realises, too, that he is no more than a stop-gap and will take no umbrage at my replacing him as soon as we can get rid of those dolts now occupying the Luxembourg.’

  ‘You are convinced, then, that the Government will fall?’ Roger asked, before taking a large bite out of one of the delicious brioches.

  ‘As certain as one can be of anything. But I have digressed too long. When do you propose to pay your call on Fouché?’

  ‘Tomorrow; or rather, this morning. It would certainly not improve my case to wait until he has me fetched. All I can do is put a bold face on matters, endeavour to convince him, as I have you, that I have served France well in these past two years and intend to continue to do so; and trust that, powerful though he has become, he will
think twice before having me arrested as a secret agent. After all, it is only his word against mine that I was not born a Frenchman, and should he arbitrarily spirit me away I am sure you will be good enough to set on foot enquiries as to what has become of me.’

  ‘On that you may rely. Go to him early. Tell him you have an appointment with me here at midday. That may give him pause. Should you not be here by twelve o’clock I will go straight to Bonaparte. I had a long interview with him this morning and during it enquired after you. He holds you in high regard and, as you are one of his aides-de-camp, he is entitled to demand an explanation as to why you are being held. Even so, I shall be much relieved if you are able to keep our appointment. As Minister of Police, Fouché has almost unlimited powers and is answerable to no one other than the Directory. If he does detain you it may prove far from easy to get you out of his clutches.’

  ‘It is that I fear. And I am most grateful to you for what you propose to do. When last I saw him, he had just received an order of banishment signed by Barras. To find him back here in Paris and wielding such power came as a great shock to me. How in the world has such a villain succeeded in making his way back into public life?’

  Talleyrand smiled. ‘Dear friend, you have answered yourself. Because he is a villain. Birds of a feather, you know. This past year or more, the Directory has had the greatest difficulty in surviving. It has succeeded only by the use of bribery, blackmail and treachery. It is by no means easy to find officials willing to employ such methods who are, at the same time, capable administrators. And no one could question Fouché’s ability. When he bobbed up again, they decided to let bygones be bygones and reap the benefit of his special talent for villainy.’