Having crossed the Seine by the Pont New he made his way to the Cafe Coraeza, which had been virtually an annex of the Cordeliers, and there enquired for the Passage Pappilote. It proved to be little more than a short cul-de-sac, as at its far end it narrowed to a dark archway through which nothing wider than a barrow could have passed. Lit only by a single bracket lamp affixed to a corner building that abutted on the main street, the greater part of it was in deep shadow; but Roger succeeded in identifying Fouché's house, noted that there were lights behind the drawn blinds of its two upper windows, and rapped sharply on the front door.
There were sounds of someone coming downstairs, then the door was opened by a red-headed young woman carrying a candle. She was an ugly anaemic-looking creature, and Roger recognized her at once as the middle-class heiress who had brought Fouché a modest fortune on his marriage to her three years before.
When asked if her husband was in she replied that he was not, and might not be back for some time; so without stating his business, Roger thanked her and said that he would call again in the morning.
As she closed the door his retreating footsteps rang loudly on the cobbles. But he did not go far. After waiting in the main street for five minutes, he tiptoed back and took up a position within a few feet of Fouché's front door, but bidden in the deep shadow cast by a nearby projecting wall.
Madame Fouché had not recognized him, and he now felt confident that none of the people he had known in Paris was likely to do so. That would be a big advantage if a warrant was issued for his arrest, and he had to leave the city in a hurry. But if he were compelled to do that it would mean the failure of his mission.
.The trouble was that to do any good he must disclose his return to, and re-establish himself in his old identity with, the very people who were most likely to get him thrown into prison. Of these, by far the most dangerous, was Joseph Fouché.
Fouché was doubly dangerous because he knew Roger's real name and nationality. It was very probable that he had passed that information on to other people after Roger had last left Paris; but he, at all events, was fully aware that Roger was an English spy. Therefore, as a first step, before anything else could be attempted, Roger had to find out if he had passed on that information, and to whom; then either buy his silence or kill him. ' Over an hour elapsed before Roger saw a tall, thin figure turn the corner under the lamp and come with long strides, yet quiet footfalls, towards him. He knew then that within a few minutes he must enter on the deadly contest he had set himself, and again pit his wits against a man who was as cunning as a serpent and as remorseless as a pack of jackals.
chapter xxi
INTO THE LION'S DEN
As Fouché approached, Roger slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, cocked the small pistol, and drew it out Once before he had had an opportunity to kill Fouché without endangering himself. To have done so could well have been considered as an act of justice, executed on a man who had sent many hundreds of innocent people to their deaths; but from personal scruples Roger had refrained. Now, a second chance had arisen. He had only to fire both barrels at point-blank range, then take to his heels, for Fouché to be gasping out his life in the gutter and himself swallowed up in the pitch dark night.
His hatred of Fouché was such that his fingers itched upon the triggers. Had he pressed them he would have saved himself many future dangers and difficulties; but he could not be certain that killing Fouché would make Paris again safe for himself. Only Fouché could be tricked or persuaded into telling him the degree of risk he would run should he disclose himself to their old associates.
Without suspecting his presence, Fouché walked past him to the door, took out a key, unlocked and opened it. Stepping up behind him Roger pressed the pistol into the small of his back and said quietly:
"Go inside. Make no noise. Take sue paces then turn and face me. Lift a finger or raise your voice and I shall put two bullets into your liver."
The lights in the room above had gone out soon after Roger had begun his vigil; so Madame Fouché could be assumed to have gone to bed and was, he hoped, asleep. But the narrow hall-way was still lit by a single candle in a cheap china holder on a small deal table. Without a word Fouché walked past it, then turned round. Meanwhile Roger had closed the door and stood with his back to it, watching his old enemy narrowly.
Fouché was then thirty-two, and a more unattractive looking man it would have been difficult to imagine. His cadaverous face had a corpse-like hue, his hair was thin and reddish, his eyes pale, fish-like and lacking all expression; his nose was long and, in spite of his frequent snufflings, it sometimes had a drip on its end, as he suffered from a perpetual cold. His tall, bony frame suggested that of a skeleton, and he looked too weak and ill to be capable of any effort; but no appearance could possibly have been more deceptive. Actually he possessed considerable physical strength, and his mind was such a dynamo of energy that he often worked for twenty-four hours on end without relaxation.
As a means of preventing people from guessing his thoughts he had formed the habit of never meeting anyone's eyes with his own; but his shifty glance had swiftly taken in Roger, from his bewhiskered face to his shiny boots, and after a moment his bloodless lips moved to utter the words:
"So, Englishman, you have come back."
"How did you recognize me?" Roger asked with quick interest
"By your voice, your hands, and your principal features. Any one of the three would have given me the clue to your identity. I have trained myself to be observant in such matters. There was, too, the manner of your arrival. I took it for granted that when you did appear you would take the precaution of catching me unprepared."
"You were, then, expecting me to return to Paris?"
"Certainly. I have been wondering for some months past why you had not done so."
"You surprise me somewhat as many men in my peculiar circumstances might well have decided against ever again risking their necks in this pit of vipers."
Foucne" shrugged. "Ah, but not a man of your resource and courage. How otherwise could you hope to reap the benefit of your last great coup’
"I thank you for the compliment; but I might have sent someone else on my behalf."
"That would not have been in keeping with your character. You are too vain to believe that anyone other than yourself could have played the Royal Flush you hold to the best possible advantage. You ad to return to Paris yourself, and you had to come to me." Matters were developing in a manner entirely unlike anything that Roger had visualized, and after a second's thought, he said: "You are, then, prepared to talk business?" "Of course. Surely you did not suppose that I should refuse, and do my best to get you arrested the moment your back was turned? I am not such a fool as to cut off my nose to spite my own face. Put your pistol away and come into the living-room. We will discuss our mutual interests over a glass of wine."
Roger needed no telling that not one single word Fouché uttered could be relied upon, but it now seemed possible that his formidable enemy believed that there was more to be gained from a temporary alliance than by an immediate betrayal, so he lowered his pistol and nodded.
Picking up the candlestick, Fouché led the way through a doorway opposite the foot of the stairs, and set it down on a table where some cold food had been left for him. Glancing round, Roger saw that the inside of this obscure dwelling was no better than its outside. It was clean and neat, but sparsely furnished, and inplaces the plaster was peeling from the walls. He wondered what Fouché had done with the ill-gotten gains he had accumulated during the Revolution, and assumed that this apparent poverty was no more than a mask assumed to protect himself now that the tide had turned and he might be accused of peculation.
Fouché picked up a bottle of red wine that was already a quarter empty, fetched an extra glass from a cupboard and poured out Both men sat down and Fouché made no comment when Roger, knowing that he must continue to observe every possible precaution against sudden
treachery, laid the still cocked pistol on the table beside him. Lifting his glass, Fouché said with a pale smile:
"Weill Here's to the little Capet May he make the fortunes of us both."
Roger knew that young Louis XVII would now never make anyone's fortune, but he echoed the toast and drank of the cheap red wine, then he asked:
"How, think you, can we handle the matter to the best advantage?"
With his bony hands Fouché made a little gesture to which no significance could be attached. "There appeared to me two ways to play this game. Had you arrived earlier m the year we might have lackmailed a great sum out of the Government to refrain from exposing the fact that the child in the Temple was not Marie Antoinette's son. That would have entailed handing him over to them. Alternatively, we could have sold him for an equally large sum to the emigres. But since then an event has occurred which greatly alters the situation."
Pausing, he took a mouthful of wine, then went on: "The death in June of the boy whom everyone but a few of us believed to be the young King will make the Government much less inclined to submit to blackmail. With one of the children in a grave no physical comparison of them can now be made, and as Citizen Simon so debased the real little Capet, turning him into a witless caricature of his former self, should they take the line that we have produced a fake most people would believe them. That factor, too, now seriously prejudices our chances of selling him to the emigres. The Comte de Provence, having had himself proclaimed King, can hardly be expected to welcome the resurrection of his nephew, and might decide also to declare the boy a fake, whether he really believed that to be so or not"
"What, then, do you suggest?" Roger enquired.
"Whether your arrival in Paris at this time is the result of excellent intelligence or simply chance, I do not know. But the fact remains that it could not be more opportune. Within a few days it is certain that a coup d'etat will be attempted. Unless fate introduces some unforeseen factor, there is every reason to believe that it will prove a successful one. Barras and his crew will be swept away and the so-called Moderates will emerge triumphant. In fact, they are not Moderates but Reactionaries, as nearly all of them have now secretly become Monarchists at heart, and in that a great part of the nation is like them."
Again Fouché paused to take a sip of wine. "There are plenty of people in Paris who saw the real little Capet when he was still a prisoner in the Temple and, the spirit of the nation now being what it is, after a coup d'etat would be prepared to swear that the child you could produce is he. Therefore, as I see it, all we have to do is to take into our confidence a few men of influence, and at the right moment present die boy to the new Government. Having secured his person they would be m no danger of losing their posts to a crowd of emigre's, and by forming a Council of Regency they could reign in his name. The Bourbon Princes would at first declare the whole thing a fraud, but later they would have to come to heel, and probably be permitted to return. Whatever line they took would not affect us in the least; for you and I would be the men who had restored the young King to his throne, and from him receive our reward. We should, too, have good prospects of becoming the most powerful men in the State. What say you to that?"
Roger had always known Fouché to have a brilliant mind, but even so he was filled with admiration for the simplicity, yet subtleness, of the proposed plot. By making the new Government a present of the boy all the difficulties and dangers entailed in an endeavour to blackmail it were automatically eliminated; and the prospects of obtaining great rewards would be infinitely better than through long negotiations with the Bourbon Princes, which might end in failure or betrayal. The men who should be in power within a week could not conceivably fail to see how greatly it would be to their advantage to proclaim a Restoration, for, as members of a Council of Regency, their own positions would be secured* and, by bringing about a Restoration in this way, instead of having to fight the emigris over every clause in a new Constitution, they could dictate one embodying all the liberal doctrines they believed in themselves.
Even with the certain knowledge that, at some point in the conspiracy, Fouché would have done his utmost to trick him out of his. share in the triumph, Roger would have been greatly tempted to enter into such a partnership. But there could be no question of that; for the golden link in the chain which alone could have made the plot possible was no longer in existence. Despite that, Roger's strongest card lay in Fouché's belief that he still held it; so, having no option but to play the game out, he said:
"'Tis a truly masterly conception. Only one thing in it surprises me. I had never thought to hear you plan a Restoration."
Fouché shrugged. Times change. The era when a politician could earn a tolerable remuneration by occasionally allowing the sansculottes to have their heads is over. I have a wife and child to think of, and I must provide for them somehow. Already I am in dire straits and an object of persecution by the Moderates. This is my chance to re-establish myself once and for all, and secure my future. Did not the Protestant King, Henri Quatre, declare that to win over Paris it was worth going to Mass? Well, for the portfolio of a Minister and the Order of St Louis, I should not find it too great a price to kiss that repugnant youngster's hand."
Knowing the way in which Fouché had already more than once repudiated his sworn political convictions and betrayed his backers, Roger could well believe him; so with a nod he said tactfully: "It is not the first time that a man has felt himself compelled to sacrifice his opinions for the sake of his dependants. But tell me, why do you suggest taking others into our confidence? It seems to me neither necessary nor wise."
"It is a wise man who knows his own weakness," Fouché retorted with a bitter laugh. "And politically, at this moment, I am as weak as a new-born babe. From last spring, when the Girondin Deputies were allowed to return to the Chamber, my position has become ever more precarious. They refuse to believe that it was Collot and not I who was mainly responsible for the massacres at Lyons, although it can be proved that I put an end to them as soon as I dared, and then at some risk to myself. The agitation against me reached a peak eight weeks ago. With several others I was denounced in the Chamber by Boissy d'Anglas and our arrest was decreed."
With a snuffle he broke off to blow his nose, refilled Roger's glass and went on. "Fortunately, having been privy to so many matters, I was able to persuade certain still influential people that it was not in their best interests to send me to prison; so the warrant was not put into execution. Then, ten days ago, with the promulgation of the new Constitution, an amnesty was granted to all imprisoned on charges like that against myself; so the warrant is no longer valid. Nevertheless, my enemies have succeeded in undoing me; for jointly with the amnesty it was decreed that no one named in it should be eligible for election to the new Assembly. So, you see, I no longer have even the status of a Deputy; and, having been stripped of all credit, must for this coup seek the co-operation of others in whom the men of tomorrow will place a greater trust."
In view of Fouché's record, it was remarkable that he should have saved himself from the fate that had overtaken Carrier and other leading Robespierrists; yet, somehow, Roger had not expected to find him reduced to such complete impotence. That, with his remarkable brain, should he retain his freedom, he would not remain in obscurity for very long, seemed a foregone conclusion; and Roger asked with considerable interest whom he thought the most promising men to approach on the present business.
"Freron for one," he replied promptly. _
Roger raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Recalling the treatment he meted out to the anti-Revolutionaries in Toulon after its evacuation by the Allies, I should have thought him to be in no better case than yourself."
"He is well on the way to living that down, for he has acted with great shrewdness. Soon after liberty was restored to the Press he again began to edit and publish a journal called L’Orateur du Peuple. It has now been running for over a year, and every month it has become more r
eactionary. In fact, he has now become the idol of the Jeunesse doree, and wields great influence with all in the Chamber who incline to the Right."
"That was certainly a clever way of whitewashing himself. Who else?"
"Tallien."
"What! Has that old wolf also procured himself a suit of sheep's clothing?"
Fouché gave a sickly grin. "He had, but he has since spilt much blood upon it Therefore he will be only too eager to cleanse it in the Royal washing tub to which we can give him access."
"I am at a loss to understand you."
"Did you not hear of the part he played after the Quiberon affair?" "No. I have conversed with hardly anyone since my return to France."
"Well, then, you will recall that in '94, for all their burning of villages and ferocity, General Turreau's colonnes infernales failed to suppress the revolts in La Vendee. After Robespierre's fall General Hoche was sent there to replace him. Hoche is not only a good soldier but an able young diplomat Instead of shooting all the prisoners he took, he treated them humanely, then recommended a general amnesty. That is why after the landing at Quiberon had been defeated, the emigres who had come from England surrendered to him, instead of fighting on and selling their lives dearly. They expected to be treated as prisoners of war. But Tallien was sent as Representant en Mission from Paris to take charge of matters, and, despite Hoche's pleading, he had all the emigres of good family—six hundred and twelve of them—shot"
Roger endeavoured to keep the horror out of his voice, as he asked: "What in the world impelled him to such an act, when for over a year the guillotine has been used on no one but a few Robespierrists, and thousands of monarchists have been liberated from the prisons?"
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