"In what way? With the actual blackmailer you now have the means to deal. Fouché has acted only as a go-between."
"Even so, that has enabled him to learn La Belle Creole's secret. Admittedly he could bring no proof of her lapse, whatever it may have been; but there is nought to stop him from accusing her of it. How he gets his information these days, I've no idea; but somehow he had picked up the rumour that she is contemplating marriage with Buonaparte. Unless you provide him with something to keep has mouth shut, there is always the risk that out of spite he will go to the General. His word alone, if the story he tells is sufficiently plausible, might be enough to put Buonaparte off the match; then we d have had all our trouble for nothing."
"I see, I see," Barras murmured, half closing his eyes. "You are right. In that way he might still upset our plans at the last moment; and the one thing we cannot afford to risk is the marriage falling through after Buonaparte has been appointed to the command of the Army of Italy. Very well then."
Taking another sheet of headed paper he wrote several lines upon it, signed it, sanded it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, then gave it to Roger with the remark:
"There! That should serve to keep his mouth shut. Take it to him with my compliments. When you have dealt with the other matter I should be glad if you would return here, however late the hour may be. I must know that everything has been settled satisfactorily before the Comite meets tomorrow morning."
Roger took the jewelled watch from his fob and glanced at it. "The time is now ten minutes past seven. I see no reason, if the woman is at home, why this business should take me more than two hours. Should it do so you will know that I am having to wait at her dwelling for her; but at latest I should be back by midnight."
Down in the great entrance hall he presented his order for a squad of men to the Lieutenant on duty, who from the reserve guard furnished him with a Corporal and three guardsmen. A hired coach was called up and they all got into it. then Roger gave the coachman Fouché's address, as he had decided to see him first before making the much longer journey to the other side of the river.
They were hardly out of the Palace courtyard before it became apparent that the Corporal, a middle-aged man with a walrus moustache, who said his name was Peltier, was both garrulous and disgruntled. Now that free speech could again be indulged in without fear of prosecution, everyone aired their criticisms of the Government, but he seemed particularly bitter about the turn things had taken.
He was, he declared, a 'patriot', and had deserved far better of his country than it had done for him. Had he not been one of those who had led the attack on the Bastille on the never-to-be-forgotten 14th of July, and fought with the brutal Swiss Guards in the gardens of the Tuileries on the equally glorious day when the Tyrant and his Austrian Whore had been made prisoners by the People; yet here he was still a Corporal. And the country had gone from bad to worse. He and men like him had shed their blood to rid it of the aristos who for centuries had battened on its life-blood. For a while it had looked as if true liberty had dawned at last; but the Revolution was being betrayed by self-seekers and speculators. They were letting the aristos come back, and worse, imitating them. What was needed was another Marat to rouse the People to their danger, and another Santerre to lead the men of the Faubourgs against the reactionaries.
Far from being impressed, Roger listened to this tirade with some impatience. He thought it unlikely that the man had been at the taking of the Bastille, and doubted if he had ever shot at anyone capable of returning his fire. He was a typical ex-sans-culotte, for whom 'liberty' meant the right to rob, rape and murder his betters without fear of reprisal and who had almost certainly got himself into the Convention Guard in order to escape being called up and sent on active service.
As they had not far to go the drive was soon over. Pulling up the coach at the entrance to the cul-de-sac in which Fouché lived, Roger got out, walked along to his house and knocked on the door. It was opened by Fouché himself. With a word of greeting Roger handed him the missive from Barras, and said:
"I bring this with Barras's compliments. He agreed that you merit attention and should be given a new field, even if a small one, for your talents. Twill at least enable you to say good-bye to your pigs." Then, having no love for Fouché, he bid him an abrupt good night, turned on his heel and walked back towards the coach.
He was only half-way to it when he heard a shout. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Fouché was running after him, so he halted and called out:
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"The matter!" screamed Fouché" waving the document that Barras had sent him. "Why this? This infernal order! How dare you trick me in this fashion."
. "I've played no trick upon you," Roger exclaimed in surprise. .
Stamping with rage Fouché shook the offending document in his face. "You must have known what was in this! You must have! Your own words as you gave it me condemn you. 'Twill enable you to say good-bye to your pigs.' That is what you said. And that Barras 'agreed that I should be given a new field'. A new field indeed! Oh, Mort Dieu, Mort Dieu! May you both be damned for ever!"
Roger stared at him uncomprehendingly, and muttered: "I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about."
"My poor wife! My little daughter!" Fouché exclaimed with a sob. "As though things were not bad enough with us already. And now this!" Suddenly he burst into tears.
It was at that moment that a footfall behind Roger caused him to turn. To his annoyance he saw that Corporal Peltier had left the coach and was lumbering towards them.
"Get back to the coach," he said sharply. "This is no business of yours." But the garrulous Corporal came to a halt, stood his ground, and declared truculently:
"Oh yes it is! That's Citizen Fouché standin' there. I thought I recognized 'is voice when I 'eard 'im 'olla. 'E's one o' the best, an' an ole frien' o' mine. What's goin' on 'ere? What 'ave yer done to 'im?"
"I had to bring him some bad news," snapped Roger. "Now, begone with you."
Fouché had meanwhile regained control of himself, and as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief, the Corporal, ignoring Roger's order, addressed him.
"Remember me, Citizen Fouche7? Name of Jacques Peltier. I were in Lyons with yer. What times we 'ad there, eh? Remember 'ow we tied the Bible ter the donkey's tail an' fed 'im on 'oly wafers; then made them nuns dance the Carmagnol? What a night we 'ad of it too wi' some o' them novices. Those were the days. No one couldn't push a patriot arahnd then. You must remember me, Jacques Peltier."
"Yes," snuffled Fouché "Yes, Citizen Peltier, I remember you. But we are discussing a private matter; so be pleased to leave us."
"Oh, orlright then," the Corporal shrugged. "Only I don't like ter see an ole frien' pushed arahnd; an’ there's a limit ter wot we should stand from these dandified new bosses they give us."
The last remark was clearly directed at Roger, who swung round on him and said in the icy tone that he knew so well how to use on occasions: "Do you not keep a civil tongue in your head, I'll report you to Citizen Director Barras and have your uniform stripped from your back. Now; leave us this instant!"
Cowed by the voice of authority, the man shuffled off, still muttering to himself. Turning back to Fouché, Roger said: "I have little time to waste, but if you have any complaint to make we had better go inside. I've no mind to stand here wrangling within earshot of that big oaf and the other men."
Without a word Fouché stalked back to the house and through into its living-room. Roger followed and, as they came to a halt on the other side of the table, asked:
"Now! What is it you are making such a fuss about?"
"How can you have the face to ask, when you must know," Fouché retorted angrily.
"I tell you I do not!"
"Then read that!" As Fouché spoke he flung the document down on the table.
Picking it up, Roger scanned it quickly. It was on official paper and read:
ORDER OF BANISHMENT
To the Citizen Joseph Fouché.
On receipt of this the citizen above named will leave Paris within twelve hours. He is forthwith forbidden to take up his residence at any place within twenty leagues of the Capital, or to return to it on any pretext without a permission endorsed by the undersigned.
He is also forbidden for reasons of State to communicate in any way with the Citoyenne Josephine de Beauharnais, the Citizen General Buonaparte, or the Citoyenne Remy.
Should he disobey either of the above injunctions he will make himself liable to transportation for life.
Paul Barras,
For the Directory.
Suddenly Roger burst out laughing. It struck him as incredibly funny that Fouché, the ace of tricksters, should have been tricked himself. Even if he had thought of spiking Fouché's guns in this way he could not decently have done so; but Barras, being committed by no promise, had awarded the rogue his just deserts.
"Well, I'll be damned," he exclaimed, still bubbling with mirth. "I asked Barras to give you something that would keep you out of mischief, and he could hardly have done so better."
"You did intend to ruin me, then!" Fouché cried, frothing at the mouth with rage.
"No, no. I kept to my word. I asked him first for a post in the Police for you; then for one in some other department. He would not hear of the first; but at length, with reluctance as I thought, gave me this."
"If that is true, you can still save me. Return to him and get the order withdrawn."
"Nay. Barras is not a man who goes back on his decisions."'
"He will if you plead for me. I insist that you do! You owe it to me! You promised to get me a post in the Administration, even if it had to be a minor one."
"I did nothing of the kind!'* Roger was now angry too. "I said only that I would do my best for you. Barras decided on this step without my knowledge; and I tell you frankly that I find his way of dealing with the matter highly suitable. You had it in your power to wreck Madame de Beauharnais's life and that of her two children. You used that power without the least scruple in an endeavour to forward your own interests. Had you succeeded in your design you then meant to turn upon Madame Remy, who had employed you as her agent, and have her transported to Cayenne. That you have been caught in your own toils is poetic justice. Aye, and had I been in Barras's place it would not be banishment that I would have meted out to you, but transportation."
"Now you stand revealed in your true colours," Fouché cried, again trembling with fury. "After what you have said how could anyone believe that you had no hand in this?"
"Believe what you like! I give not a rap," declared Roger roundly. "I have had to use you for my own purposes and am now delighted to be shot of you, for I rate you the vilest rogue unhung."
"That comes well from a cheat and liar like yourself," Fouché sneered. "You seem to have forgotten, too, that we are partners in another matter. That is why you would like to see me transported, is it not; so that when the time comes you could keep the whole of the great prize to yourself? But try to cheat me over the little Capet and I'll see to it that you meet a worse fate than being sent to Cayenne."
"The little Capet!" Roger gave an angry laugh. "Why, 'tis an age since I even gave the boy a thought. You need count no more on making your fortune out of him. He is dead."
"Dead!" gasped Fouché” "You cannot mean that! You are lying again."
"He is dead, I tell you, and has been so well above a year. It was in that I used you; buying your silence for a worthless partnership that you proposed yourself."
"Then... then I have kept your true identity secret all these months for nothing?"
"A most fitting reward for your double-dealing with your colleagues and your treachery to your country." Red blotches stood out on the white mask of Fouché's face. His pale eyes were starting from his skull-like head, and he looked as if e were about to have a fit. But, when he spoke again, his voice held a quieter, sinister note.
"Now you have been too clever. Yes, too clever, Mister Brook. For this cheap triumph over me you have thrown away your armour. Since I can no longer hope to gain anything by keeping your secret, why should I continue to do so? Before morning I will have you in jail for what you are. You accursed English spy!"
Roger shrugged contemptuously. "Time was when you might have done so had you played your cards with that in mind. But to denounce me so belatedly could profit you nothing. You have given me the time I needed to re-establish myself and dovetail the pieces of my story in the minds of those who would judge between us. My upbringing in England, my coming to Brittany as a youth, my secretaryship to M. de Rochambeau and duel with M. de Caylus, my return to Paris as a journalist for certain English news-sheets, my life as a member of the Paris Commune, and my having become a prisoner of the English after Thermidor: all these things are now strung together as a whole, and so many people could vouch for various parts of the story that all would believe the whole of it. You might as well accuse Barras or Buonaparte; for no one would believe you. Had you even a single witness to support you, matters would be different. But you have not.
It would be your word against mine. Our respective situations being as they are, ask yourself whose would be taken?"
In the face of Roger's cynical assurance, Fouché wilted visibly. Striking his forehead, he gave a bitter cry. "Oh that I had that one witness; or my old power back, even for a single hour!"
"Had you used it less evilly you might never have lost it," Roger retorted swiftly. Then pointing at the Order of Banishment, which still lay on the table, he gave a final turn to the screw before turning to leave the room.
"Try denouncing me if you will. You'll find it will be regarded as the pathetic effort of a man half crazed, endeavouring to revenge himself upon me. because I brought him that."
As he stepped through the doorway, Fouché, goaded beyond endurance, seized an empty bottle on the side table by its neck, swung it aloft and came at him from behind.
But Roger knew his man too well not to have kept a wary eye out for a sudden resort to violence. Swinging round, he sprang back into the hall, whipped out the slender blade from a tall sword-cane that he was carrying, jerked back his elbow, and levelled the point at Fouché's heart.
"Stand back!" Roger's voice was low but menacing. "Drop that bottle or I'll run you through with less compunction than I'd stick one of your pigs."
With a curse, Fouché dropped the bottle. Then, almost weeping with rage, he cried: "To hell with you! I'll get the better of you yet."
Lowering his blade Roger turned away, but flung a parting shot over his shoulder. "You are welcome to attempt it. But you had best be gone from here by tomorrow morning. I mean to send the police to see that you have obeyed Barras's order."
Roger's anger had now cooled. He had, all through, had the best of the encounter. No qualms of conscience troubled turn about having brought Fouché an Order of Banishment instead of the expected post. Neither did he blame Barras for having in this manner deprived FouchS of the power to menace their plans concerning the marriage of Buonaparte and Josephine. On the contrary, he was thoroughly pleased with himself for the way in which he had handled the situation.
His feelings would have been very different had he had the least inkling of the evil trick that Fate was about to play him, and the desperate straits in which he would find himself within a bare half-hour.
chapter XXVII
THE CAT GETS OUT OF THE BAG
A quarter of an hour's drive brought the coach to the far end of the Quai de la Grève where, between the two bridges, a row of decrepit-looking buildings backed on to the river. Even in daylight it was an unsavoury part of the city, as it was adjacent both to the wharfs and to the Faubourg St. Antoine, a great area of slums, from which the most sanguinary mobs had emerged to loot and kill at every crisis during the Revolution. Now, in the late evening, ill-lit and evil smelling, its dark and crooked ways seemed to conceal a menace round every
corner.
. But Roger was used to taking care of himself, and his only worry at the moment was that he might not find Madame Remy at home. As the coach rumbled, now at a walk, over the cobbles he peered from its windows, till, by the light of a lantern-lit doorway from behind which there came the muffled sounds of raucous singing, he located the drinking den of which Fouché had spoken.
Halting the coach he got out, told Corporal Peltier and his men that in no circumstances were they to leave it until he called to them, then faced about to take stock of Madame Remy's dwelling. It was quite a tall building but had only two storeys. In the upper one there was a single unusually large window, presumably put in by its late tenant, the artist, to give a good north light. Curtains were drawn across it, but through them came a dull glow, Roger noted it with much satisfaction, as an indication that Madame Remy was probably at home. Walking forward, he rapped sharply on the door of the place with the butt end of his sword-cane.
In reply to his knocking there came the click-clack of footsteps on bare boards, then the door was opened by a woman. As the only particulars of the blackmailer Roger had received were, that she was the sister of a mulatto who had been brought up as a slave in the household of Josephine's father, he had subconsciously expected to find her middle-aged and running to fat, as is the case with nearly all ageing females having negro blood. But the light, although dim, was sufficient for him to see that the woman who had answered the door was tall, shapely and much younger than he expected; so with a shade of doubt in his voice, he asked:
"Are you the Citoyenne Remy?"
"Yes," she replied in a cheerful voice that implied a smile. "You're lucky to find me alone. But come in and we'll have a glass of wine. Then you can tell me who gave you my address."
It was clearly the invitation of a harlot to a stranger, whom she assumed had been sent to her by one of her regulars. With a grim little smile, at the thought that she had no idea of the surprise in store for her, Roger followed her inside and took quick stock of the main room of the dwelling, which had been hidden from the street door by a hanging curtain of coarse material.
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