Roger felt sure that Fouché's mind must have been working more or less on those lines. But would he take the gamble? The diary was worth nothing to him unless Josephine would marry Buonaparte without first getting it back so that she could destroy it. Would he bank on her accepting Barras's assurance that she had nothing more to fear? It was at least a tempting bet, although Roger felt certain that she would not so, should the gamble be taken, he too would have to gamble on, somehow or other, getting the diary back. If he failed in that it meant the complete wreck of his plans. But making the offer was his only chance of saving his life; and as he watched Fouche's face he knew that his life hung by a hair.
Greed was one of the most potent characteristics of Fouché's mentality—and greed won. His eyes shifted uncertainly for a moment, then he asked:
"On what terms will you give me the diary?"
Roger breathed again. "My life and freedom."
"Your life, yes; but your freedom, no. If you are clever enough to wriggle out of the charges that the Citoyenne Remy and I can bring against you, well and good. That chance I will give you in exchange for a chance that I may yet make something out of the diary, but no more."
"For that, then, you offer me only what may amount to a brief respite. That is not good enough."
"I'll go no further. Give me the book and we'll take you to the police office. Refuse and I'll kill you where you stand."
Roger decided that Fouché meant what he said. It was a bitter pill to have to give up the diary, for so much hung upon it. But there was no other way in which he could buy his life.
"Very well," he nodded. "Unload your musket and throw the cartridge on the floor."
As Fouché hesitated, he added: "Come; I'm not such a fool as to risk your shooting me after you have obtained the book. You will still have the weapon to use as a club. I am unarmed and even if I attacked you your shouts would soon bring the two soldiers up from the front door to your help."
"If I unload will you come quietly to the police office?"
"What faith would you put in my word if I gave it to you? That is a risk you must take. As I have just said, you have two armed men whom you can call on to escort me."
Without further argument Fouché unloaded the musket, and threw down the cartridge. Roger drew his arm in from the open window, walked over to him, and handed him the precious diary. Instead of moving towards the door, Roger said: "You will be good enough to go first, I have no mind to be struck down with the butt end of your musket as I descend the stairs."
With a pale smile, Fouché replied: "In that I will oblige you. But being of an equally suspicious disposition I have no mind to have you leap on me from behind; so you will be good enough to remain up on the landing until I have reached the bottom step."
Roger gave a quick nod, and halted in the doorway while Fouché walked on down the narrow staircase. At its bottom he took two paces forward, then stopped, looking down at something that was hidden from Roger's view. Roger followed, and as he rounded the corner of the newel-post his glance fell on the thing at which Fouché was staring. It was the body of Lucette.
She lay there where she had fallen, her neck grotesquely twisted, and obviously dead. There came into Roger's mind the prophecy of which she had told him some fourteen months before. That she could not be killed by bullet, by steel or by rope, but only by a fall from a high place.
After they had stared at her body for a few moments they raised their eyes. For once Fouché's shifty glance met Roger's. Both knew that the other had realized the implications of her death. Fouché had lost his all-important witness, and Roger could swear now without fear- of further contradiction from her that when she had denounced him in front of the soldiers, she had mistaken him for the mythical Robert MacElfic.
For as long as it takes to draw a deep breath, Roger was seized with wild elation. It seemed that this sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed him out of danger. Then, like a douche of ice cold water, the facts of the case arranged themselves in his mind in their true perspective. Fate had robbed Fouché of his Ace of Trumps, but he still held the next best cards in the pack—the diary and two armed men who, so far, had accepted his orders.
Within an instant of grasping that, Roger saw the new sequence. Lucette, by losing her life, had brought him again into immediate peril. Now, his one chance of saving himself and the situation lay in a swift attempt to exploit the setback that his enemy had suffered. With a great effort he forced his voice to assume the ring of triumph, and cried:
"The game is mine, Fouché! Give me back that diary."
"No!" Fouché exclaimed. "I'll see you in hell first!"
"If you refuse I'll call in those two men to take it from you."
Surprise robbed Fouché of the power of speech for a second, then he burst out: "It is I who will call them in! I mean to have them shoot you while I have the chance."
That was exactly the development Roger had feared. Knowing that his sole protection from the threat lay in giving the impression that he was now master of the situation, he even managed a laugh before he said:
"Do not deceive yourself. They might have shot me in cold blood while Corporal Peltier was still with them to give them a lead; but they will not risk their necks by committing murder at your order now. They'll go no further than to escort me to the police officer; and, if you wish, I will go quietly with them. You know why, do you not?"
Fouché's eyes flickered from side to side. "You think that now Madame Remy is dead, you have nothing to fear from me. But you are mistaken.
"I meant only that there is nothing with which the two soldiers can charge me except having injured two of their comrades who refused to obey my lawful orders. If you wish any other charge to be made you must come with us and make it yourself."
"And I will!" Fouché snarled. "Even without support for my word, my denunciation of you as an English spy is certain to result in a full enquiry. Many things may emerge from it. Little things that you have forgotten. I am convinced that, with a little luck, I could yet see you convicted."
Roger's muscles tensed spasmodically. He was only too well aware of the dangers inherent in a full investigation of his past. But in the candle light his face was still a smiling mask, and he shrugged his shoulders.
"We have argued this before. If it comes to your word against mine there can be little doubt that mine will be accepted. Besides, has it not occurred to you that if you once enter the police office with me, you will leave it under arrest and on your way to prison?"
"Your threat is an empty one. There is no crime of which you can accuse me. The night is young. I am aware that I shall be subject to arrest should I not leave the city tomorrow; but there are many hours to go yet. Ample to first settle your business."
The edge of a folded paper protruded from Fouché's pocket. To it a few fragments of wax from a broken seal still clung. As Roger's eye lit on it he felt sure it was the order of banishment. With a sardonic laugh he pointed at it and cried:
"Can it be, then, that you have already forgotten the terms of the order I served on you less than an hour ago?"
"They can have no bearing on what I choose to do tonight," Fouché declared harshly. "They do not come into operation until tomorrow morning."
"There is one that does." Roger's voice was mocking now. "It is to the effect that should you communicate with certain persons, including Madame Remy. the order would be changed from banishment to transportation. You have contravened that clause. The men outside and myself are witnesses to your having done so. You have made yourself liable to be sent to Cayenne."
Suddenly Fouché wilted. His eyes fell and he thrust out his hands as though to ward off some horror. Roger knew then that he had him at his mercy and rapped out an ultimatum.
"I am agreeable to hold my tongue. But only at a price. Unless you wish to give me the pleasure of seeing you shackled to some other felon in the hold of a convict ship outward bound, you will hand me that diary and be out of Paris b
efore dawn."
EPILOGUE
"And then, Roger?"
Georgina's lovely face was flushed with excitement. It was late at night, and she was wearing a loose chamber robe of red velvet that set off her rich dark beauty to perfection. Her feet were curled under her as she lay snuggled against Roger on the big sofa in her boudoir. Shaded candles and a bright wood fire lit the room with a soft, rosy glow. Nearby on a small table a champagne bottle stood in an ice bucket. Beside it there were the remains of supper, and still half a dish of early strawberries from the hothouses tended by some of the forty gardeners that she kept at Stillwaters. It was mid-April and Roger had returned from France only the day before. For the past two hours he had been telling her about the new Paris that had emerged from the Terror, and of his last mission.
"There is little more to tell," he replied with a smile. "Once Fouché had accepted my contention that the two soldiers would not obey an order from him to shoot me in cold blood, I had him at my mercy. He gave me the diary, then we went out and he told the soldiers in front of me that it had all been a terrible mistake; that he had been misled by Lucette, and was now fully satisfied that I was not an English spy after all.
"I took the diary to Josephine that night the 5th of March; then told Barras that I had freed her from her blackmailer for good. Next day Buonaparte's commission as Commander-in-Chief of the Army of Italy was signed by the Directors. On the 9th, he and Josephine were quietly married. After a honeymoon of only two days he left for Nice to take up his command, and with him, as one of his ADC's, he took young Eugene de Beauharnais."
"Then you saved us from invasion."
"I would not say that. Many things might have conspired to decide the Directors against risking the attempt, and even if fear of Buonaparte had forced them to let nun try his luck, he might well have been defeated by the Channel and the Fleet before he landed. It can be said, though, that I nipped the project in the bud. And to be forewarned is to be forearmed. This morning, after I had made my report to Mr. Pitt, he said that he should at once make enquiries into what further safeguards could be taken; such as raising additional regiments of militia and, perhaps, having strong watchtowers which would also serve as forts built every few miles along the south coast."
"Surely such measures are not necessary, now that the threat is past?"
"These things take time; and that, I think, is what I have bought. Though I am far from certain that I have not paid too big a price for it, by aiding Buonaparte to be given his command in Italy. There are many rich cities in the north of the peninsula, and I know that he regards it as the treasure chest of Europe. The Revolutionary Government has no scruples about property rights, or the beggaring of the territories it conquers by the imposition of taxes, fines, requisitions and indemnities. Should Buonaparte's campaign be successful, as it seems likely to be from the reports that are already coming in, he will be in a position to send enormous sums back to Paris, and by refilling France s empty exchequer enable her to prolong the war. If that proves the case, we may yet have to face an invasion here on Buonaparte's return from Italy."
"I think you too pessimistic, Roger dear. But were you right, thanks to you, we will at least be better prepared to resist it And of one thing I am certain. In this dilemma you did the best that could at the moment be done for your own country."
"I only hope it will prove so in the long run too," he said, taking his arm from about her to stand up and refill their glasses with champagne. "We'll drink to that anyway."
When they had settled down again, she said: "And what of Fouché. Do you know what happened to him?"
"I have no idea. He had to leave Paris, of course; but he took with him enough money to buy himself a cottage and a smallholding; so he is probably cleaning out pigsties still, but somewhere in the country." 'I thought you said he was near destitute." "Well, er ..." Roger hesitated. "As a matter of fact, he was. But I gave him the hundred louis that I had brought with me in case I had to finance the so-called Madame Remy to get her out of the way.'
"You gave him a hundred louis exclaimed Georgina, starting up. "Roger, you must be out of your mind!"
He laughed, and pulled her back into the embrace of his arm. "Perhaps I am. On the Continent they regard all us English as mad; yet I think there is something to be said for our way of doing things. I've never yet given an enemy quarter as long as he has had the power to harm me; but the poor devil was down and out." "Perhaps. Yet you have just said of him yourself that you think him the most despicable, treacherous villain you have ever come upon. What can have possessed you to give money to such a man?"
"Well, for one thing, I would never have got the name and address of Josephine's blackmailer had he. not trusted me with them on the understanding that he was to receive some reward; and, on consideration, I felt that Barras had played him a scurvy trick. For another, there is just one human spark in his otherwise distorted mind. He loves that ugly wife of his and their child with a genuine devotion. One can tell it from the way he speaks of them, and worries for her about the hard life she has had to lead during this past year. Then, and then only, there comes into his voice a note of sincerity which is unmistakable. It may be foolish of me, but I would not have them starve."
"Oh Roger, my sweet!" There were tears in Georgina's eyes as she. turned and kissed him on the. cheek. "What a dear sentimentalist you are."
"Nay," he laughed. "Put it down rather to hard business sense. For all his villainies Fouché has a magnificent brain. He'll not spend all his life tending pigs. Sooner or later he'll find a way to reclimb fortune's ladder, and maybe he and I will meet again." Roger spoke half in jest but, even so, he was far from underestimating his enemy's capabilities; for, nineteen years later when, after Waterloo, the Emperor Napoleon left Paris for the last time, it was in obedience to an order signed by Joseph Fouché.
"Tell me," Georgina asked after a moment, "why did you linger in France for near six weeks after having completed this great coup?"
"I judged it sound policy further to strengthen my position there before returning home. You will recall that to account for my last departure from Paris I told people that I was going to the South of France for my health, and, on my return, that I had bought a property near Frejus. The day Buonaparte left Paris I went south too, and now I have actually done so. Since the Revolution, good houses at any distance from large towns can be bought for a song; and this is a pleasant place, half farm, half chateau, with a fine view over a bay in which there is a hamlet called St. Raphael. Few places could be more delightful in the winter months, and it is my fond hope that when peace does come again you will be my first guest there."
"What an enchanting prospect. How I wish we could go there now. But from what you say there-seems little hope of peace for some while yet"
"I fear not; much as both France and Britain need it and Mr. Pitt desires it. However, in the meantime I shall go down to my new property occasionally, and so have even better cover for disappearing from Paris for a while when it is necessary for me to come to England."
"You mean then to continue your secret work for Mr. Pitt?"
He smiled. "Yes. The first time I tried settling down, after I married Amanda, fond as I was of her, before two years were up I found such a life too dull. The second time, when we all sailed to the Indies, I found it far too strenuous. Paris has become a sink of iniquity, but at least people there now wash themselves again; and if I were caught out, I hardly think Barras would have me dangled over a pool full of hungry crocodiles. The risk I run is a fair one, and it adds a spice to life; so I've no mind to play again at becoming a respectable householder."
Georgina sighed. "Poor Clarissa! Despite her lack of fortune, I thought there might be some hope for her."
Suppressing a start, Roger asked in as casual a voice as he could manage: "Whatever put that idea into your head?"
"You dear fool!" Georgina laughed. "Have you no eyes in yours? Why, the girl dotes on you. Anyone coul
d see that. What a pity it is that she has no fortune; for she is the most lovely creature and would make a most excellent wife for you."
"Yes. She is lovely enough, and has spirit too. As for money, I am, thank God, now worth near thirty thousand pounds; so I have no need to worry on that score. But, as I've told you, I have no intention of marrying again."
"You must, Roger. You have your little girl to think of. In fairness to her you must find her a mother."
"Oh come! What of yourself, then? According to that argument, it is equally your duty to find that jolly fat lump of a godson of mine a father."
"I suppose I must, some day. But not yet. In his case there is ample time. It is while young that children need a woman's love and care. Your little Susan shall have mine, you know, and may share Charles's nursery for as long as you wish. But it would be better for her to be brought up in a home of her own, in which her father would be more than an always welcome visitor. Please, Roger, if lack of money is no objection, think about Clarissa."
For a moment he was silent, then he laughed. "Do you remember what happened last time we discussed match-making?"
The Dark Secret of Josephine rb-5 Page 54