The Man who Killed the King

by Dennis Wheatley

  Hanriot and the younger Robespierre had both landed on a muckheap, so although badly injured they were still alive. The former had crawled away and endeavoured to hide himself in a sewer; but some soldiers had dragged him out, half naked and covered with filth. With the rest of the principal prisoners they were taken to the offices of the Comité and placed under strong guard there.

  The Convention was still in session; delirious with excitement and relief, the deputies were congratulating one another, weeping, laughing, and swearing eternal friendship. Roger was as relieved as any of them to think that his own life was safe; but he still had work to do, and had returned there not to rejoice, but for a very definite purpose. At last, after having had to participate in mutual handshakes and back-slapping for over an hour, he managed to get hold of Barras.

  He knew quite well that Barras had been far too occupied during the night to think of anything other than the work in hand, but, drawing him aside, he said in a swift whisper:

  “What precautions have you taken with regard to little Capet?”

  “Why, none!” exclaimed Barras.

  “Then we must not lose a moment,” said Roger urgently. “Don’t you realise that he is in the hands of the Commune? If the Commissioners on duty at the Temple tonight are Robespierrists, they may kill him, or make off with him.”

  “Mort dieu! You are right; and as a hostage he is invaluable.”

  “Exactly! Should we ever wish to make peace we can demand our lives for his, and a fortune each into the bargain. You had better give me an order to secure his person.”

  Without hesitation Barras went to the nearest desk, seized pen and paper and wrote:

  By order of the Convention.

  Charles Louis Capet, prisoner in the Temple, is to be handed over forthwith to the custody of the bearer, Citizen Commissioner Breuc.

  Paul Barras.

  Military Governor of Paris,

  10th Thermidor, Année II.

  Sanding the paper, he shook it, then handed it over; Roger took it, gave a swift nod, and hurried away. Once outside the doors of the Convention he drew in a deep breath of the early morning air, with more joy than if it had been a draught of rare wine. He had just lived through a great twenty-four hours. He did not believe that, in spite of anything that Tallien or Fouché might attempt, the Convention would allow the Terror to be renewed. Far too many of the deputies had nearly lost their own lives through it. The lesson would not be lost on them, and they would fight tooth and nail before they allowed themselves to be manoeuvred into a position of such risk again. He had avenged Athénaïs’s death, and had now as good as accomplished the thing which, through two long years of innumerable disappointments, he had come to regard as almost impossible. In his hand he held a paper that it needed only a little luck and energy to convert into a draft on the Bank of England for a hundred thousand pounds.

  With swift steps he walked to La Belle Étoile. In this matter, he felt no qualms about involving his old friend Maître Blanchard; the reward was so great that he could well afford to give a share of it to the honest Norman, who, in the event of a Restoration, would be certain also to receive a patent of nobility if he took part in the little King’s rescue.

  At the hostelry he got Maître Blanchard out of bed, gave him the great news about Robespierre’s final overthrow, then told him that he wanted him to drive a light coach; but did not disclose the business they were going upon. While he hurried into his clothes, Roger ran to his old room, pulled up the loose floorboard under the bed, and collected his reserve of money. Beneath the little bags of gold coins his fingers fumbled on a flat packet that he had not realised was there when last he had gone to the cache. Evidently it was something that Athénaïs had hidden some time before. Pulling it out he carried it to the window. Dawn had come and the light was sufficient for him to see that it was a letter addressed to him in Georgina’s round, vigorous hand; but now was not the time to read it. Stuffing it in his pocket he ran downstairs. In the yard he helped Blanchard harness a horse, and five minutes later the landlord was driving him to the Temple.

  He had already decided that the more openly he set about the business the less likely he was to arouse obstruction or suspicion. The keynote to strike was that anyone who attempted to argue with him did so at their peril. On arriving he stalked into the courtyard, tall, grim-faced, tight-lipped, his blue eyes hard as sapphires. Snapping an order at the sentry, he had the guard turned out and sent for the four Commissioners on duty. To them he showed his authority, then took over the keys of the tower and led the way up to its second floor. Hammers, saws and axes were brought. While Roger stood with folded arms the turnkeys broke down the door of the room in which little Capet had been confined for half a year.

  When the door was down Roger waved the others aside and went in. He was almost overcome with the stench. It was now just on six o’clock and the light was sufficient to see the state of the room. It was unbelievably filthy. Some rats scuttled away in a corner. The big bed was empty, but a figure lay hunched up in a large cradle. Roger walked over to it and looked down; the boy was awake but did not move. He was dressed in a pair of trousers and an old grey jacket. Roger’s first thought was that he had grown a lot. Then with a shudder of disgust he saw the lice moving in the child’s hair. His face was very puffy and covered with sores.

  Suddenly Roger bent lower and peered into it. A spasm of rage twitched his mouth, and the blood seemed to rush to his head. He almost choked with the violence of his fury, shock and disappointment. Someone had played a devilish trick on the Convention—and on him. The boy in the cradle was not the son of Marie Antoinette!

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE MYSTERY OF THE TEMPLE

  Roger’s brain was racing. This, then, was the reason why the little prisoner had been walled-up—not in order to make his rescue impossible, but so that no one should see him and realise that a substitution had taken place. When had the real little Capet been removed? Who was the poor wretched child whom some monster had condemned to suffer this awful solitary confinement in his place? Where was little Capet now?

  The walling-up of the prisoner made it clear that the substitution had not been carried out by a Royalist. Some powerful Revolutionary must have decided to seize the little King as a personal hostage for himself. The odds were, then, that he was still in Paris, or somewhere near-by. But who had taken him?—Hébert? Chaumette? Danton? Robespierre? Simon? Not Simon, as he had never possessed the power to order the walling-up; and the others, except Robespierre, were dead. Surely they would have endeavoured to buy their lives by offering to disclose little Capet’s whereabouts; and the fact that they had not done so proved that it was not one of them. Perhaps Collot, Billaud or Barère had him.

  In any case the attempt to trace and secure him must be made at once, for never again would an opportunity occur when any of the leading Terrorists could be put under such great pressure to disclose their secrets.

  Simon had handed the child over on the 19th of January, and he had been walled up on the 21st; so the natural assumption was that the substitution had taken place on the night of the 20th, although it was just possible that the walling-up might originally have been a precaution against rescue. If not, as Hébert and Chaumette had been responsible for the prisoner up to the time of their arrest in March, they must have known of the substitution, even if they were not responsible for it; so why had they refrained from charging their enemies with it before they died? Perhaps, then, it had been made since. In an endeavour to settle the point, Roger said to the boy:

  “You poor little chap! Cheer up; we’ll soon make things much pleasanter for you. How long is it since you were brought here?”

  “A long time,” came the reply, evidently spoken with great difficulty. “A long time, Monsieur.”

  “Was it in the winter?”

  For some moments the boy did not reply; then he feebly shook his head and murmured, “They brought me back from the country. I . . . I think i
t was in May.”

  “Do you know the name of the man who brought you here? Can you describe him?”

  Again the boy shook his head; and now he wearily closed his eyes. He was obviously very ill and it did not seem likely that much more could be learnt from him for the present. Desperately Roger sought in his mind for a way to get further information. Evidently the substitution had taken place after Hébert and Chaumette were dead. In that case, to effect it the door must have been broken down. Some of the Temple staff must either have helped in that or heard it being done by men who had been brought for the purpose. He might be able to force them to talk, but it would take time to examine them all, and time was precious.

  Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Leaving the room he, posted the Commandant of the National Guards on the door with orders that in no circumstances was anyone to enter; then he swiftly mounted to the third floor. There were sounds of movement in Madame Royale’s bedroom; so she was evidently getting up. He knocked on her door and she opened it. Recognising him as the Commissioner who had surreptitiously brought her sweets, she gave him a friendly smile and wished him “Good morning.”

  In a low voice he said, “Madame, can you keep a secret?”

  She nodded, and he went on, “Then I have good news for you; but you must not mention it to anyone. Robespierre has fallen and the worst of the Terror is over; so I feel sure that in future you can expect better treatment. Now, with regard to your brother—for him this is very important. Do you recall a night when you heard a noise of hammering on the floor below?”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” she replied at once; “it was about two months ago—to be exact, on the night of the 22nd of May. So little happens to disturb my dull routine that I recall it perfectly, and the fright I had while it was going on, because a strange man came up here and demanded to see me.”

  “Did he give his name? What was he like?” asked Roger eagerly.

  “He was a small man, very neatly dressed. His head seemed too big for his body, and he suffered from a nervous twitch. Not a word did he say, but stared at me impudently for a few moments. From the descriptions I have heard, I formed the impression that he was Citizen Robespierre.”

  “Thank you, Madame! I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone else; and I pray that when we meet again I may see you in much more fortunate circumstances.” With a quick smile, Roger left her, relocked the door to her floor behind him, and hurried down the spiral staircase.

  As he came round the last bend on to the little landing of the second floor he nearly collided with a man who was just emerging from the last bend on the way up to it. The light was poor but there seemed something familiar about the tall, lean figure. Hearing their approach, one of the Commissioners pulled open the iron door giving on to the ante-room. Next second, to Roger’s consternation, he recognised the man opposite him as Joseph Fouché.

  Fouché recognised him at the same moment, gave him a sharp glance and said, “I take it, Citizen Colleague, that, like myself, you have come here to make certain that our hostages are safe?”

  “Yes; Barras sent me,” Roger replied, striving to keep the annoyance out of his voice. So far he had had no chance to consider the repercussions of the entirely unexpected substitution; but, whatever they might be, he felt that Fouché’s presence would prove a serious handicap to his own activities.

  As they entered the ante-room together he was thinking, “This substitution of another child for the little Capet cannot be long concealed . . . as soon as it becomes known an intensive hunt for the real little Capet will begin . . . the hunt will be secret because they will do everything possible to prevent it becoming generally known that they have lost their precious hostage . . . my one advantage is that I now know where to start looking for him. . . . I must make the utmost of the lead I have . . . the longer they take in finding out the truth the longer my lead will be. . . . I must prevent Fouché from seeing the child . . . but wait—Fouché did not arrive in Paris until after the Royal Family had been imprisoned, and no deputies have ever been on duty here; so it is a hundred to one that he will not know the difference . . . but Barras may, and I must not yet jeopardise my standing with him. . . . So I must do what I can to protect the secret. . . that will be to my own advantage as a universal hue and cry would make things much more difficult for me.”

  Turning to Fouché, he said, “Citizen Colleague, the girl is in good health, but the boy is far from being so. He is in fact in such poor shape that I think a doctor should be called; yet I am averse to letting anyone enter his room until it has been formally inspected by a Commission. Would you oblige me by taking over here while I return to Barras and find out his wishes?”

  Fouché at once expressed his readiness to accept responsibility; so, with a word of thanks, Roger left him and ran down the remaining stairs. As he crossed the courtyard he was chuckling to himself to think how well he had succeeded in turning his old enemy’s appearance on the scene from a liability to an asset. The cadaverous atheist might go in and look at the boy himself; but he would prevent anyone else from doing so, which rendered it unlikely that the substitution would now be discovered during the next two or three hours.

  On reaching the coach Roger asked Maître Blanchard to drive him to Maisons-Alfort as quickly as possible. It lay beyond Charenton to the south-east of Paris, and consisted only of a crossroads with an inn and a few cottages on the fringe of the woods that stretched north to Vincennes. An ostler at the inn directed them to the property that Robespierre had recently acquired, and soon after seven they were driving up to a medium-sized house set in a pleasant private park.

  The front door stood open, but Roger pulled the bell and waited in the porch. After a few moments a middle-aged woman crossed the hall to him and asked him what he wanted. She had close-set eyes, a somewhat Spanish look, and was dressed in black bombasine. Summing her up in a glance, he asked:

  “Citoyenne, are you the housekeeper here?”

  At her nod, he could hardly keep the excited tremble out of his voice, as he said, “I have come for the boy; be good enough to take me to him.”

  Her heavy black eyebrows went up. “To what boy does the Citizen refer? There is no boy in this house.”

  “Oh yes there is!” Roger grasped her arm and stared at her menacingly. “Come, now. Today is very different from yesterday. The Citizen Robespierre is a prisoner and within a few hours will be dead. I have been sent to get the child. If you thwart me it will be the worse for you.”

  She paled, but shook her head. “The Citizen is mistaken. He may search the house if he wishes, but there is no child here.”

  Feeling positive that she was bluffing, Roger snapped, “Very well, then; we will search. And for every five minutes you delay me in finding what I come to seek, you shall spend a month in prison.”

  Half pushing her ahead of him, he hurried from room to room, looking eagerly in each one for traces of the little King; and as they progressed upstairs he could not help observing a singular feature of this bachelor establishment.

  For several weeks past there had been strange rumours about Robespierre. Until that summer it had been generally believed that he was sexually incapable. Cornelia Duplaix, the eldest daughter of the carpenter with whom he had lodged for so long, had endeavoured to persuade him to marry her and, having failed in that, had given out that she was his mistress; but few people believed her. Yet, after his removal to the country, it had become known that men like Hanriot, Le Bas and Coffinhal were not the only companions of his leisure hours. It was whispered that on summer nights the inventor of the Supreme Being was driven by his vanity to posture in his park while a bevy of nude beauties did their utmost to distract his mind from the cares of State. On the upper floor of the house Roger found evidence in support of such stories, for several of the bedrooms were still littered with the clothes and toilet preparations of women. The beds had been slept in that night and obviously their occupants had fled in a panic, no doubt upon news arriving with th
e dawn that morning from Paris of the “Incorruptible’s” downfall. The servants too had fled. The black-browed housekeeper was the only person remaining in the mansion; even the horses were gone from its stables.

  After touring the building from its attics to its cellars and visiting all its stables and outhouses, Roger brought the woman back to the front hall. He was bitterly disappointed, as he had confidently expected to drive away with the living equivalent to a hundred thousand pounds, and he had not even come upon any evidence that the boy had ever been there. It was possible that he had been taken from the Temple to some other hiding-place, yet it seemed most unlikely that Robespierre would have kept his precious prize anywhere but at Maisons-Alfort; as here, in his own residence, was the only place he could be reasonably certain of not having it stolen from him. There remained the possibility that the prisoner had been hurriedly carried off that morning, and that the housekeeper had since hidden all his things. Pulling one of his small bags of gold out of his pocket, Roger threw it with a clink upon a marquetry table, then said to her:

  “Take your choice. Your protector is already as good as dead, and there are a hundred louis there, which will keep you in comfort for some time. Answer me truthfully and the money is yours. The alternative is that I take you back with me to the Conciergerie and charge you with aiding Robespierre to conspire against the Republic. I am convinced that he brought a boy of nine here during the last week in May. What has been done with him?”

  The woman stretched out a claw-like hand for the gold and, her voice sharp with malice, replied, “Had you made your meaning plain earlier, and made it worth my while to talk, Citizen, you might have saved yourself much time. A boy was brought here towards the end of May, but one I would put at eleven at the least. It may be, though, that he had far outgrown his strength, for he was a poor sickly child of low intelligence and verminous from neglect. He was brought to the house by night and spent but one day here; the following night the Citizen Robespierre took him away again. That is all I know of the matter, and I cannot tell you more for all the threats or all the gold in the world.”