The Man who Killed the King

by Dennis Wheatley

  His route was not difficult to follow, as it passed through several villages, the names of which he had been given; and from the map he was able to pick out various peaks that gave him his direction. Until well into the afternoon he was winding his way upwards into the Morez pass, and it was not until four o’clock that he emerged from it to see a wonderful panorama of the Lake of Geneva spread below him. Another two hours down steeper hairpin bends brought him to Divonne.

  On enquiring at the inn for a farmer named Chaumette, he held his breath. All along he had realised that the Terrorist’s cousin might have a different name. If so, long before he could hope to have questioned enough people to run the farmer to earth Fouché would come riding into the town. Only by going into hiding could he then hope to save his life, and while he sweated with frustration in some haystack his enemy would carry off his hundred thousand pounds.

  His luck was in; Farmer Chaumette lived about three miles up the slope on the far side of the green valley in which Divonne lay. Shaking his tired horse into a trot, Roger pressed forward up the hill.

  He was now about to come face to face with another problem that no amount of thought could have solved in advance—what was he going to do if Farmer Chaumette refused to give little Capet up? Had he not been pursued he could have simply made a reconnaissance, then returned at night and kidnapped the child; but he knew that his time margin was far too short for that. He could, if orders, pleading, threats and gold all failed, shoot the farmer; but it was now the supper hour so he would probably have one or two labourers as well as his family with him. Single-handed, it was going to be no easy matter to overcome them all, and at the same time secure a boy who might be unwilling to come away.

  Roger had had no time to prepare a fake document authorising him to collect the child, and his mind was so absorbed in speculating on what sort of reception his demand for him would receive that when he drew level with the farm he could hardly believe his eyes. In the glow of the sunset there was a small boy swinging on a gate. Fortune at the last had served him truly well. The child’s underlip had grown thicker and his Bourbon nose more prominent; his fair hair was matted with dirt, he was barefoot and clad in rags; his eyes were shifty and his expression vicious; but Roger knew him beyond all doubt to be His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVII, King of France and Navarre.

  There was no one else about, and the gate led into a barnyard from which only the chimney of the farmhouse was visible. Dismounting, Roger tied up his horse and said:

  “Good evening, Monsieur Charles; I don’t suppose you remember me, but I am an old friend of your mother.”

  The boy gave him an appraising stare, then nodded. “Yes; even with those bristles on your chin you have the look of an aristo! I suppose by friend you mean you were one of the old whore’s lovers.” With a sudden grin he added, “Perhaps you’re my real father.”

  Inwardly Roger shuddered. Evidently Farmer Chaumette had proved a worthy successor to Simon as “tutor” to the little Capet. In their determination to root out from his mind any lingering thought of kingship, they had gone to the length of telling him that he was illegitimate. But this was no time to attempt to purge his poisoned mind of such beliefs, so Roger raised a smile and replied:

  “Let’s not talk of that. I wish, though, to act the part of father to you for the next week or so. I’ve come to take you away.”

  “Does old Chaumette know that?” came the cautious question.

  “Not yet. Where is he?”

  “Inside with the old bitch, and Louis and Jean. They’re having their supper.”

  “Why are you not with them?”

  Little Capet nodded towards a wooden platter lying on the ground. “I’ve had mine. They send me out to feed with the pigs, but I often eat at the gate here.”

  “You’ll not be sorry to leave the farm, then?”

  Again the suspicious look crept into the boy’s eyes, and he asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where would you like to go?” Roger asked, not yet wishing to disclose his plans.

  “To Paris!” The reply was instantaneous. “I want to see them cutting off real people’s heads with the guillotine.”

  Roger was terribly conscious that with every moment Fouché must be drawing nearer. He dared not waste an unnecessary minute in argument. He lied without hesitation:

  “So be it; I’ll take you to Paris, then. But we must leave at once. You’ll have to ride in front of me. Come along!”

  Instead of climbing over to Roger’s side of the gate, the boy jumped down and turned away. As he ran off he cried over his shoulder, “I won’t keep you a minute, but I’ve got to fetch something.”

  In an agony of apprehension Roger watched him, fearing that he meant to go into the house and might bring the Chaumette family on the scene; but he dived into a barn, and reappeared lugging a wooden and iron contraption half as big as himself. It proved to be another model guillotine, very roughly made, but much larger than his former toy. Panting, he pushed it across the top of the gate and cried with shining eyes:

  “Isn’t it a fine one? It does mice with ease, but I had much trouble with a mole; the knife would not cut through the brute’s fur.”

  Roger was not listening. He had caught the sound of horses’ hooves clicking against the stones of the track. Untying his horse, he jumped into the saddle. He could now see down into the valley. A group of some twenty horsemen were trotting up the hill. They were no more than a mile away, and at their head rode the tall, grey-coated figure of Joseph Fouché.

  Knocking aside the model guillotine that little Capet was holding up to him, Roger seized the boy by the collar of his ragged jacket. With a heave he pulled him up and lay him face down, like a sack of potatoes, across the pommel of his saddle. Turning his horse he rowelled it, and it leapt forward up the track. A distant cry echoed through the valley. His pursuers had spotted him. With a cheer they broke into a gallop.

  “My guillotine!” yelled little Capet; “I’ll not go without my guillotine!”

  “Be silent!” snapped Roger. “Or you’ll be guillotined yourself.”

  For answer the King of France bit him in the soft part of the thigh.

  With an oath Roger dealt him a heavy clout on the ear, and he began to bellow with some reason.

  In a ten-minute gallop Roger reached the crest of the ridge. It was, he knew, the frontier, but no immediate safety for him lay on its other side. There were no frontier guards or barriers in these sparsely populated mountains, and Fouché would not hesitate to follow him a dozen miles into Switzerland. Below him he could again see the lake. The sun had gone down behind the mountains and the broad sheet of water was now misty in the evening light, but on its shore some eight miles distant he could just make out the spires of the little town of Nyon. If he could reach it there would be Swiss magistrates and police there, who would give him protection.

  Half a mile down the slope there was a wood. In it lay the best hope of throwing off his pursuers. Leaving the track, he cantered across a stony meadow towards it. As he reached the fringe of the wood Fouché and his men appeared on the skyline behind him; he could hear them shouting as they urged their horses forward.

  Plunging in amongst the trees, he guided his mount as well as he could, crouching low over little Capet’s body. Every instant he expected a big branch to crack his skull and sweep him from the saddle. Small branches, twigs and leaves whipped against his face, half blinding him, and falling night now made it so dark under the trees that it was difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. His precious burden was screaming like a maniac with fear and anger. The slope was steep, and the wood over two miles in depth, but by a miracle they slithered from level to level without mishap and emerged safely on its other side.

  Twilight had dimmed the scene. Roger could no longer see Nyon, but knew that to reach it he still had some five miles to cover. Turning his jaded mount’s head half left, he spurred it to a fresh effort; but the going was bad, as the
low-lying grassland between the wood and the lake was soft and spongy. He was only half-way across it when, one by one, his pursuers broke from the wood, shouting to one another as they caught sight of him.

  Twenty yards from the shore he struck the lakeside track. On the firmer ground his horse seemed to take new courage. For a time he managed to increase his lead, but after he had covered another half mile his pursuers had also gained the firmer ground. Every few moments he glanced back at the bunch of shadowy figures in his rear. His mount had done as hard a day as theirs and now had the extra weight of little Capet to carry. Gradually they crept up on him. Another half mile and, with bitter, blinding fury, he knew that he would never reach the town with his invaluable cargo. He must either drop the boy or be captured and hauled back to Paris to die.

  For a few moments the awful choice he now had to make caused wild agitation in his tired brain. If he thrust the child from his saddle at the speed he was riding the fall might break his neck or do him some serious injury, but he had only to swerve on to the grass for the fall to be soft, and children’s bones are much less liable to sustain permanent harm from an accident than are those of grown-ups; so if he threw the boy off feet first the risk would not be great. His own life depended on it. He knew that for certain now. The sound of the pounding hooves behind was becoming louder and louder. Yet, after all he had gone through to win his splendid prize, he could not bring himself to surrender it.

  Suddenly that strange, mysterious link which had served him more than once before functioned again in this emergency. Georgina’s voice came to him out of the shadows, as plainly as if she were shouting in his ear:

  “Roger, you fool! The boat! The boat! Do you not see it?”

  His eyes had been fixed on the dim track ahead. As his glance switched towards the lake, he saw a tumbledown shack on the foreshore, and lying near it a rowing-boat with its stern just in the water.

  Swerving his mount violently, he plunged down the bank towards it. As he drew rein the foaming horse let its head fall forward and stood with its legs splayed apart. Slipping from the saddle he lifted little Capet down and bundled him into the boat.

  A chorus of furious yells came from Fouché and his men. One of them fired a pistol and the bullet whined over Roger’s head. Another pistol cracked; but Fouché, fearful that little Capet might be killed, cried:

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  Roger had his shoulder to the prow of the boat. As the horsemen left the track, he gave a great heave and it slid into the water. He leapt in, pushed the bewildered little Capet towards the stern, seized an oar and shoved off.

  Shouting and cursing, the pursuers came galloping down to the beach. When they reached the water’s edge the boat was already twelve feet out. Roger now had both oars in the rowlocks and was pulling with all his might. Darkness was closing in and the boat was drawing rapidly away from the shore; but Fouché would not accept defeat. Forcing his horse into the water up to its saddle girths, he drew a pistol and screamed:

  “Halt or we will riddle you with bullets! In the name of the Republic, I swear to protect you if you return. Proceed and you die!”

  For a moment Roger ceased rowing, and with a laugh of triumph yelled back, “To Hell with the Republic! I hold the King!”

  EPILOGUE

  In England it was exceptionally warm that August. Out at Richmond, one night towards the end of the month, Amanda, when about to undress for bed, pulled back the curtain of her window to let in more air. Above the trees of the park hung a sickle moon that lit the silent scene with a pale, unearthly radiance. A slight sound below her caused her to look down. A man was standing there in the garden. She would have known that tall figure anywhere. Leaning out, she breathed the one word: “Roger!”

  He did not reply; but he turned his face up, and in the moonlight she saw that its fine features were thin and drawn.

  “Wait but a moment,” she cried joyfully, “and I’ll be down to let you in.”

  Running down the stairs, she pulled back the bolts of the garden door and threw it open. He was not, as she had expected, on the doorstep, but was still standing several paces away, where she had first seen him. Going out to him, she said with a catch in her voice:

  “So you’ve come home at last.”

  “I don’t yet know,” he replied after a moment. “That depends on yourself.”

  “My dear,” she said gently, “I beg of you put from your heart any malice you may still bear me, for I bear you none. In more than two years we have spent scarce three months together. We expected too much of each other for young people during so long a separation.”

  He nodded. “Georgina told me, in a letter, of your feelings; and you were right. We should have stood by our original bargain. For my part, I bear no malice either. I want you back, and more than I have ever done before. It is not that which prevents me taking you in my arms.”

  “What then?” she exclaimed in bewilderment. “You speak so strangely, Roger. What has come over you?”

  “I escaped from France by way of Switzerland near a month ago. I have been back in England this past week living in solitude at an inn down in Greenwich, where no one would know me.”

  “But why? What have you done?”

  “Ah!” he sighed. “What have I done? That is just it. I have done something which may for ever make a barrier between us. It lies so heavy on my conscience that I could not return to you unless you knew of it and considered that I acted for the best. This evening I decided to come out here and tell you of it, and you must be my judge. If, having heard what I have to say, you can take me back, my faith in myself will be restored. But should you thrust me from you with loathing, I shall not blame you, and I will arrange for you to have your freedom to marry again. Come! Let us go over to the summerhouse, so that we can sit down.”

  In silence they walked side by side across the moonlit lawn. When they had settled themselves he began a toneless monologue. After telling her how he had found that another child had been substituted for little Capet in the Temple, and of all that had followed up to his escape in the boat, he went on:

  “Realising that we were about to get away, Fouché and his men did their utmost to kill us. They sent a hail of pistol bullets at the boat, but by a miracle neither the child nor I were hit. A few more strokes of the oars and we were out of range. Night was coming on and soon we were hidden by the darkness. At first I pulled northward for a while towards Nyon, then I realised that a strong current was running against me; so, being by that time well out on the lake, I shipped the oars and let the boat drift. Second thoughts told me that was all to the good, as fifteen miles away at the south end of the lake lay Geneva. With a little rowing now and then I should drift there by the morning, and once there I could take little Capet straight to the British Minister, Sir Francis Drake. That would have ensured the prevention of any attempt by Fouché to recover the child; and, the Legation being British soil, I could have counted the delivery of him there as a successful conclusion to my mission.

  “Frightened by the bullets he had stopped his yelling, and had, at first, taken refuge on the bottom boards in the stern of the boat. When we were safe he emerged and sat staring at me for a time; then he asked me where we were going.

  “Having got him away I saw no reason why I should not tell him something of the truth. I said that whatever Simon and other people might have told him, there was no doubt at all about his being the rightful King of France; that I was taking him to a place where he would receive affection, good food, fine clothes, live in every comfort, and be treated with the respect due to his rank; that he would be taught to hunt and shoot as well as receive a proper education, and that I thought that in a few years’ time he would be restored to his throne to reign over a great people.

  “He considered what I said for a while, then replied to me in a manner that was beyond belief horrifying. He said he was glad I thought he would become a real king, because kings did what they liked. If th
ere were another Revolution, he would know how to put it down. Someone had told him about Carrier ordering mass drownings at Nantes. He said they must have been a fine sight, and that he would like to have seen them. It would be a good way to deal with rebellious subjects if they were too many for the guillotine; but that would be more fun, as he proposed to play the part of executioner himself. If there were no rebellion, he could start a war, and would use his guillotine to execute some of the prisoners. He would have women too: a lot of women, as he had been told his great-grandfather had had; and when they ceased to please him he would chop off their heads.

  “I attempted to reason with him. I explained that, while a king naturally enjoyed many privileges and great riches, it was, in exchange for them, his duty to devote himself to the welfare of his people and set a high example by leading a good life. He only sneered at me, and went on to describe further crimes that his imagination conjured up as possible for him to commit if he had the power of a king.

  “Feeling that I could support such a conversation no longer, I took out some opium pellets I had with me. I had bought them when planning to carry him off from the Temple, for use if it proved necessary to keep him quiet during a long journey across France. Catching hold of him, I forced him to swallow a couple, and a quarter of an hour later he fell asleep.

  “It was now fully dark and for a long time I sat there brooding about the boy. I was by then convinced that a whole year of the tuition which had been ordered for him by those evil men of the Commune could never be eradicated. He had received it at the most receptive age; so his relatives might dress him up and give him a veneer of manners, but that abominable lust for cruelty would remain with him beneath the surface all his life. It must have been there from the beginning. After all, he was of the same blood as Louis XV, who was such a heartless debauchee, and as Louis XIV, who ordered the terrible persecution of the Huguenots. Had he continued in his mother’s care that horrible streak in his nature might have lain dormant; but having been brought to the surface and deliberately fostered, he would always be subject to hideous urges beyond his power to control.