Authors: Rob Griffith
Fortune must smile on lovers, because at the proscribed time and place she was there. In fact, she was early, earlier even than I. It was late afternoon. The weather was cold and clear, a light dusting of snow still remained on the ground and the weak winter sun was casting long shadows from the colonnades of trees. The gardens of the Tuileries Palace were busy. Children laughed at the ducks sliding from their little wooden houses out on to the frozen ponds, closely watched by their parents lest they venture out on to the thin ice themselves. Bonaparte had just finished reviewing his Consular Guard on the forecourt and tall soldiers in very picturesque uniforms were milling around, hoping to impress the ladies in the watching crowds. The gardens of Apollo and Daphne were quieter, bereft as they were of their blooms. The flower beds were bare, frozen mounds like rows of graves.
Dominique sat on a bench near a silent fountain where a robin was tapping at the ice in Venus’s shell to try to get a drink. I watched her for several minutes from the cover of a tree trunk, watching for any other watchers, trying to spot any tell-tale puffs of breath in the cold air, and also I watched for the sheer pleasure of it, much like Fauche had done in the patisserie’s window. She wore a thick black coat with a grey fur collar and matching hat. She stood and I thought she might leave but she just stamped her feet and hugged herself for warmth. I stepped forward into the path and walked steadily towards her. She heard my feet on the gravel and turned.
We both stopped. Dominique glanced left and right and then walked forward until she was close enough that our breath mingled and swirled upwards. She was pale, and her cheek was cold as I put a hand upon it. She tilted her head and kissed my hand. I drew her forward, holding her close, her nose cold on my cheek, her face damp with tears. We stayed like that for several minutes, not saying anything. Eventually I rubbed her back to warm her up and broke our embrace, quickly wiping my own face with my sleeve.
“You came,” she said.
“Did you think I would not?”
“I knew you would want to but I did not know if you would be able,” she said, her voice betraying her fear.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” I said and glanced behind at an approaching guardsman and his woman.
“We should walk,” she said as she saw them too.
“Yes, but where to?”
“Somewhere warm,” she said, with a shiver. She’d obviously been waiting for some time.
“I know just the place,” I said. That morning before even going to the café I had rented a room on the Rue Saint-Honoré near the Palais Royal and left instructions for a fire to be lit. It was not conceit that made me assume we would go there but a warm fire and fresh linen on the bed seemed to be a wise precaution in case we did.
As we walked, we talked, sticking to banalities lest we were overheard. I held her hand tightly and did not let go until I led her into the small, cramped room. The fire had filled the space with warmth but we were soon generating our own heat. We almost ripped the clothes off each other until we realised it was probably quicker if we undressed ourselves. We looked upon each other’s naked bodies for but a moment before leaping into bed. I blame the cold. Our lovemaking was not tender, but desperate and hurried. Since then, I have often wondered if a condemned man eats his last meal in leisure or in haste. Does he savour what he has or bolt it down to hurry the inevitable end?
Afterwards we lay in the orange glow of the fire. The sheets were rumpled and Dominique’s long dark hair spilled over the pillows in tangled rivers. My hand caressed her from her leg and up to her neck as we lay like a couple of spoons in a cutlery canteen. I kissed the fine hair at the nape of her neck and laughed as she shivered in response.
“What’s next?” I asked, gently playing with her earlobe.
“I don’t want to think of the future.”
“Or of the past?”
“No. Let us just live in this moment. This is the only moment for us,” she said and squirmed closer to me, pushing her buttocks against me.
“There will be more like this, I promise you,” I said and kissed her neck again.
“Perhaps,” she sighed, and went very still.
“Do you want to tell me how Claude was captured?” I asked.
“I’d rather make love again.”
“After we have talked,” I replied. I know, I don’t quite believe I said that either. “Once we are back in England we can make love forever.”
“Is that a promise?”
“A solemn oath.”
She rolled over and kissed me softly, her tongue and her hands restating her desire to avoid talking. With the utmost willpower and not a little incomprehension at my own actions, I fought off her advances. After a minute, she saw that I was serious and a light went off in those magnificent eyes of hers, and she sat up. The moment of intimacy was lost and if I had known there was to be so few such moments I would have done everything in my power to ensure it never ended.
“He was carrying a letter to a colonel in the Municipal Guard that we heard might be sympathetic to our cause. He was, but he was also being watched by Lacrosse. Claude and the Colonel were arrested. The Colonel has already been shot. I suppose I should be glad that Claude hasn’t and is in the Temple instead,” she said in a business-like tone.
“Is he alright?”
“Yes, as far as I know. They realise he knows little so haven’t bothered to torture him,” she said. I took her hand again but she shrugged me off. “I can’t leave him there, Ben. I just can’t.”
“How do you propose we get him out?” I asked, struggling to keep the incredulity out of my voice. I of course sympathised with her but thought it unlikely we’d be able to break somebody out of the most feared gaol in France.
“My uncle will give us papers signed by Lacrosse authorising my brother’s release. We, or rather you, walk up to the gates of the Temple, present the papers and then leave with Claude. I will have a carriage waiting.”
I wondered whether to tell her of Wright’s escape and what he had said about security being improved.
“As simple as that?” I sat up myself and pulled the covers up to my waist.
“With luck,” she said.
“The papers are forged?”
“Partly, the signatures will be genuine but the name will be changed.”
“What can go wrong?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Everything.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
“I’m sorry it’s not a perfect plan,” she said with sarcasm.
“It’s a very good plan, so good it’s been used before. Commodore Smith was sprung from the Temple by much the same method. Do you think it will work again? Won’t the guards have learnt their lesson?”
“It has to work.”
I looked at her intently, she was serious. There was no going back for her. She could not face the thought of her brother being tortured or staying in prison until he died of some fever. She would pursue any plan, even if it only had a small chance of success. Myself, I didn’t like the odds. It relied on the prison guards being particularly stupid. Generally this isn’t a problem when dealing with petty bureaucrats and officers of the law but when everybody in France could feel the blade of the guillotine on their collars I thought that relying on them not learning from mistakes that could get them killed lacked a healthy respect for the instincts of self preservation.
“Do you mind if I try to come up with an alternative plan?”
“If you must, but be quick, everything is almost in place,” she said but I could tell she was humouring me. She wanted Claude out of the Temple and quickly. She had a plan and would do it wether I helped or not. I couldn’t blame her, I would have done the same for Lucy.
She started to get out of bed.
“Wait,” I said, taking her hand and pulling her back to me. “There is one more thing we need to talk about.”
“Sorry, Ben I’m not…”
“No, not that. The traitor.”
“Oh.”
“Have you made any progress? Is it Duprez or Fauche?”
“Neither, as far as I can tell. I’ve watched them both. They’ve done nothing suspicious, except of course being involved in Pichegru’s plot.”
“You know of it?”
“Of course. I think all of Paris knows. All Paris is hoping.”
“More good news,” I said. “Brooke wants the traitor found before they betray the conspiracy.”
“It may be too late. The Colonel that Claude was carrying a letter to was being asked to join the plot.”
“Are you involved as well then?”
“Of course, they usually ask me to recruit the older men, a smile from a pretty girl can persuade them better than hatred of Bonaparte or the promise of money.”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be part of it. I’m not sure the Grand Conspiracy will end well, unless we get the turncoat. We need to work together and quickly. We need to flush this traitor out,” I said.
“How?”
“You’ve tried watching them and seen nothing. I think we need to try something else, give them a test.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell them both something different, some detail or the location of a meeting or something, and then watch and see which address is raided.”
“That might work, but what if both or neither address is raided. What if Lacrosse is cleverer than we think?” she said, obviously still thinking of Claude.
“Then we have to make the bait too tempting to refuse.”
“Like Cadoudal, for example.”
“Exactly.”
“Then let’s do it,” she said, too eagerly.
“Wait. Are we sure it can only be Fauche or Duprez? I trust Fauche and can’t see what Duprez would have gained by giving us the plans for the invasion if he was the traitor.”
“There was no one else that knew how we planned to get you out of Paris, apart from Jules and we know it wasn’t him.”
“He suspected you,” I said.
“Do you?” she asked, a little shocked.
“No, of course not. But there was one other person who knew.”
“Who?”
“Your uncle,” I said, guessing how she would react.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben,” she said pulling the sheet up over her breasts.
“I just meant that we have to consider everything, everyone.”
“Fine, consider him considered and ruled out,” she said with a look that dared me to say differently.
“Very well,” I agreed but I knew I couldn’t leave it there. My instincts were telling me that the traitor wasn’t Duprez or Fauche, and Wright had said it was someone closer. I didn’t think it was Calvet, not really, but I had to put my mind at rest and I knew I’d have to do it behind Dominique’s back. It’s a curious thing, to look back and identify the first moment when you lie to someone you love. Sometimes you can see the sewing of the first seeds of distrust in the simplest of white lies, something that you say to spare their feelings, but once that Rubicon is crossed the second lie doesn’t seem to matter as much. I promised myself that I would satisfy my own doubts about Calvet by any means I could and Dominique would never know, and that it would be the only time I would ever lie to her, at least about anything that mattered.
Dominique got out of bed and this time I didn’t stop her. She started to dress. I did the same. There is something about getting dressed after making love that cheapens the whole experience. It makes it almost perfunctory. It is much better to fall asleep, sated and content than get dressed and put your mind to the next order of business. I comforted myself that one day we would wake up together again. One day and every day after, I hoped.
“I’ll talk to Pichegru, if we are using Cadoudal as bait we’d better let him know,” I said as I struggled with my boots.
“Very well, although the fat buffoon won’t actually be at the addresses we give Duprez and Fauche, will he?” she asked as she examined herself in the mirror before putting her hat and coat on.
“No, of course not,” I said as I buttoned up my waistcoat.
“Pity.”
“You don’t like him?” I asked as I pulled on a boot.
“He leers,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind an ear.
“You’re worth leering at,” I said, taking a break from buttoning up my coat to playfully slap her behind.
“There are ways to leer that don’t make a girl’s skin crawl,” she replied.
“I’ll try and remember that.”
“Don’t worry Ben, I don’t think you could leer like that if you tried,” she said and kissed my cheek.
“We could stay a little longer,” I said. I knew we wouldn’t but I was now regretting the passing of the moment between us.
“You had your chance,” she answered and opened the door. I held it half closed and put my hand on her shoulder, turning her back to face me.
“When will we meet again? We need to work fast and find out if it is Duprez or Fauche,” I said and it wasn’t just an excuse to see her again, honestly.
“I know. I will leave word at the café tomorrow,” she said, and then she left. Leaving me alone in that tiny room with the fire spluttering, the sheets all over the floor, the scent of stale love-making in the air and a myriad of questions and doubts whirling in my mind. Who could I ask about Calvet?