Authors: Rob Griffith
“No, nothing,” she said, and pulled my cloak more tightly around her. The sun might have been shining but the room was still like an ice house. Nothing had happened all morning either. I was beginning to think our plan wasn’t going to work. I pulled another couple of sacks over towards the window to make a crude table and began to arrange the contents of the basket I was carrying. We’d been there since before dawn, watching and waiting, and since noon had now passed a mixture of hunger and boredom had got the better of me and I’d had to get us something to eat. We were ensconced above a boulangerie at the eastern end of the Rue St Honoré. The owner was a Royalist. Across the street were two inns, Melac’s and Le Rouge Hache, separated by a few shops. Dominique had let Duprez overhear that Cadoudal was staying at Melac’s. I had done the same with Fauche but named Le Rouge Hache. The trap was set. The traitor, whomever it was, would pass the information to Lacrosse and one of the inns would be raided. We would then know who the traitor was. That was the plan. It wasn’t working. We’d expected Lacrosse to swoop immediately. He hadn’t.
Instead we’d watched the street all morning and apart from observing an entertaining argument between a baker and his wife we’d seen nothing of interest. What was worse, the tension of waiting and the slow realisation that we had failed had not been conducive to even the mildest flirting between us.
“Come, have some lunch,” I said. “I’ll take a turn.”
My quick victualling expedition had been intended just to secure us some of the fresh bread, the scent of which had been driving me insane with hunger since before the sun had risen. However, in common with most gentlemen when faced with a combination of an empty stomach and an empty basket I had perhaps over done it. Once I’d bought the bread I had supposed a little cheese would go well with it and then of course we needed something to drink and after all the vintners was just across the way from the fromagerie. What really did for me though was recognising the name of a little pickle shop that Fauche had once recommended to me. I managed to resist the turkey stuffed with truffle at 45 livres but succumbed to the partridge pies, and perhaps one or two other dainties.
“Ben, you’ve bought enough for an army,” said Dominique as she sat on a barrel near our improvised table.
“Yes, I know. Still, at this rate we’ll be here for sometime,” I said as I picked up a pie and went to take her place in the window.
“Why? If Lacrosse was going to take the bait he would have by now. We are just wasting our time,” she said taking a long pull from the wine bottle. I didn’t say anything, partly because there was nothing I could say. She was right. But mostly because my mouth was full of partridge and pastry.
The street was very busy, each of the shops had a steady stream of clientele coming and going. A couple of young ladies were laughing as they came out of a milliner’s with new hats. A young delivery boy was leaving the pickle shop weighed down by packages, he dropped one in the gutter, glanced back at the shop, wiped the mud off it as best he could and went on his way. A plump middle aged woman was sniffing and squeezing the bread as she left another boulangerie, obviously not convinced of its freshness. Both inns were filling up with the lunchtime crowd but there was no sign of any police.
“We might as well go, once we’ve eaten,” I said. “Pass the wine, if you please.”
“Then what? We are no closer to finding that bastard traitor,” Dominique said as she handed me the bottle. Despite her criticism of my shopping I noted she was getting through the food like a hungry vicar. I took some bread and cheese before it all disappeared.
“I don’t know,” I said, “We’ll have to come up with something else. Perhaps it isn’t Duprez or Fauche? Perhaps they haven’t had the chance to pass the information onto Lacrosse. Perhaps Lacrosse knows already where Cadoudal is and so doesn’t believe them.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps we are just fools to think such a simple plan would work. Lacrosse isn’t stupid,” Dominique said as she came to stand behind me, idly running a hand through my hair.
“No, but if he got word of where Cadoudal was he’d have to act upon it. If he didn’t and the plot went on and it became known he could have stopped it then his head would be on the block,” I said reaching up and taking hold of her hand.
“You are assuming that Lacrosse is a loyal and dedicated servant of Bonaparte, not a self-serving rat with his own designs,” Dominique said as I pulled her gently on to my lap.
“True, but he has proved worryingly dogged in his pursuit of the Royalists thus far, he hasn’t yet failed to make an arrest when he had the chance,” I said. I felt her stiffen and she glanced away. I guessed she was thinking of Claude.
“Would we know if he had?” she said eventually, resting her head on my shoulder and not protesting when I nibbled her ear. Perhaps the food and wine had helped get her into a more receptive disposition.
“True again,” I said, as she removed my hand from where it was. Perhaps I had over estimated the effects of the refreshments after all. I didn’t care overmuch, I was content to just hold her close. Her hair had a more pleasant aroma than stale flour and mouse droppings.
“We’ll have to think of another plan,” she said.
“We are running out of time,” I said. “We have watched both Duprez and Fauche and seen nothing suspicious, and let’s face it neither of us can quite believe one of them is the traitor. The conspiracy is nearing its end, one way or another. We don’t have the luxury of time. Perhaps we need to look for the traitor elsewhere.”
“You mean my uncle?” she said, sitting upright.
“Not necessarily. There may be other possible suspects,” I said and realised my mistake as soon as the words had left my mouth.
“But my uncle is one?”
“We can’t rule him out,” I said digging the hole deeper.
“I can. That man has protected me and Claude, and given us a home since my parents were murdered. What reason would he have to betray us?” she said, standing and striding around indignantly, no mean trick in a tiny storeroom packed to the gunwales with sacks, boxes and barrels.
“I don’t know, and I’m not saying it is him, I’m just saying that it is time to look further than Duprez or Fauche,” I said in as mollifying tone as I could muster but to be honest I was tired and frustrated and more than a little convinced I was in the right so perhaps I wasn’t mollifying enough, or indeed at all from her perspective.
“There is no one else who knew where and when you were leaving Paris. Both Duprez and Fauche also knew Claude was delivering that letter, for that matter. I’m going to find out which of them betrayed my brother with or without your help.”
“And did your uncle also know where Claude was going?” I asked. I’d decided that we were having our first proper argument and it was better to get everything said. I had learnt from experience that backing down from an argument with a lover never really works. If they know you well they’ll tell that you are holding back and will return to the same argument again and again until they are convinced that you have seen the error of your ways and are not just paying lip service.
“Yes, of course, but he wouldn’t want his own nephew thrown in the Temple. Ben, I am warning you, do not mention this to me again,” she said with fire in her eyes and I thought on this occasion that perhaps it was better to nod and say ‘yes dear’.
“Very well, I apologise. I am just worried about you, your brother has already been betrayed and I do not want the same to happen to you. To us. Or to anybody else in the conspiracy. If this plot succeeds then France will be free, if it fails things can only get worse, for all of us,” I said taking her hand again and looking into her eyes with what I hoped would pass for compassion and conviction.
“I know, that’s why we cannot waste time suspecting my uncle,” she said, calming down just a little.
“Then let’s consider who Duprez, Fauche or Montaignac might have told innocently and then been betrayed themselves,” I suggested.
“Ben, we have all lived in the shadow of the guillotine for long enough to learn to be careful what we say to whom. It’s not likely one of them mentioned that they were helping an Englishman escape from Paris in a balloon from a convent,” she said, happy to be exasperated with me again instead of angry.
“The only alternative is that the dragoons happened upon us by luck, and I’ve never found a reason to trust to fortune,” I said. It was then I noticed that sounds of the street had changed. I looked outside, a small crowd was gathered beneath our window, looking over at Melac’s. A file of municipal guard were holding their muskets at the ready and blocking the street while more charged into the inn. There were shouts and one or two screams. Dominique looked at me and I nodded and grinned. I gathered up the food and wine, stuffed it back into the basket and then we left. We had found our traitor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Paris wasn’t built for the cold, and it was another bitter night. French workmanship being what it is, there were often gaps around doors and windows which let draughts in that could freeze a man’s soul. There were nearly twenty of us crammed into the room and with that many bodies it should have been stuffy and hot but it wasn’t. It was as cold as a grave. However, it was likely only the risk of hypothermia that was keeping most of us awake.
It was well past midnight and the discussion was going around in circles. We were in our rooms on the Rue du Puits-de-l’Hermite. Almost everyone involved with the conspiracy were there, except Duprez of course, but more of him later and also I had neglected to pass on the invitation to Dominique. I wanted her as far from that band of dithering idiots as possible. The chance of successfully overthrowing Bonaparte was slipping through our fingers.
Somewhat unexpectedly Dominique’s uncle, François Calvet was there. He’d arrived early, marching in and beating the snow from his cloak. He tossed his hat on a chair, ran a hand through his greying hair and looked to see who had noticed his arrival. It was the first time we’d met since the night of the balloon flight. He was warm and friendly. I was more guarded, although I tried not to be. He still had the look of a man who would actually have to pause and think a moment about selling his grandmother if a high enough price was offered. Our conversation had been brief.
“Monsieur Blackthorne, it is gratifying to see you again,” he said clasping my shoulders.
“Monsieur Calvet, I never properly thanked you for getting me out of Paris, no matter how unconventional the means,” I said, slapping him on the back heartily.
“It was nothing, a small service. I’m distressed to see you so readily with your head in the lion’s mouth again,” he said, as his eyes flicked at the other conspirators that had already arrived.
“I know, when I left I didn’t think I’d be back before another peace was signed.”
“Perhaps something, or someone, drew you back, like a moth to a flame?” he said, one eyebrow twitching upwards.
“Yes, perhaps.”
“Be careful you don’t get your wings singed,” he said.
“I will, don’t worry.” I said and then changed the subject. “I must say I am little surprised to see you here. I didn’t know you were involved…”
“With your little plot? I wasn’t, but I am now. If Pichegru had come to me sooner perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess,” he said.
“Well, I’m sure you can show us the error of our ways.”
“I will do what I can. Please excuse me, I must talk to the General,” he said and went off with Pichegru, whispering to him conspiratorially as they left the room. When they returned a few minutes later Pichegru looked like a man who was fighting the urge to check his pockets. Everybody else had arrived by then.
That had been at the start of the evening. At midnight Pichegru, standing next to the fire, the lucky dog, was trying to steer the conversation to some kind of conclusion. Most agreed that without Moreau the Grand Conspiracy was going nowhere. Lajolais still believed he could get Moreau’s support, but the General’s demand for some kind of transition period would have to be met. Major Rusillion was implacably opposed to any talk of another mere general taking charge, he wanted the crown back on the head of a Bourbon as soon as Bonaparte was removed. Most opinions wavered somewhere between those extremes, with some contributors to the discussion seemingly agreeing with both sentiments but offering no way forward. So, did I, as the sole Englishman, step in and herd that Gallic gaggle of geese towards a conclusion? I did not. My opinion was the one that was probably shared by many but voiced by none. The conspiracy had already failed. Delay, discussion and dissent had done for it even before Lacrosse had made any arrests. Once he had detained and begun to torture several of the conspirators fear paralysed the rest of them like rats caught in the light of the rat catcher’s lantern. Just like the rats, if they were going to live they would have to dart back into the shadows and I could tell from their faces that many of them were already thinking about how they could survive rather than how they could succeed.
Arguments began between the various strands of opinion, accusations were thrown, recriminations followed. Almost all of the room was speaking at once but no one was listening. General Pichegru, looking very tired, rolled his eyes and picked up a large book that was on the table behind him. I thought he was going to use it to beat some sense into them but instead he dropped it on the floor. It hit the oak planks with a sound like a pistol shot, something that perhaps did nothing for the nerves of those present but had the desired effect of silencing them all.