Authors: Rob Griffith
“Mon Dieu, listen to you all! Bleating like so many sheep waiting for the slaughter. I didn’t come all the way from England to listen to you all carp about what may or may not happen. We will continue. We can do nothing else. If anybody has lost their nerve they can leave. Now. Go!”
I looked around. A few feet shuffled but no one was brave enough to leave there and then, but there would be desertions later, perhaps even those who would betray the rest of us to save their own necks. I knew it and so did Pichegru, I could see the despair in his eyes.
“Very well,” Pichegru continued after a suitable pause, “We will just have to convince Moreau, even if it means acceding to his demands for now, but I assure you all I will not rest until there is a King on the throne again. Go home. Keep safe. We will send word soon.”
Everyone began to leave, many seeming too eager to leave as though they wanted to be away from some source of contagion. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable, maybe it was just the cold room they wanted out of. I caught Fauche’s eye before he squeezed through the door. He just nodded but it was one of those nods that says a lot; take care of yourself, good luck, we’ll all need it. A few stayed a few minutes, some to continue arguments and some possibly to convince others of their continued fidelity before jumping ship. Montaignac was one who stayed and I went over and pulled him to one side. I took him to the corner farthest from the fire where I felt sure we would not be overheard.
“I need your help,” I said knowing such a request would appeal to his self-importance.
“Certainly,” he replied. Our corner was dark and I couldn’t really see his face, and his mouth was half hidden by a scarf. While I needed our conversation not to be overheard I also needed to judge the veracity of his replies. I drew us towards a candle guttering on a window sill.
“Tell me about Calvet,” I asked.
“You mean Dominique’s uncle?” he asked, as if I could mean any other.
“Yes, do you trust him?”
“I have no reason not to. I have known him ever since I came to Paris. He has always acted as a friend to me,” he said and his eyes flicked towards the candle. He was being evasive, I was sure. His words were too carefully chosen.
“But there is something, isn’t there?”
“Look, Blackthorne, what is this? Are you investigating the family pedigree before proposing to Dominique?” he said with a smirk on his lips, one that I wanted to wipe off but I restrained myself.
“No. I need to know if he is to be trusted.”
“As I said, I have never found a reason to not trust him,” he said, this time meeting my eye.
“But others have?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do you know of anybody that has found a reason not to trust him?” I asked, trying to make it evident in my tone that I wasn’t being fooled.
“Well…”
“Please Jules, it’s important.”
“Do not tell Dominique that you heard this from me,” he said, flicking his eyes left and right as if she might be listening.
“I won’t, you have my word,” I lied.
“There was a rumour, after Dominique’s parents were killed. Just a whisper really, but there were many such whispers at the time.”
“And what did this whisper say?”
“That it was Calvet who betrayed his brother,” Montaignac said. This was more than I had bargained for.
“Calvet? But why?” I asked.
“There was an inheritance, also Dominique’s father belonged to one of the factions that wanted a more moderate regime. Calvet was an ally of Robespierre and wanted the slaughter to continue, to wipe out the aristos and any who opposed the Revolution. He has since changed his opinions many times in order to survive. Many of us have had to.”
“So he was prepared to betray his own brother?”
“That was the whisper, I am not saying it was so, and if you value your manhood I would not repeat what I have said to Dominique. She loves and trusts her uncle, perhaps that should be enough for you. Many whispers were spoken in those times. Most were not true but many still led to death and betrayal. Such things are best left in the past,” he said, and for once I believed him.
“Is there any way such a whisper could be disproved?”
“The records of the Committee of Public Safety may reveal who really betrayed the Calvets,” he said, and I saw he knew what I would ask next.
“As a deputy could you look at those records?”
“I could make a request, yes,” he said with resignation.
“Did Dominique ever ask you to?”
“Once.”
“Did you?”
“No, I persuaded her that some dogs were best left to sleep. That knowing who it was would do no good.”
“I can’t see Dominique accepting that argument very easily,” I said, falling into that manner of speech that men sometimes adopt with other men with whom they have shared a lover. I regretted granting Montaignac that status before the words had left my mouth. What had passed between Dominique and I was different. Deeper.
“She didn’t, it’s why she now shares your bed and not mine,” he said and I still feel proud I did not rise to the bate and begin to list other more probable reasons. Instead I said that which had been hanging between us since the conversation had begun.
“I would like you to find out who betrayed her parents.”
“Are you sure?” he asked “Once you know you’ll have to tell her. It will bring those times back for her, dark times.” Bless him, he still cared for her, I thought.
“I know, but I must shed some light into those shadows. I need to be sure of somebody else’s treachery, and I can only do that by being sure of Calvet’s fealty.”
“Very well. I will do it,” he said with obvious reluctance. I felt I might have to remind him.
“Thank you,” I said and shook his hand.
“I’ll send word when I have your answer,” he said and left, he didn’t look back. He just strode out as quick as he could, doubtless vowing to forget the conversation we had just shared and the commitment he had made.
“What was that about?” General Pichegru asked as he waved me over to the fire. I didn’t need a second invitation.
“Nothing,” I replied.
We warmed ourselves by the fire and neither of us spoke. Everyone else had left and we were alone.
“Do you think we can do it?” asked the General.
“There is still a chance,” I said. There was still a chance that the Grand Conspiracy could topple Bonaparte off his perch, in much the same way that there would be a chance for a plough horse in a Newmarket race, just not a very good one.
“A chance. Yes, there is still a chance,” said Pichegru staring into the flames of the dying fire.
I had told the General about Duprez earlier in the day. He’d been unconvinced, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to be convinced by the evidence I presented and said he’d have to think on what to do. Looking at him then, with the weight of a nation’s future on his shoulder I didn’t want to ask him what he had decided, but I had little choice.
“Sir, about Duprez…” I began.
“Kill him. Kill the mouchard quickly,” he said using the coarse term for an informer. “Destroy the canker before it spreads. I saw fear on many faces this night. It does not take much for fear to lead to perfidy. Kill the traitor and, as Voltaire said of the execution of your Admiral Byng, it might encourage the others. If they are scared of Lacrosse I want them to be more scared of betraying me, of betraying France,” he said with a vehemence I thought born of desperation.
“Very well. I will see to it tomorrow,” I said, because there was nothing else I could say. The General sighed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you. Goodnight, Ben.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Pichegru left me by the fire. Only the embers were glowing now, pulsing weakly like a dying man’s heart. I’d never set out to kill anybody before, circumstances had always forced me into it. Now I had an order from the General to set against my own doubts about Duprez. I wanted to be certain of his guilt if I was to be his executioner, but I realised that there was no court, no judge or jury and no room for reasonable doubt. I could not wait for the days that it would take for Montaignac to find out if Calvet had betrayed his brother, presuming that he intended to be true to his word. In a way, Duprez’s guilt or innocence had ceased to be the question. For the sake of the conspiracy, action needed to be taken. A sacrifice had to be made. The waverers had to be convinced. Yes, there was still a chance that Duprez was innocent, the plough horse might still win, but I couldn’t gamble on it. I couldn’t take the risk that Dominique would be the next victim of his treachery. I would have to kill him and, as Pichergru had said, it needed to be done quickly. It was going to be dawn in a few short hours. Before the sun set again I promised myself Duprez would be dead, and I would be a murderer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
André Duprez had only minutes to live. As I watched him I wondered what he would have been doing that morning had he been aware of that fact. Would he have diligently placed his affairs in order? Would he have reached for the nearest bottle? Would he have paid a whore to make his last few moments as pleasurable as possible? Or would he have still chosen to browse the booksellers of Faubourg St. Germain? I can think of worse ways to spend my last morning than perusing the volumes in a book shop, hoping that something will catch my eye; an author that I haven’t read or a rare edition. Of course that pleasure might be muted if I knew I wasn’t going to have time to read it.
I’d been outside the building where Duprez lived just after first light. It was a dark and grey dawn. Low clouds deposited just enough sleet to be tiresome. The snow had almost gone and the thaw had made the roads a morass of mud, slush and worse. I had watched Duprez open the shutters and greet the day, such as it was. His last day. I should have done the deed then, but it seemed impolite to kill a man before he had breakfasted. That’s what I told myself anyway. So, I had waited and followed him when he left. Hoping that he would turn down a narrow and deserted alley where I could do what needed to be done. He hadn’t. He’d kept to busy streets and walked quickly and purposefully until he had reached the first booksellers. Then he had taken his time. He must have loved books to wander between the shops so slowly given the weather. I had my cloak collar turned up and my hat pulled low but still tiny icy beads of sleet seemed to find their way down my neck. The booksellers of Faubourg St Germain were many and varied. I had often browsed their myself. The poverty of the former aristocracy meant there was a plentiful supply of books and the illiteracy of the new regime kept many of them on the bookseller’s shelves. Prices were low and the quality was high.
Duprez greeted many of the shopkeepers by name and exchanged a few words with them before looking through the new stock. He was a good customer and soon had several volumes tucked under his arm. He spent so long in some of the shops I felt sure I would be noticed loitering outside. The dagger in the pocket of my cloak was feeling ever heavier, as were the pistols, but it was the knife I planned to use. I knew I couldn’t delay indefinitely. I was beginning to think that I would have to go up to him and feign a chance encounter and then perhaps lead him to some quiet spot, claiming I knew of a good cafe where we could discuss his purchases, but then I saw him. A fellow loiterer and one who didn’t seem the sort to be much of a reader. He was an ugly brute, tall and broad. A former soldier by the look of him. He was picking his nails with a pen knife, glancing up every now and then at the doorway of the shop from which Duprez was just about to exit. I could see him through the window paying for yet another purchase and saying his farewell to the owner.
As soon as Duprez came out my fellow loiterer put his knife away and fell into step a dozen paces behind him, matching Duprez’s pace. I followed the follower, wondering what was going on. Was Duprez being watched by the police? Did that mean he wasn’t the traitor? The three of us walked along the street towards Les Invalides. Perchance the old soldier lived there and was just on his way home? Duprez turned away towards the Seine, up the Rue de Bourgogne. The soldier followed. So he wasn’t going home then. Up ahead I noticed several municipal guards leaning against the wall of the Palais du Corps Législatif. One glanced up at Duprez and nodded to the others. They all straightened themselves up and two crossed to the other side of the street. As the old soldier passed a couple of other rough looking coves who were standing outside a boulangerie he gave them a nod and they fell into step beside him. Duprez was walking into a trap.
I hesitated, literally pausing mid-step. I had to decide if Duprez was the traitor or not. Should I help him or not? What could I do? Was it safer for me to slink away and let whatever was going to happen just happen? A large part of me wanted to run but duty, that perennial pain in the hindquarters, was having none of it.
“Duprez, run!” I shouted as I drew my pistols.
He looked round, startled. So did the old soldier and his comrades. For a moment no-one moved, the police weren’t expecting Duprez to have help and Duprez wasn’t expecting to need it. Then everybody began to move at once as they recovered their wits. The innocent pedestrians around us scattered like chaff in the wind. Duprez dropped his books and began to run back down the street towards me. The municipal guards unslung their muskets and chased after him. The old soldier shouted at his colleagues to go for Duprez and then came for me himself, struggling to draw his own pistol as he ran. I wasn’t about to be gentlemanly and let him have the first shot. I fired and dropped him before he had gone five paces. It was a lucky shot from twenty paces away that hit his thigh. He fell and slithered to a stop in the slush. He was down but not out. He finished drawing his pistol and fired. The shot went wide, smashing the window of the boulangerie. I ran to Duprez. He had run but he had nowhere to go. The municipal guards were coming from one side, the two comrades from the other. He looked from one group to the other and then ran into the street. A cabriolet almost ran him down but he jumped up into the driver’s seat and pushed the elderly gentleman who had been at the reigns unceremoniously into the mud. He grabbed the whip and cracked it over the horses who, already agitated by the shots, needed little encouragement. They lurched forward, making one of the municipal guards leap for his life. Another fired his musket but in his panic missed by a mile. The guards gave chase but to little avail.