Lempriere's Dictionary (44 page)

Juliette roamed through it all like a veteran. Jaques held her by the arm, she was an animal in a jewelled collar. Even at this time of the year the gardens were packed with tight clusters of men and women talking quickly in knots. It was an orchestra of voices, undertones mixing with piercing shrieks, hissing sibilants and deep, gurgling laughter. The two of them sliced through all of it in a diagonal left to right and Juliette half-caught, half-saw, she was unsure, there was the staircase and it was jammed with women. She looked again. They passed a group of chevaliers who doffed elaborate hats to her so that she turned away and then she knew that she was right. A man in plain dress. He had moved parallel with them across the length and breadth of the gardens. She caught his silhouette flickering through gaps in the crowd. Then he was gone. He wore a small black hat. They were in the Great Gallery where the women’s heads bobbed and nodded, the movement amplified by their piled hair and the coloured feathers. Suddenly, he was there again, ahead of them now. It was impossible and she twisted about so that Jaques had to pull her back. He was to their right, but he could not have moved so rapidly through the crush. There were two of them, suddenly clear, two of them. Or more. They were inching towards the point where she had glimpsed the first. Juliette looked up at Jaques and saw his face was changed, tight now, his eyes flicking from side to side. She began to open her mouth, to raise her arm and point but he caught her wrist quickly and forced it down.

‘Say nothing!’ he hissed at her. The man to their right was converging on them, they would beat him to the doors at the far end of the gallery, but not the other who was ahead of them and slowing. They were closing on him as they threaded a path through the idle talkers and powder-cakes and when they reached the door he was only yards away. She could hear the sharp reports of the second tracker’s heels moving at a pace behind them. The first was moving more quickly than before. Jaques was pulling her along by the wrist. They were almost running across the court, her breath coming fast in the cold air, and then they
were
running, out into the street beyond and the steps behind them were louder still, closer. Ahead of them, the man moved into the centre of the street as a coach moved past them, slowing, the first man pulling open the door and Jaques was pulling her in behind him as he scrambled into the coach and the second man threw himself in behind, then the first, the door slammed shut and the coach gathered pace quickly with the four of them inside and the horses broke into a gallop.

The two men were facing them, seated opposite. One of them leant across and Jaques clasped his hand. The other man was impassive.

‘Nine weeks,’ said Jaques. ‘Nine weeks we have been here.’

‘I know,’ said the other. ‘You were watched,’ and Juliette knew suddenly that the meeting with these men, whoever they were, was the event for which Jaques had been waiting.

Their destinations rushed towards them. The coach made a clacking racket as it sped east down Rue Saint Honoré. Juliette looked out of the window as the townhouses slid by and crowds spilled off the pavements into the road. Their faces were white blurs right up against the glass.
Keep them out
, she thought.

The coach turned left before the Marché des Innocens as though to cross the river by the Pont Neuf, but no, they were slowing to a standstill. Juliette’s skin was prickling. Jaques glanced down at her and caught her eye. The maze of streets and alleys they had skirted like a hostile fortress during their time in the city was now to their left. Ahead of them a dray was over-turned, blocking the road with timber. A horse was dead. Juliette heard the hooves of their own horses clatter awkwardly as the driver had them wheel about and, even without looking, Juliette knew the road which would form their detour. Then she did look, as the coach turned into the Rue Boucher des Deux Boules and she felt something rising in her throat. There was the bakery, and a few doors along the Hotel where she had watched little Restif stand on the parapet and scream - they all had - as he pissed on the heads of the passersby below. Past that was the alley which had no name but they called it the ‘Black and Green’ from the colours of its walls, which glistened with a mould they had found nowhere else. The street bent mid-way along its length and the angle came suddenly giving her the houses further along for a second before the coach gave a violent jolt, found its bearing and that was when Jaques reached across to draw the curtain.

But she had already seen it, the lights were blazing behind the red drapes - the same ones - and she could see the long room within, remember it vividly, with sofas and chaises dotted about and fires burning in the hearths at either end. In the mornings the sunlight had streamed through the high windows and she had played on the floor while Oudin, Petit Pas, Minette, Grosse Bonne and the other girls had lounged about, talking, yawning, scratching. And Maman too. Upstairs were the bedrooms and above them the attic room were she had kicked and screamed with every ounce of her strength but it was no good. Then a year or two later, the same window, Maman had strode down the street swinging her blue canvas bag, not looking back. She banged on the pane, but no-one heard. Petit Pas had run after her and later returned with the same blue bag. A keepsake. Then she
had known that Maman would not return. Madame Stéphanie would not take her back again and she was gone for good. The bag was goodbye and she was left with the long afternoons and her memories of Maman spinning out rambling stories about her lovers, one of whom was Juliette’s father.

‘A fine man. A man of his word.’ But she only said that because he sent money every month, money for Juliette which she gave to her mother taking for herself only the fact that somewhere her father knew of her existence. He would not come for her, she told herself. She would hunt for him. It was a rage inside her, she let no-one see it.

Now the coach would be passing the heavy front door which she had last seen four years before when it had closed finally behind her and the Viscount’s coach had stood waiting in the street. She had sat in it while he had concluded the business with Madame Stéphanie. Her face was white, then as now, and she twisted her skirts in her hands. When he joined her in the carriage she learned that she was to leave the city. For Jersey.

‘Papa?’ That faint possibility had run out of the island’s name in a rush of false hope. The money was sent from Jersey, her father was on Jersey if he was anywhere. ‘Papa?’ She knew it was not this man who was built like a bull. There was nothing in his face, and it was confirmed to her anyway almost as soon as the coach moved off. He had dealt with her there and then, roughly on the seat of the carriage. Papa: at his insistence she would call him that. She had thought to run, even in her disarray. But when she had burst out that he was no father of hers, that he had tricked her (though he had claimed nothing) the Viscount had laughed at her misery.

‘Your father? Absurd! Your father and I are utterly unalike.’ The words had been almost tangible. He might have strung them about her neck as a leash. She could not leave him then, or misunderstand his needs. He would ask more of her than that and she would surrender what he asked. That much was clear as he saw the implications of his phrase register in her expression. He knew the identity of her father. That made her his.

One of the men rapped on the woodwork and called. ‘Stop!’ She had lost all notion of where they were as her thoughts had drifted over the events of four years past. She felt Jaques’ hand on her elbow. The two strangers followed them out. They were in a back street bounded on one side by a high wall. The coach moved off and a low door opened in front of them. All four ducked through to find themselves in a large garden. It was quite dark and the carefully clustered trees looked like black mountains against the night sky. Juliette could feel clipped grass beneath her feet. They moved around a copse in silence, and a large house, larger even than the Viscount’s, was suddenly visible. The lights within were blazing and Juliette could see through the windows that a banquet was going on in a
long room on the ground floor. Twenty or thirty men were seated around a table, talking, eating and drinking. They moved across the lawn and the scene slid from view. The two men led them to a door at the side of the house. An unlit corridor led to a drawing room, beyond it a larger chamber where the lamps had been lit.

A long table ran down its centre. Jaques took a seat and motioned for Juliette to do the same. The more impassive of the two men sat opposite them. The other was closing the door as his companion addressed him.

‘Duluc! The Cardinal should be fetched now.’ Duluc nodded and rose. The three were left together. Juliette noticed that Jaques, who had been abstracted and distant during their weeks together and tight with nerves during the journey to this mansion had now assumed a third guise. He lounged in his chair. He was at ease, nonchalent even.

‘Are you well Protagoras?’ he asked casually. The other nodded as though the matter was of great import. Jaques cast his eyes round the room. He might have been seated on a bench in the Elysée Gardens, watching the promenaders go by. The door opened and Duluc re-entered followed by a man dressed in grey robes wearing a scarlet skull cap.

‘Cardinal,’ Jaques offered his hand across the table.

‘Jaques.’ They shook hands briefly. ‘You seem well.’ His eyes roamed over Juliette who sat bolt upright in her chair.

‘You took my advice, I see. The reports which reached me identified her as your niece, was that the story?’

‘We are tourists, naturally.’ The Cardinal smiled. His teeth were small and yellow.

‘My apologies for the delay. You were watched until very recently, Duluc explained?’

‘Of course. Delay is inevitable. Only risk unacceptable.’

‘Yes, yes. Watched closely too.’ The Cardinal’s voice had an edge in it, he was nervous. ‘Even tonight…. Do you know my guest tonight?’

‘We saw.’

‘An irony. He would appreciate it, were it not to cost him so dear.’ The Cardinal smiled again.

‘You should introduce us,’ Jaques said. His tone was serious. The Cardinal did not smile. ‘In any case, we shall meet later. When circumstances are changed.’

‘A toast to that, perhaps?’The Cardinal turned to Protagoras who began to move towards the decanter on a sideboard table.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Jaques. Protagoras stopped and resumed his seat. The Cardinal smiled again. Juliette realised suddenly that he had deferred to Jaques, in his own house. Did the Cardinal fear Jaques, even here?

‘The Viscount could not be with us; a pity.’

‘We have other affairs to manage,’ Jaques replied. ‘Our business here is not negotiation; the negotiations have ended, are we agreed upon that?’ The Cardinal assented. ‘And we are here only to clarify the matters which are already part of our agreement, is that clear?’ Yes, it seemed. ‘When I address you, Cardinal, it is with the undivided will of the Cabbala. Likewise, you represent here each and every member of
Les Cacouacs
, am I right?’

‘The
Conseil aux Conseils
,’ the Cardinal amended. ‘Yes without doubt. There were however a number of small points which some members wished to stress, the schedule of repayments for instance….’ Jaques’ manner changed immediately.

‘Listen to me Cardinal.’ He leaned forward over the table, almost pushing his face into that of the Cardinal. ‘There will be no talk of points. When you and the other patriots’ - he stressed the word insultingly - ‘came to us, you brought nothing but a simple fact: if your country were sold lock stock and barrel it would not pay its debts. You do not even know your debts! Monsieur Necker believes in a surplus that is in truth a deficit of forty million livres. Monsieur Calonne believes it is eighty and we think it closer to one hundred and twenty millions. Which of us is right, Cardinal? You and I, and every other man in Europe with a head for the figures, know that France bleeds from a million holes. The debts even within her boundaries are greater than all her efforts to repay them. Beyond those frontiers her debts are greater still and every Dutch banker knows they are paper, a house of cards. You are standing on nothing. We, the Cabbala, will take your debts and honour them. No longer will you pay dividends to a million creditors but only one. Ourselves. We place all our reserves at your disposal. Our wealth will lie like granite beneath the whole of France. And for this we ask nothing but that you allow us to do it, and you will allow us, Cardinal. No-one else will come to you now. France is the whore who sold her favours too often and too cheap. You see, Cardinal, when you lose who you are, there is only money.’

Duluc and Protagoras wore faces of stone. Too often and too cheap. Juliette turned the thought over in her mind. The Cardinal subsided into a craven silence. Duluc spoke.

‘We have accepted all these strictures. The
Conseil aux Conseils
recognises all you have said. Yet when your reserves become the reserves of France, what is to stop you from withdrawing them and bringing our country down in ruins?’

‘Your country is already in ruins, but to answer you, why once it is given should we wish to withdraw our support?’

‘For any number of reasons Monsieur Jaques, a policy which displeases you, an edict….’

‘Then you shall not pursue such policies, nor pass such edicts.’

‘In effect, you will govern our country.’

Jaques sat back once more. ‘In effect, you have directed us to do so.’

‘We do not even know who you are,’ the Cardinal rallied. ‘You might be agents of any power. We do not even know if you can fulfill your promises. Where would such sums come from? How have they been concealed?’

‘Cardinal, we know of your efforts to discover our identity. You will cease those efforts, you will discover nothing in any case. How we have amassed such sums is our own business, likewise their concealment. But the bulk of our wealth is already in France, you need know no more. We represent no power beyond ourselves, no nation nor faction within any nation. We have no interest in your politics. We are investors, no more nor less. You will never know who we are except we tell you. We will become patriots just as you, the
Cacouacs
are. The sum of our wealth will be revealed to you as it will be to the whole of France when the time is right, when the change has been made. And the change is something we must discuss, for we will not meet again until it is done.’