The Bastille Spy

by C. S. Quinn

THE DICE WHIRL AS TERESA ROLAND AND I PLAY. IT IS A dizzying, exciting game. I am enjoying the challenge. I also notice how Teresa’s eyes light for just a little too long on my mouth, my hands as they throw.

  I take the cup. When I let my fingers linger on hers, she makes no move to pull away.

  ‘Four and a six,’ I say. ‘I pick a main of two, so my probability of winning is five over three. I make that a disadvantage of one and a half per cent to the castor.’

  I hand back the dice shaker with a polite smile. Teresa’s drooping eyes widen in admiration.

  ‘Well, well,’ she says, ‘a worthy opponent. Look you this, gentleman. It isn’t only men who can make numbers. Some of the great Lord Morgan’s talents have been conferred to his pretty daughter.’

  She’s looking at me differently now, as though I’ve tricked her. Teresa’s need to win is competing with other desires.

  She shakes the dice pot, throws and lifts her hands in a happy gesture.

  ‘Six and four,’ she says. ‘I make that my advantage.’

  I pick up the cup and shake it thoughtfully, watching her face.

  ‘How did an old goat like Foulon ensnare a mistress so much younger than he?’ I ask, remembering the elderly minister’s boast that they’d once been lovers.

  She laughs and watches my dice roll. Three and two. We are level pegging.

  ‘Flattery does not work with me,’ she says, retrieving the dice from the table.

  ‘I mean no flattery,’ I say as she throws. ‘I heard Foulon made his fortune off the backs of the poor, stealing their taxes. I wondered if you were attracted to his great wealth.’

  Her drooping eyes fix on mine.

  ‘Be a little careful, Mademoiselle Morgan,’ she decides, searching my face. ‘I know something of your family,’ she adds meaningfully. ‘Three and twelve,’ she says with a happy clap of her hands. ‘If you were hoping to distract me, you have not succeeded.’ She shakes her head as I take back the dice.

  I try another tack. ‘The death of Gaspard de Mayenne,’ I say, watching her carefully. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Madame Roland’s drooping eyes lift. Nothing in their expression suggests anything other than mild interest. ‘My opinion is Gaspard’s murder was a threat to moderates such as myself,’ she says. ‘We who believe King Louis XVI should rule with a constitution.’

  ‘Not everyone wants a King with a constitution?’

  ‘Some want a different monarch. You English, for example.’ She smiles faintly.

  ‘You seem very sure of the murderer’s motive.’

  ‘Of course.’ She gives a light little shrug. ‘Who but a royalist could have got inside the Bastille? A person cannot simply walk through the doors. You need a letter from the King himself.’

  She assesses me for a moment.

  ‘You really do take after your father,’ she says. ‘I wonder, how does someone such as yourself feel about France’s political situation?’

  ‘I have little interest in it,’ I admit. ‘My attentions are directed to abolishing slavery through more active means. But now I am here and I see your people,’ I conclude, ‘I realize not all slaves wear chains.’

  The truth of this surprises me, even as I say it.

  Teresa calls numbers, then throws.

  ‘Then you are for equality,’ she decides, ‘as I am.’

  ‘I am for revolution,’ I say, taking back the dice cup.

  ‘A revolution of ideas, certainly,’ agrees Madame Roland. ‘We must draw up papers, use the ideals of Voltaire and Rousseau to shape our new France.’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘This talk of social philosophy is no more than a fashion for you, a game. You play at enlightenment, Madame Roland. The people are not playing. They are dying.’

  Madame Roland gives a slightly high-pitched laugh.

  ‘We’ve all seen the sad scenes on the Paris streets. But we cannot let sentiment forgo caution. Things must be done properly, without violence.’

  I shake my head, impatiently. ‘You had your constitution in that tennis court.’ I uncurl my fingers. ‘You held it in the palm of your hand. All your King needed do was accept that his power comes from his people and not from God. He would not and I am sorry for it. It is too long and too late to avoid bloodshed now. The people have woken up.’

  I lean in a little closer, looking her straight in the eye.

  ‘It is over, Madame Roland, all of this. Everything you see is already gone.’

  She shakes her head, but her smile is not quite genuine. There’s a fear in her eyes that she’s trying to hide. I see my chance and I take it.

  ‘But you,’ I whisper, leaning close, ‘are not like other women. You are different, are you not?’

  ‘I ...’ Teresa’s mouth opens and shuts. Her brown eyes are fixed on mine, confused.

  ‘All those years,’ I say, ‘labouring behind your silly husband. Playing clever cards. Taking lovers as a politician counts votes. You are so bored with it all, I can tell. I think you are more interesting than all of that.’

  Teresa is frowning, meeting my eye then looking away. She rallies, but barely.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She tries for a smile.

  ‘Then let me show you.’

  Something changes in her face. A yearning suddenly exposed.

  I throw fast, tot up the odds and put the cup back into her grasp before she can follow the calculations.

  Her fingers shake slightly as the dice fall and her mouth moves uncertainly as she watches the numbers. ‘Fifteen,’ she says too quickly, her usual unflappable logic in disarray. But even the drunken gentlemen know her to be wrong.

  ‘You didn’t calculate the main,’ I say.

  ‘Well, well, Teresa,’ says her last defeated opponent. ‘You have lost at last.’

  Before she can reply, I seize my moment, leaning smoothly over the small table and bringing my hand to cup her chin. I look into Teresa’s eyes long enough for a glimmer of curiosity to shine through her apprehension. I lean forward and kiss her on the mouth, winding my fingers behind her neck.

  The men roar with appreciation. I can feel Teresa’s body softening through the creaking structure of her formal dress. There’s a deep perfume to her, a rich scent that matches her low voice.

  When I’m certain of the right moment, I break away, drawing back to consider her face. I bring my mouth to Teresa’s ear, so only she can hear what I say.

  ‘Tell me where we can be alone,’ I whisper. ‘I will wait for you there.’

  She hesitates for just a moment, then swallows and inclines her head in acquiescence, eyes slightly unfocused.

  ‘The second floor,’ she says, ‘third chamber on the left. It’s my private study.’

  I stand, bow to the company and move to leave the room, giving Jemmy a quick glance of victory as I vacate.

  CHAPTER 48

  THE ROOM IS DARK AND MUSTY AS I SLIDE THE FOOT-DEEP brass catch of the mahogany door. So much so, that for a moment I think perhaps this isn’t the right place. I see new candles, white wax, a variety only perfected in the last few years. I lift up a stub and light it, using a burning taper set for the purpose in the doorway.

  The first thing I see is a large bed. A table by it. Lying atop is a familiar piece of jewellery. I’m drawn to it, wondering where I’ve seen it before.

  It’s only when I pick it up, realization floods me. This is Grace’s engagement ring. I recognize Godwin’s family crest.

  Was she here? I scan around the room but see no other evidence. Quickly, I begin searching the room, looking for more clues.

  There is a space for correspondence. A large desk with writing materials and a little tray filled with yellowing papers. I look closer to see them inked with the political ideals of Monsieur Roland. An ideal place to leave a letter, I decide, hidden amongst dull panegyrics to France’s ancient monarchy. No one would start reading this pile of simpering King-worship voluntarily.

  I lift a few and notice crumbs of brit
tle red wax – the kind dropped when a seal is broken. I press my finger on them and put the residue to my mouth. Atherton and I used to spend hours testing one another on the different tastes of sealing wax. He was better than me, but we could both tell the difference between the expensive variety dyed with cochineal or a cheaper cinnabar and we knew the texture of a lawyer’s sealing wax – high lacquer content for security but low colour compounds for cost-effectiveness.

  This is a lawyer’s sealing wax. And since Robespierre is a lawyer, I now look for a letter with a matching seal. I find it easily enough, tucked under the others.

  It’s written in tiny, neat script. My eyes swoop straight to the small signature at the bottom: Maximilien Robespierre.

  I begin reading, but to my disappointment there is nothing incriminating. The letter pontificates on the possibility of King Louis XVI being removed from power.

  ‘If King Louis is deposed,’ writes Robespierre, ‘his heir is too young to rule. The Duc d’Orléans would rule as Regent – a man with an English mistress and a love of England’s constitution.’

  Robespierre is greatly opposed to this notion, believing France to be too corrupt to adopt a system of compromise.

  I’m turning over the blandness of the content when I notice something, something only a code-breaker would see. Some of the letters are formed differently to the others, but the difference is so small it is almost impossible to discern.

  I sit, holding the letter, compelled by the puzzle of it. It’s a system I’ve never come across before, blending numbers and alphabet. I haven’t met a challenge of this complexity in a long time. My fingers search for a quill and ink and I begin scratching out some workings on a piece of paper. I jot some long equations and shapes, completely absorbed.

  I’m so in the thrall of this exceptionally clever letter, I hardly hear the door softly open.

  Candlelight spills into the room. I hear soft footsteps and a waft of perfume glides into the air.

  I’ve not had enough time. As the flame swells into the room, I see Madame Roland is already here.

  CHAPTER 49

  ROBESPIERRE’S FAVOURED GLOVE-PERFUMER IS ON A cobbled street in a fashionable part of Paris. Unlike the bakers and candlestick-makers of lowlier areas, these shops have kept a steady trade, catering to the wildly rich.

  Robespierre knocks and the shopkeeper – a woman in a high white wig and silken swaying skirts – comes to open the door.

  ‘Monsieur Robespierre.’ She is both unsettled and excited to see him. ‘We have new perfumes,’ she says in hushed tones, ‘from Versailles.’

  This is the code. In her supply of perfumed gloves to royalty, Madame Caron is privy to very sensitive information.

  She beckons him inside, to a world of thick aromas. The walls are lined with bottles and vials. A carved countertop is set with plump mounds of leather, suede and butter-soft kid, a muted rainbow palette, awaiting the hand to dictate their glove.

  A huge glass perfume flask, fatter than a clergyman, boils rose petals in the fireplace, belching puffs of scented steam.

  Robespierre looks around the shop. ‘Your Marquis has now paid his debt?’

  Madame Caron’s face darkens.

  ‘Au contraire, monsieur. The taste in Versailles is now for brushed suede, so he now owes me a hundred more. Marie Antoinette’s fashions bankrupt us shopkeepers.’

  As she speaks, Madame Caron steps on to a short ladder that allows her to pluck bottles from the higher shelves. She tucks several under her arm and descends.

  Slowly she lays them out. Robespierre leans forward and lifts one at random. He uncorks and inhales. Lavender.

  ‘A little feminine for monsieur,’ advises Madame Caron. ‘Perhaps one of these?’

  She pushes four bottle forwards. Cassia, musk, frankincense and juniper.

  Robespierre keeps his breathing steady.

  ‘The juniper,’ she says, meeting his eye, ‘would suit monsieur very well.’

  She lifts the perfume, waves it so that the scent wends upwards.

  Robespierre permits himself a silent moment of victory. Madame Caron has independently confirmed where the King intends to hide forty thousand muskets and two hundred barrels of gunpowder.

  L’Hôpital des Invalides.

  Having cross-checked Madame Roland’s information, Robespierre can now be certain. None of his compatriots would stoop to using a woman for the supply of intelligence, but he has found their sex the most reliable, the most cunning and, if it comes to it, the most able to tolerate pain.

  ‘I am greatly obliged for your advice,’ he says.

  Feeling a little giddy with success, he approaches the large flask of perfume, bubbling away.

  ‘A re-purposed brandy still?’ he confirms.

  ‘You are familiar with distillation, monsieur?’

  ‘I was raised in the countryside and our local monks made eau de vie. They paid my school scholarship, so naturally had their pound of flesh, working me in their brewery. They refused me their secret formula, though I must say their coded recipe was almost laughably easy to work out.’

  Now he thinks about it, this may have been the first cipher he broke.

  Madame Caron’s face confirms what Robespierre is testing – she will not be moved on matters of religion. He logs this for future use, returning his attention to the glass still.

  A cork stopper has been removed, allowing rising vapour to escape. It dangles on a chain.

  Robespierre lifts the cork and replaces it, watching the contents of the flask.

  ‘Monsieur Robespierre,’ says Madame Caron uncomfortably, ‘that is very dangerous. If the steam builds ...’

  ‘When I was a boy,’ says Robespierre, ‘local famers challenged the noble who owned the land. The braver ones attacked his chateau, raided his cellar.’

  He watches the liquid boil for a moment more, then removes the cork. Steam hisses free. Madame Caron sags with relief.

  ‘After their little victory the heat went out,’ explains Robespierre. ‘They drank on the streets, crowed of their great glory. Months later, when it was all forgotten, the ringleaders mysteriously disappeared. The noble had been sitting tight, making plans, just as our King does now.’

  Robespierre adjusts his glasses and looks at Madame Caron.

  ‘It always struck me,’ he says, speaking with deliberate care, ‘it should have been better if there had been no early victory. If tensions had been allowed to build.’

  Madame Caron nods but looks confused. Robespierre pushes the cork back in. This time he waits a good deal longer as the perfume swells to an angry boil.

  ‘What might have happened had those brave farmers been crushed?’ muses Robespierre, watching the rolling fragrance sputter and hiss. ‘Had there been a massacre, then would the people have found their courage. There would have been the true uprising. Sometimes sacrifice is necessary, wouldn’t you agree? For the greater good?’

  The perfume is bubbling high on the sides of the flask now, more froth than liquid. Steam is hissing wetly at the cork.

  Robespierre closes his eyes and his nostril flare.

  ‘Imagine a great many people lawfully gathered to gain access to weaponry they are entitled to. It is enshrined in law that the people may bear arms when under threat from a foreign enemy. What is the Swiss guard if not a foreign aggressor? The death of such innocents would be simply awful.’

  ‘Monsieur Robespierre,’ Madame Caron spreads her hands helplessly, ‘you will crack the flask.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘the container will not break. Pressure will collect behind the point of least resistance.’ Robespierre stretches a finger and touches the cork with the lightest of taps. It shoots from the neck of the still with a loud pop, hissing steam shrieking into the room.

  ‘Observe,’ Robespierre watches as the stopper falls back, limp on its chain, ‘the tyrant is cast aside.’

  He looks up at Madame Caron and gives her a pleasant smile. ‘I shall return to choose the glov
e leather.’

  She curtsies uncertainly. ‘Very good, monsieur. I wish you God’s speed in all your endeavours.’

  Robespierre doesn’t believe in God, he believes in France. But he has established it would be imprudent to share this with Madame Caron.

  He lets himself out silently, the new information simmering in his mind. It is unbelievable, Robespierre notes to himself, what people will tell their glove-makers.

  CHAPTER 50

  IN MY YEARS OF SPY WORK I HAVE BECOME EXPERT AT foreseeing how people will behave when cornered. Some cower, others fight and, as I predicted, Teresa is a fighter.

  Her lined face is rigid with fury as she sees the letter in my hand.

  ‘How dare you!’ she glowers, stalking over and making to snatch the paper.

  I take hold of her and push her back into the room, ignoring the shout of outrage this elicits. She is tall, though shorter than I, but no match for my strength.

  ‘Make no more noise,’ I warn her, ‘or all of Paris’s fashionable intellectuals will know you for what you are.’

  Teresa’s mouth shuts at this threat. The fight is gone from her now, but her clever mind is whirring away, looking for ways out. She’s still breathing heavily from the shock of my manhandling her, one long-fingered hand touching the shoulder I restrained her by, unable to believe it.

  ‘What happened to Grace Elliott?’ I demand.

  Teresa’s lips press tightly together but she collects herself, her cleverness sliding smoothly to the rescue.

  ‘That is nothing,’ she says, ‘only correspondence between myself and someone I might welcome to my salon.’

  ‘And why would the wife of a royalist invite a revolutionary into her Paris home?’

  Teresa switches tack. ‘Us women have to always hide behind men. Monsieur Robespierre promises a new future.’

  ‘An innocent girl has gone missing,’ I say. ‘I know you played a part in Grace’s disappearance. She is my cousin,’ I add. ‘Don’t think I won’t take extreme measures to find her.’

  Her puppyish eyes flash guilt and I know she knows who I mean. Then her gaze drops to the letter.