Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  And so I found a charming refuge, in an affectation of diplomatic activity and the eternal stability of British society. (For is this not your great gift to the world, Britain, that your people who consider themselves the most free and flexible are at one and the same time the most conservative and steady in the world?) I enjoyed your London, I saw your Manchester, and I met the excellent men who were somehow harnessing the terrifying social and economic power of the latter to sustain unthreatened the genteel conventions of the former. I own that I indulged in a little financial speculation; and what is that, but a purer form of the political investments that we make to ensure a stable future in all markets? I was introduced to Messrs Wormald and Bellamy and Doctor Andreyev, and they tried politely to induce me to a formal switch of loyalty. And I refused, naturally, for we all knew that there is no such thing as loyalty in diplomacy, and that by crossing the Channel I had crossed as many boundaries as I needed to, for the tide ebbs, and the tide flows, and the tide endures. With Mr Bellamy in particular, though, I began a most stimulating exchange of views, my clearer and uncompromising insights something of a provocation and a stimulation to his intellect which, though commendably ruthless, was, in the English way, more dogged and conventional.

  Meanwhile, in Paris, the mob increased its control of the streets, and thieves owned the night, and noble jewels were counted as cheap as noble throats. And the few deluded souls who continued to believe that their intellects could rule in such a France continued their little sophistries of administration, and watched uneasily as power in the National Convention continued to shift to the radicals. So might the citizens of Sodom have washed their linen on the last day.

  [SS G/66/X3 (EXTRACT)]

  Fouché was at Minister Roland’s office early. There before the minister, indeed, immediately off his seat as Roland approached along the corridor with birdlike steps.

  ‘What happened last night? What happened, Minister?’

  ‘You know something, Fouché?’

  They danced and squeezed clumsily through the doorway, and Fouché felt the conversation start to do the same. ‘I know nothing. Danton – Danton was . . . something. What happened last night?’

  ‘Danton . . . ?’ Roland saw the frustration in Fouché’s face. ‘The Garde-Meuble has been robbed: the royal jewels.’ Fouché’s guarded eyes opened wide. ‘It seems the looters have been busy for days. The theft was discovered last night; most of the villains escaped.’

  Fouché’s face was confusion.

  Roland said, with painful caution, ‘You were mentioning . . . Danton?’

  Fouché gathered himself. ‘I was sure that – that Danton was doing . . . something. He was there.’

  ‘There? Where?’

  ‘In the streets, and then at the Jacobins.’

  ‘You saw him . . . ’ – a whisper – ‘involved somehow?’ In the Interior Minister’s face, the enormity showed: Danton the troublesome; Danton the essential.

  And Fouché’s voice changed. Calmer again; measured. With something of wonder. ‘No, Minister. I saw nothing.’ He shook his head slightly; frowned at himself. ‘I suppose I was with him for two or three hours and I never saw him near the mob or near the Meuble.’

  ‘Fouché, what was Danton doing? Anything . . . anything discreditable?’

  ‘No, Minister; certainly not. No, I was with him throughout.’ Roland did not look reassured.

  And Fouché felt the confusion spreading on his face again.

  I have made myself Danton’s alibi.

  Less than a minute after they’d disappeared into the shadows beside the Hotel de la Marine, Benjamin and Pinsent had been on their horses and trotting into the Paris warrens. Trot not canter, not gallop, Benjamin with face tight and hawk’s eyes, Pinsent glancing at him and holding himself back. Not straight for the nearest gate, because if a gate is going to be alerted and locked it’s that one. So first to the east, trusting to gloom and the secret-swallowing anonymity of the back streets.

  From the shadows beside them as they’d ridden, noises: dogs, and sins; and the voices of whores and drunks and beggars, calling out on instinct and expecting nothing. Once a hand reached for his horse, and Pinsent kicked it aside and rode on.

  Then north again, and more light as they came to the gate. A greeting from Benjamin to the sentry, and Pinsent had noted that there’d been a bit of noise in Paris tonight, and the sentry had shrugged and they’d passed out of the city. Once they were clear, on some shared instinct they stopped and looked back towards the hulk of Paris.

  ‘Bloody oath, Raph. Bloody oath.’

  And Raphael Benjamin had breathed out for an age, and then grinned at him, and pulled at the reins and led the way into the night.

  In the dawn, sour light and sour taste, Raphael Benjamin had remembered the package: the looter who’d thought him a bandit – and am I not? – and passed over something from his jacket, something presumably liberated from the Garde-Meuble.

  Hopeful, but with his enthusiasm tempered by the lingering sense of chaos, of the narrowness of their escape, Benjamin had reached for his coat on the back of his chair. He’d pulled a little cloth bag out of the pocket. His mind had leapt instinctively for the possibility of coins – a little something for the tables; ought to share it with Ned – and then slumped a little at the smallness of the bag, the paltriness of the prize and the world.

  Not coins. Wrong shape.

  Everything in the morning seemed pale, but what fell from the bag into his palm and filled his hand was brilliant – flashing brilliant. A pair of little eggs, one shining white and one shining blue: jewels.

  Testimony of Joseph Douligny, thief: asked did he confess his crime, yes, messieurs, I confess it – an episode of madness, messieurs, in a weak mind; an episode that lasted three or four nights, of repeated violations of public property? it was more of a business, messieurs – more of an employment; asked what did that mean, we’d never have thought of it, not even the guv’nor. It was put to us as a job. Anyhow, all Paris was burning these days, rioting and destruction; this was just another chance to knock the old regime, wasn’t it? Reminded that this was the property of France now. What were the arrangements for disposing of the treasure, don’t know, messieurs. I wasn’t in charge of that; asked how they gained access, one of us knew there was a window did not close on the first floor. In the darkness we could not be seen climbing; asked how many nights the gang had been busy, three or four; asked what did they take, what we could – jewels – necklaces – rings – brooches – chains – pearls – gold and silver candlesticks; including the four great diamonds of the Capet family, formerly self-proclaimed Kings of France? I saw no diamonds; pushed for honesty before the Tribunal, honestly, messieurs, I saw no diamonds; but your comrades took them, no doubt, I saw no diamonds; asked to name his comrades, I am no snitch, monsieur; I say nothing; you say nothing here, yet you have already said all you need to under interrogation. Asked who might it have been who set them on – assuming that that part of his story was true – what Frenchman could have contemplated such a crime? funny thing, messieurs – when we were coming out we saw someone moving – under the arches of the Meuble – in the shadows – watching us maybe. My mate, he went to have a look, and he says he saw two or three men. He heard voices too – just a snatch. Voices? English, monsieur.

  When Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville attacks a prisoner, first his right hand swirls in the air as if summoning some heavenly power, and then it darts forwards in one endless finger to shoot lightning at the guilty person – anyone confronted by the power of Fouquier-Tinville is assuredly guilty. His left hand is forever at his hip, a source of balance, a pose of rectitude, while his right pulls the sparks from the sky. The head – unwigged, for Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville is a man of the people, a force of nature – soars up and back as he summons all the dignity of justice, and then is dragged forwards by the finger into the assault, and seems to stare into the guilty soul before it. The words come at bewildering speed, rel
entless, irresistible, screeching up with hatred at the grotesque idea of crime against the Revolution, roaring down in condemnation. The truth of them is ... Well, what is truth? If you say a thing with enough ferocity, with enough rhetorical brilliance, with enough passion, that is surely virtue enough.

  The investigation into the affaire at the Garde-Meuble took almost a week to identify and capture several of the thieves. The prosecution takes as long. It is the spectacle that absorbs all France, and Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville knows it is his moment.

  When he turns to the judges, conclusion delivered, he bows like a servant. When he turns again finally to the crowd, he bows like a magician.

  Fouché and Guilbert outside the Tribunal, about to go their separate ways:

  ‘I own I have not met many men like that Douligny, Guilbert.’

  Guilbert smiled faintly, and then restrained it. ‘Very properly not, Monsieur.’

  ‘You have, I suspect.’

  Guilbert nodded. Experience of the world; regrettable necessity.

  ‘Well then. What did you make of him?’

  Guilbert shrugged, then saw Fouché’s unchanged attention, hawk eyes. I shall not underestimate you, Monsieur. ‘No less trivial than he seemed, Monsieur. A rogue. The lowest kind of mercenary. Cut a purse or a throat for a sou.’

  Fouché waited.

  ‘Some men lie from habit; not him – he was less stupid than he seemed and talking most carefully – he’s worked out what’ll save his neck. But most men lie for a reason. I think he was telling the truth, Monsieur.’ The hawk eyes opened wider. ‘No reason not to.’

  ‘A bandit, in his extreme, telling the truth? Now that, Guilbert, is surely interesting.’

  Lucie spent her life trying to blur into the background; to disappear. Slipping through the gaps in the crowd; speaking into the breaths between others’ sentences. Now the whole world was watching her, and waiting to dispute her every word. She sat on a chair – a wooden chair, its plainness apparently designed to offer less to draw the eye away from her – at the centre of a storm of faces, all staring at her.

  The appearance of Lucie Gérard before the Tribunal stuffed the chamber with its biggest crowd yet, squeezed tight, standing only, straining around and over heads in front to see the distant pale figure. She was on last, which meant they must reckon she had something worth saying. And a beautiful young woman – the rumours spread like stench through the streets; her beauty, her daring, her lasciviousness, her many allegiances – was a much better prospect than the series of undistinguished and unwashed looters who’d preceded her.

  There was no doubt or variety about their staring: hundreds of faces swirling around her, with nothing else to look at, eyes fixed.

  ‘Louder, Mademoiselle!’

  She was naked. Her dress, white and simple, seemed strained and transparent at shoulders, breasts, thighs. Never been so exposed. Never been so terrified.

  ‘Louder, Mademoiselle!’

  ‘Lucie Gérard!’ – hasty, desperate to appease.

  She confirmed her family, her residence, her life on foot, St-Denis and Paris.

  Around the banalities, her audience continued to weave their fantasies.

  Two men were watching Lucie with particular attention, though each had placed himself with deliberate discretion; watching but unwatchable, Joseph Fouché and Keith Kinnaird gazed at the woman whose pale frail murmuring had become the centre of the world.

  Lucie was prompted to relate her journey through Paris of the evening of the 16th. The temperature, the atmosphere of the city at night, whether she was tired – Fouquier-Tinville wanted his audience to be there, seeing Lucie and seeing what she did, following her like good servants of the Revolution, observers of the great crime.

  Her voice small and steady, and the mob straining to hear. Occasional whistles of frustration when they couldn’t.

  Had she seen the mob? Heard it? No, she hadn’t.

  Did she see anything in the Place de la Révolution? No.

  She wished she had.

  And what then? Walking out of the square, along the rue St-Florentin.

  And when then, Mademoiselle? What did you see?

  ‘I saw a carriage, Monsieur.’

  Describe it. She described it.

  And, Mademoiselle?

  She frowned; confused for a moment.

  And did you see anyone inside this carriage, Mademoiselle?

  A breath; a gasp. And Lucie nodded. His profile; his face.

  Did you, by any chance, Mademoiselle, did you recognize this person?

  Another attempt at a breath.

  She nodded.

  Then who was he, Mademoiselle? Tell us! Who was this mysterious figure waiting so close to the scene of this terrible crime, so close to this savage betrayal of the Revolution? Who was it?

  Lucie stared into the fog of faces; a last breath.

  ‘An Englishman, Monsieur; resident in St-Denis. His name is Henry Greene.’

  Emma Lavalier sat so that the stone of the summer house seat was deliberately sharp against her shoulders, and stared out into the evening landscape and did not see it.

  The shifting of the years, of fashion, and of finance had established the summer house as a minor curiosity in the grounds of the Chateau of Saint-Ouen, and then its last remnant. It was a mile from her own little house, reached discreetly; a place for solitude – or for privacy, at least. Trees dropped down a slope towards it on one side, and open country spread away on the other. A borderland: between landscapes; between past and future; between worlds that should not overlap. A place where two people might meet, and touch, and withdraw.

  Emma had time to wait. The urgency of her summons to Benjamin had also impelled her to the rendezvous well before he could be expected.

  It gave her time to think. About being a woman. About being French.

  Hooves rumbled hard over the ground outside, and she came alert. Raph Benjamin was beside her within seconds, up over the steps with lithe strides and bending briefly over her hand and staring into her face. ‘At your service, always.’ He swooped down onto the bench beside her. He reached for her hand again.

  She pulled it away. ‘It has become less fashionable to be English, dear Raph.’ His face showed his confusion.

  Slowly, she reached for his hand, pulled it up to her face, and placed a kiss on the knuckles. She returned the hand to his leg.

  ‘The theft of the royal jewels. They are connecting it to the English. Paris is boiling.’

  Benjamin kept his face still. He had not told her that he would go to the Garde-Meuble, nor that he had done.

  She leaned forwards, more earnest. ‘Greene was seen there that night.’

  ‘Greene?’ Real surprise.

  She examined his face. Real surprise.

  She nodded. ‘He was seen there; waiting near. Seen, and now named. And known as an Englishman.’

  ‘But he wasn’t – ’ She waited. She could see Benjamin’s mind working hard. ‘We haven’t seen him for . . . for weeks.’

  Her words were firm. ‘He was seen there. Word is going out, from Paris to the police and National Guard of all France; Henry Greene. It puts all the English here under suspicion.’

  ‘But we didn’t . . . ’ Slow, deadened.

  ‘Didn’t you, Raph?’ She smiled. ‘What didn’t you, exactly?’

  He growled his frustration. ‘Greene, damn him . . . ’ And sat back against the stone. ‘What in hell is he – ’

  A new voice from outside. ‘My lady?’ Quiet, feminine, urgent.

  Emma was immediately alert. ‘What is it, Colette?’

  ‘There are officers at the house, my lady. They ask for you.’

  The stone chilled her. Her eyes flashed to Benjamin’s, then away, and she stood.

  He was up beside her, hand reaching for blade. ‘Take my horse, Emma. Get well clear. I’ll – ’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Raph. What will that achieve?’ And she stood and strode down the steps and i
nto the trees.

  29TH SEPTEMBER, 1792

  The Grand Tour made more lively

  Sir,

  Paris seethes with rumours and excitement after the affair at the Garde-Meuble – a coup of true bravura, by men of daring and strong bellies. In public minds a hazy notion of wounded national pride contests with ill-concealed admiration at the exploit, all mixed with the ever-present unease that in these strange times anything may be possible. The Legislative Assembly is the national authority in name only now, and all await the imminent formation of the new National Convention based on popular election, and await the innovations and arrogations that might spring from this new manifestation of the Revolution, with its unprecedentedly broad mandate.

  There is still confusion at the deed of the Garde-Meuble itself, and the official investigation has only stirred the rumourpot. There is speculation, indeed, that one or more of your own yahoos may be involved. If so, they’re men of dash and you may tell them so, and they’re damn’ fools for risking everything in such a mad caper and shaking the temple for everyone, and you may tell them that too. More significant are the speculations about who within French society might be behind the coup.

  Meanwhile Williams, the Welsh philosopher and radical preacher and peddler of good causes, is here at the invitation of Roland, of the Interior. For some unfathomable reason he comes accompanied by one Matthews, a sometime tea-dealer and all-the-time hot-head. An acquaintance of mine has heard Williams in the salons, and another reports his first meeting with Roland. Themselves they fancy they’re come to make peace, or some such foolery; quite what our hosts have in mind I may not speculate.

  Meantime I learn from divers sources of one Kinnaird, a Scot of uncertain provenance, recently arrived, somehow connected to the St-Denis gamblers of your acquaintance, and apparently with a notion of sticking his nose into the business of more discreet men than he. I don’t know if he’s of your stable; I rather hope not; but if so you’d oblige me by tightening his rein.

  E. E.