Treason's Spring

by Robert Wilton

  Once he would have looked on a woman like Lavalier as the most advanced in sin. Now she seemed the most innocent creature in France. In truth, she had done nothing against her country, but now her country would punish her. Her pleasures, and her sins, once the outrage of society, now seemed sadly harmless. It was not her dalliances with the men of exoticism and glamour that would destroy her; it was her acquaintance with one dull Scot. And surely she must know.

  It was too late for Emma Lavalier.

  Fouché now inhabited a world made entirely of paper. What was once his office was now a forest of documents, underfoot and sprouting over what might once have been furniture, and from hints of shelves like branches more documents seemed to hang overhead. As if, in some brilliant new chemical process that cut through the old industry, trees were now sprouting paper directly. And these leaves were already written, too. Scraps with a few words. Bundles tied with string. Thick dossiers in card folders. Piles – puddles – of paper. The ministry building, the office, had fallen away – they had been a temporary structure while Fouché made his nest of documents, and now the documents were strong enough to stand alone.

  Emma Lavalier watched him at the heart of it, as she would a wasp’s nest in a tree or a fungus sprouting under the eaves, some unsettling parasitic creature that had made its habitat in a once familiar place.

  His summons had been elegant, and unavoidable. Our shared interest. Your certain loyalty. They were assertions impossible to refuse now.

  And it had been a summons. The creature was grown bold. She watched his eyes watching her, shining out of the courteous bow. He had found an advantage, he had reinforced it in the cellar, and now he was making his play.

  She recalled her journey through Paris this morning: there were more soldiers now, scruffy and edgy and muskets held loose, at corners and blocking doorways and falling out of taverns; a rash of pamphlets and proclamations disfigured windows and walls, nailed and glued carelessly, warning and telling and celebrating and banning; crossing the entrance to the Place du Carrousel, she had glimpsed the machine; in the rue de Castiglione a smear of blood scarred the pavement. And it all led to this office.

  ‘You honour me, Ma-’

  ‘Have you read all of this?’

  She’d blurted it instinctively, but it played to his vanity nicely enough. ‘All of it,’ he said; an unexceptional fact.

  ‘You . . . you can recall it all?’

  This he considered. ‘It is not some exterior reality – a name, or a list – to be recalled. This totality of information, and my mind, are as one. They reflect and remind each other.’ It was unremarkable to him, despite the little pride. He didn’t think himself inhuman, and that was the most inhuman thing of all. ‘Do please sit, Madame Lavalier.’

  There was a chair for her: a temporary and alien phenomenon amid the paper.

  She sat. She checked first that she wasn’t sitting on a paper. ‘You have . . . collaborators? Assistants?’

  ‘I tried a pair of clerks, but they were dull men, and their insistence on tidying was merely a crutch for their own weak minds, and an interference with the more natural arrangements of my own.’

  She touched one palm to her chest, opened her eyes wide, and said, ‘I see that this is where France is truly governed’. And she meant it. It was the revelation she had felt watching the watcher in the street, the night of Raph Benjamin’s death. This was the Revolution: everything would be known; everything would be controlled; everything would be judged.

  ‘You flatter me, Madame.’

  ‘I think we are both beyond such poses, Monsieur.’ She sat back, breathed in deep.

  He smiled; nodded. He was still standing, and his hand roved over the papers in front of him. ‘It’s all here,’ he said, picking up a card folder and slapping it down in front of her. A name she didn’t recognize was on the cover. Then he touched his forehead with one shaking finger. ‘And here.’ Then another folder slapped down. ‘The Prussians.’ Another slap. ‘The British.’ Another slap. She hadn’t caught one of the titles; the other had been Abbeys. ‘Greene. Benjamin. Kinnaird.’ Slap. Slap. Slap. One of the folders, as Emma’s eyes flicked up and down between Fouché’s face and the growing pile, did indeed have Kinnaird’s name on it. Another was Stockpiling. Another had been a Spanish name she didn’t recognize. Slap. She missed the name.

  She kept her eyes on Fouché’s face now. Slap. ‘And me, I presume.’

  Fouché stopped. He thought for a moment, then waved a dismissive hand, and its fingers flickered towards the papers around him. ‘De Guichy. Martineau. Baron Holheim. Your acquaintance with the woman La Motte, who had contrived the scandal of the Queen’s necklace. A house in Tours. Your late husband’s position as secretary to the commission on the charlatan Mesmer.’ He shrugged, sneered. ‘These are trivia, Madame. These are not you, nor your true status. I am indifferent.’ He had deliberately not mentioned that he knew that the Friends of Magnetism continued to circulate correspondence through the apothecary in St-Denis. ‘As you rightly say, we are beyond such poses.’

  But they are me, and they are mine. She smiled at Fouché, let her tongue hesitate on her lip. Inside, she felt as if those flickering fingers had made to touch her. Tours . . . And inside, every muscle recoiled. Everything is known. Everything is controlled. Everything is judged.

  The clarity came out in a sigh of satisfaction. ‘You put it very sensibly, Monsieur. And beyond the poses, where are we?’

  ‘What are we, Madame? Who are we? Let us start by confirming this. I invite you here to . . . to offer you a picture of a reality. I invite you to accede to it.’

  ‘By all means.’ This is violation.

  ‘The period of compromise – of negotiation, of ambivalence and ambiguity – this period is passing. The Revolution is predominant, sure, and absolute.’

  My life has been a glorious orgy of ambiguity. I have bathed in ambiguity like Cleopatra in milk and blossoms.

  ‘There can be no more wavering. No slipperiness; no shadows. You are a loyal citizen of the Revolution, or you are an enemy and you are destroyed.’

  Martineau and I seduced each other over three months, and we exploded like the sun.

  Fouché’s fingers flickered towards her. ‘Your prominence, Madame, it gives you a certain vulnerability in these times.’ Wake up, Emma. ‘And yet, once you are surely committed to the Revolution, your distinction and your abilities will give you new influence and new rewards.’

  There can be no Tours, not any more. ‘The argument becomes irresistible, Monsieur.’

  He leaned forwards. ‘It were wise to decide fast. The crisis is imminent.’ She tried to make alarm look like polite interest. ‘I am convinced that the former King left behind him a trove of secret correspondence. There is a man called Gamain, Madame; a locksmith who has become a key. I will have him imminently, and he will unlock all of Louis’s secrets. The royal duplicity. The trove will be substantial, I am sure; I already have ample lodging set aside for it – down next to your friend Greene, indeed. From what we already know, I expect that these documents will shame Berlin, and they will shame London, and most of all they will shame Louis who was King. His credibility will be destroyed for ever. Europe will shake, and most of all Paris will shake.’

  Fouché could see her pleasure. He could see that she loved the sense of knowledge, of influence, and he knew that this was why he had won her.

  A woman can feign pleasure more habitually than anything. Luxuriant smile. ‘You long ago recognized me for a practical woman, Monsieur; and you appeal to practicality. At the same time I am . . . attracted by strength. The Revolution is the great force of the age. We are obliged – we are drawn – to contribute to its power, and in doing so we are empowered.’

  ‘Indeed. I knew in the end you would make a just calculation.’

  ‘Yet I am uneasy, Monsieur Fouché.’ I must be more than passive. She saw his eyes narrow. Careful, Emma. ‘I am, as you know, familiar with diverse figures of
the Revolution. What if I find that some of them lack the . . . the necessary certainty?’

  He was nodding; smiling. ‘In the end, and soon, all will be found loyal or disloyal. There is a line, Madame; a line as fine as the guillotine’s blade.’ She nodded, sombre. ‘We should develop the habit of confiding in each other.’ Now she produced a little smile.

  Fouché was still talking. ‘I said that Paris will shake at the secret documents; I said that Louis’s credibility will be destroyed.’ He nodded to one side, to the half-open door. Perversely, Roland’s office had become the ante-room to Fouché’s, and Lavalier had been escorted in accordingly, her warm greeting to the minister as she passed reciprocated uncomfortably. ‘I strongly suspect, Madame’ – Fouché was looking at the door, seeing the minister beyond it – ‘that the credibility of the compromisers and the corrupt ones will be destroyed by the King’s correspondence too.’ And he was seeing others beyond Roland.

  His face came round to hers. She smiled.

  A knock at the connecting door. A clerk. Monsieur Fouché sought by the President of the Convention. For a moment Emma wondered if he’d contrived the summons to increase his importance, but his irritation seemed genuine. He stood – courteous regret – and she with him. He pulled fully open the door to Roland’s office. ‘I may have the honour of escorting you out, Madame?’

  ‘I have not had the pleasure of greeting the minister.’ Roland looked up from his desk. ‘I will remain here a moment.’

  Fouché nodded and, his back to Roland, he smiled. ‘We should develop the habit of confiding in each other, Madame.’

  She smiled at him; faintest nod, shared secret. ‘It is beginning, Monsieur.’

  His instinct to solitude and his limited tolerance for over-cooked squirrel had led Kinnaird to the habit of finding his supper in an inn a mile or so from the gypsy camp. Today, it was a natural break in his journey home.

  The landlord recognized him – Kinnaird realized that this was probably unhealthy, felt a twinge of his old naivety – and nodded at his request for food, and started to usher him to a back room. Kinnaird hadn’t been in it before; but the landlord seemed insistent and, saddle-weary, he let himself be ushered, and the door closed behind him.

  There was a man sitting in one of the chairs, looking up at him.

  Kinnaird took a deep breath, steadied himself. The man stared at him silently. Kinnaird watched him for a moment longer, looked slowly around the room, stuck his head out of the door and looked, then came in again with a knife in his fist. The man was still considering him.

  ‘1769: the young Keith Kinnaird is before the Musselburgh Bailie as one of a group of apprentices charged with riotous assembly. 1775, your name is recorded as one of the acolytes of Harrison, the pamphleteer.’ The voice was low, businesslike. The voice was also, clearly, English. ‘1784, you sailed a little close to the wind in the repackaging and selling on of a certain shipment from Lisbon. You were sailing in a storm as soon as you set up with Henry Greene, and you tacked back into it when you came to Paris at his invitation.’

  Kinnaird said, ‘Did my mother send you? You’d impress me more if you told me something I don’t know.’ The man just smiled. ‘Such as what happened to Hal Greene, and why I’m hunted for the crimes of other men.’

  The man nodded. ‘Rather a childish bit of bluster, I’m afraid. But it’s all I have. The aim was to make you aware of how much we know of you. To impress you with the omniscience of the department I represent.’

  ‘You may consider me aware but unimpressed. I’ve spent the last weeks trying to avoid a knife in the back or the guillotine; old John Cochran of the Musselburgh bench seems less of a threat than he used to. Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I am the representative of a department of the British Crown. I decline to give you my name. I apologize for the discourtesy. If I gave a name it would be false, and I can only hope that you take this as the greater sincerity.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed. What department?’

  The man watched him gravely. Then he said, ‘Would you consider putting away the blade? We are among the very few people in Europe who at present do not wish you harm.’ Kinnaird didn’t move. ‘It’s rather an uncomfortable pose, and I’m hoping for an extended and earnest conversation with you.’

  Kinnaird pulled another chair forwards, and sat down in front of the man. ‘Well?’

  The man took a breath. ‘We are the Comptrollerate-General for Scrutiny and Survey.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘We’re not in the news-sheets, Mr Kinnaird.’ Then the cheeriness died. The man spoke lower, more intent. ‘We are the shadow in the darkness. We are responsible for the most secret British espionage work in France, and everywhere else. We are older than the present British system of government. We were old when Walsingham thought he was new. I will not give you the details of our covenant, because I don’t know them and you don’t need to. The endurance of peace and relative stability in Britain is our greatest achievement and our enduring duty.’

  ‘You’ll get few thanks from a Scot.’

  ‘That’s fair. But you’ll own we’ve been successful enough.’

  ‘What do you want of me?’

  A shrug. ‘To make you aware of us, which is something granted to few men. To invite you to align your interests and intentions with something greater.’

  Kinnaird looked at him with distaste. After a moment he said, ‘Greater? I’ve seen the British here: salon games.’ He stood, and strode to the table and grabbed up a bottle and a glass. Halfway through pouring he glanced at the man. He continued to pour, and handed over the glass. He poured another for himself, and sat again.

  The man watched him. ‘Mm. You mean Madame Lavalier and her circle. That time is passed, I think.’

  Kinnaird took a gulp. ‘So easy? In her own way, that woman’s the truest thing I’ve seen in this country. And there’s a strength – ’

  ‘She would work with anyone. Sleep with anyone. Say anything to anyone. She has seemed to work in concert with us, and we know she’s been talking to the French authorities – naturally – and we’re fairly sure she’s dealt with the agents of at least one other power.’

  ‘You sound like a jealous husband.’

  ‘Grow up, Kinnaird. Soon she’ll work out that her only hope is to work exclusively for the Revolution. Or she’ll be dead by Christmas. Drop her.’

  ‘I’ve never held her.’ Kinnaird took another mouthful. ‘You were inviting me to align my interests with yours, or some such flannel. You want me to work for you? To spy for you?’

  The man considered this. Then he said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not going to . . . to threaten me, somehow?’

  The smile was pleasant, the surprise apparently sincere. ‘What would be the need, Mr Kinnaird? You’re the most wanted man in France. Your chance of surviving a week is one in a hundred.’

  ‘Again I’m led to wonder then: why me?’

  ‘It has been the habit of the department to deploy – or, better, to identify – men of resolve and resource in France. We begin to find that you are such a man.’

  Kinnaird shook his head, weary. ‘Why does everyone think me what I am not?’

  ‘Why do you continue to think yourself not what you are?’

  ‘As you say, I may not last a week.’

  ‘Indeed. But, ah, but then the Comptrollerate-General doesn’t really have anything to lose, does it?’

  Kinnaird looked at him, cold. ‘Thank you so much.’ His head came back and he considered the man afresh. ‘The dandy. Benjamin. That’s why you want me. Benjamin was your man, and now you’ve lost him, and you’re running out of men to trap in a corner.’

  ‘Sir Raphael Benjamin worked for us on occasion. Though to be honest he was a secondary figure, an occasional servant and not wittingly.’

  Kinnaird considered this doubtfully. Then: ‘Greene, of course. Hal was a much shrewder man than Benjamin.’

&nbs
p; The man nodded. ‘Indeed. Henry Greene was exactly what he seemed to be, and exactly what you knew him: a merchant, an adventurer, and a bit of a rogue. He also did worthy service for London on the side, and we guided him when we needed and ensured certain business benefits by way of reward.’

  Kinnaird thought again about Henry Greene. Thought again about his insistence that he join him in France. Thought again about the consequences of that ill-considered journey. ‘I – I ain’t like Benjamin. I’m not really like Hal Greene, either.’

  ‘You’re alive, ain’t you? That puts you one up on both of them.’ The man leaned forwards. ‘London is scared, Kinnaird; or they should be. We’ve radicalism enough at home – Tom Paine wrote the script for the Americans and now he’s here – and half of British society, from Rotherhithe Docks to the Royal Mile, thinks itself sympathetic to the Revolution.’

  ‘I was one of them.’

  ‘Yes, Kinnaird. You were. I don’t wish to sound malicious, but how’s your radical sympathy after a few weeks hiding in a ditch to escape the guillotine?’

  ‘My radicalism is fine. I still don’t trust governments.’ He knew it was a lie. France was a betrayal of everything he might have believed in politically, and an endless threat to the good order on which he had built his world.

  ‘How lucky for you that despite your scruples there’s one government, at least, prepared to continue to offer you a stability in which to prosper.’ The man sat back. ‘There’s more. Somewhere in Paris is the greatest trove of secret diplomatic information in European history.’ Kinnaird’s eyes widened. ‘Louis the King’s correspondence, his schemes and his deals with every regime. The French want it, because it will destroy the King and give them untold influence over the neighbours. The Prussians are hunting it, and they have their best man – a legend, and ruthless – in the field. And I want it.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘It might save a King’s life.’ A shrug. ‘And there are certain . . . embarrassments that we would also be anxious to avoid.’

  ‘And, in passing, all that influence would be London’s instead.’