The Dark Secret of Josephine

by Dennis Wheatley

  The re-establishment of an executive independent of the law-makers was denounced as a move to restore the monarchy; so it had been decided that it should consist of a Directory having five members, one of whom was to retire annually.

  The measure for the two Chambers had been agreed: the lower, called the Cinq-Cents was to have 500 members and to initiate legislation; the upper, called the Conseil des Anciens, was to have 25 members and the power to veto any measures passed by the lower for one year. But the property qualification for election was ruled out by one motion of the Jacobins, and by another they secured a vote to anyone willing to tax themselves to the value of three days’ work.

  These brakes upon further reaction had not aroused much opposition amongst the general public, but the arrangements for the election of members to the two new Chambers had provoked a universal outcry.

  As Mr. Pitt had rightly appreciated during his talk with Roger, a free General Election in France must sweep away at one stroke every ex-Terrorist from the new governing body. Barras, Tallien, Fréron and the other Thermidorians who had conspired to bring about Robespierre’s fall, and still held the reins of power, had been equally quick to appreciate this; so they had allied themselves with the remaining Jacobins to prevent it. To the indignation of the electors, they had forced through a decree by which two thirds of the members of the two new Chambers must be selected from the deputies of the old Convention; leaving the electors only the choice of which individual members they should return.

  To the vast majority of the people the Convention stood for murder, arbitrary arrest, the seizure of property, forced loans, and every other form of injustice and tyranny. It had, too, brought France to a state of poverty and general misery undreamed of in the old days of the monarchy. In consequence the idea that it was to be perpetuated under the thin disguise of a new name, by a majority of its members continuing as the rulers of the country, was already causing riots which threatened to develop into a mass movement aimed at overthrowing the government.

  Roger was delighted to hear all this, as it showed that the state of popular opinion could not have been more favourable to the Allies’ designs, and that if Pichegru could be persuaded to march upon the city there really was every reason to believe that it would fall into his hands like a ripe plum. He then asked about conditions in general, to which Maître Blanchard replied with a bitter laugh:

  ‘If anything, Monsieur, they are worse than when you left us. Food is scarce, prices high. For an honest silver ecu one can get a purse full of the republican paper money, yet we are forced to accept it; and the streets become ever fuller of poor fellows disabled in the wars begging for a crust to keep the life in their bodies. It has become a popular jest to say: “Under Robespierre we starved and dared not complain; now we may complain but that will not prevent us from dying of hunger”.’

  ‘At least people who have made themselves unpopular with the mobs are no longer liable to be set upon and strung up to a lamp-post,’ Roger remarked; but Mère Blanchard quickly put in:

  ‘Monsieur is mistaken about that; only it is a different type of people who are now the victims of a different kind of mob. The young bourgeois have invented a new form of sport. By night packs of them hunt out and kill one or more of the many thousands of so-called ‘patriots’ who held posts as jailers, police-spies and minor officials of all sorts during the Terror. Few people would now object to them throwing the busts of Marat in the sewers, or booing when the Marseillaise is played in the theatres, and some whom they knife or strangle may deserve their fate, but others do not; and it is wrong that any man should be done to death without a trial.’

  Blanchard nodded. ‘On account of these jeunes gens, Monsieur will be wise to keep a sharp look out should he go into the streets at night. They call themselves by such names as the Companions of the Sun, and the Companions of Jesus, but many of them are little better than bands of licensed robbers.’

  ‘Licensed?’ Roger picked him up. ‘Do you mean that they are actually protected by the Government?’

  ‘Not officially; but the authorities make no attempt to put them down.’

  ‘It surprises me greatly that while there are so many declared atheists still in the Chamber it should tolerate any body calling itself the Companions of Jesus.’

  With a shrug, Blanchard replied: “In matters of religion, as in all else, everything is at sixes and sevens. Not long since, Boissy d’Anglas denounced it in the most violent terms as pandering to childish and absurd superstition; but he went on in the same speech to say that there must be no further religious persecution. His views, I think, express the opinion of even the moderates in the Chamber. They are hoping that if held up long enough to contempt and ridicule it will die out; but, of course, it will not. Now that they no longer need fear arrest, hundreds of priests have secretly returned to France; and all over the country people are attending Masses with all the greater fervour from the right to do so openly having been so long denied them.’

  ‘You should add, though,’ remarked his wife ‘that side by side with this evidence of piety, never before has there been so much open sinning.’

  ‘That is true,’ he agreed. ‘In the main hunger is responsible, for from the age of twelve upwards there is now hardly a female among the working population who will not readily sell the use of her body for the price of a meal. But vice of every kind is also rampant among the better off. For that Barras, and others of his kidney, are much to blame; as they set the fashion by publicly flaunting a new mistress every week. Yet it is not entirely that. When you were last here many thousands of men and women were in prison. Believing themselves to have no chance of escaping the guillotine, to keep up their courage they adopted a philosophy of “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die”. On their release they emerged imbued with this cynicism, and with life once more in their grasp the younger ones gave themselves up to the wildest profligacy. Last winter the jeunesse dorée, as they are called, organised “Victim Balls” in which no one was allowed to participate who had not lost a near relative by the guillotine. For these, both the men and women dressed their hair high, leaving the neck bare, as it had been the custom to arrange it immediately before execution; and at the beginning of each dance they cried in chorus “Come, let us dance, on the tombs!” It is said, too, that the costumes worn at these parties are becoming ever more shameless, and that many young girls of good birth now openly rival the demi-mondaines, by according their favours to any man willing to give them a jewel or provide them with elegant clothes.’

  For some three hours longer Roger absorbed the atmosphere of this post-Robespierrean Paris through the reasonably unprejudiced accounts of his honest host and hostess; then, as he was about to leave them for the night, he asked Maître Blanchard:

  ‘Do you know what has become of Joseph Fouché, the Deputy for the Lower Loire?’

  The Norman shook his head. ‘No; that one keeps very quiet these days. Last autumn, by denouncing others whose deeds were no less black than his own, he managed to coat himself in a layer of whitewash. But he must realise that it is no more than skin deep, and that a false step might yet bring about his ruin. I imagine, though, that being a Deputy, he is still living in Paris.’

  ‘Could you find out for me tomorrow; and, if he is, his present address?’

  ‘Certainly, Monsieur. The officials of the Chamber must know his whereabouts; so there should be no difficulty about that.’

  Next day, in accordance with his principle of never taking any unnecessary risks, Roger went out only to call on Harris, the banker in the Rue du Bac upon whom his orders for British secret service funds had been made, and drew a considerable sum in gold. But from the Blanchards and the inn servants he learned of the rising tide of unrest that was now agitating the city. The decree of Fructidor—as were termed those concerning the packing of two thirds of the seats in the new Chambers with members of the old Convention, and others similarly unpopular passed in that month of the revoluti
onary calendar—had been rejected by all but one of the Primary Assemblies in the forty Sections of Paris, and deputations by the score carrying petitions demanding that they should be rescinded were besieging the Convention.

  In the afternoon, Blanchard told Roger that Fouché had left his old apartment in Rue Saint Honoré and was said to be living in a small house in the Passage Papillote, on the Left Bank near the old Club of the Cordeliers. From the big trunk that for several years had been stored for him up in the attic of La Belle Étoile, Roger collected a sword cane, and a small double-barrelled pistol which would go into the pocket of his greatcoat. Then, after he had supped, he started out with the intention of getting to grips with his enemy.

  Having crossed the Seine by the Pont Neuf he made his way to the Café Coraeza, which had been virtually an annex of the Cordeliers, and there enquired for the Passage Pappilote. It proved to be little more than a short cul-de-sac, as at its far end it narrowed to a dark archway through which nothing wider than a barrow could have passed. Lit only by a single bracket lamp affixed to a corner building that abutted on the main street, the greater part of it was in deep shadow; but Roger succeeded in identifying Fouché’s house, noted that there were lights behind the drawn blinds of its two upper windows, and rapped sharply on the front door.

  There were sounds of someone coming downstairs, then the door was opened by a red-headed young woman carrying a candle. She was an ugly anaemic-looking creature, and Roger recognised her at once as the middle-class heiress who had brought Fouché a modest fortune on his marriage to her three years before.

  When asked if her husband was in she replied that he was not, and might not be back for some time; so without stating his business, Roger thanked her and said that he would call again in the morning. As she closed the door his retreating footsteps rang loudly on the cobbles. But he did not go far. After waiting in the main street for five minutes, he tiptoed back and took up a position within a few feet of Fouché’s front door, but hidden in the deep shadow cast by a nearby projecting wall.

  Madame, Fouché had not recognised him, and he now felt confident that none of the people he had known in Paris was likely to do so. That would be a big advantage if a warrant was issued for his arrest, and he had to leave the city in a hurry. But if he were compelled to do that it would mean the failure of his mission.

  The trouble was that to do any good, he must disclose his return to, and re-establish himself in his old identity with, the very people who were most likely to get him thrown into prison. Of these, by far the most dangerous was Joseph Fouché.

  Fouché was doubly dangerous because he knew Roger’s real name and nationality. It was very probable that he had passed that information on to other people after Roger had iast left Paris; but he, at all events, was fully aware that Roger was an English spy. Therefore, as a first step, before anything else could be attempted, Roger had to find out if he had passed on that information, and to whom; then either buy his silence or kill him.

  Over an hour elapsed before Roger saw a tall, thin figure turn the corner under the lamp and come with long strides, yet quiet footfalls, towards him. He knew then that within a few minutes he must enter on the deadly contest he had set himself, and again pit his wits against a man who was as cunning as a serpent and as remorseless as a pack of jackals.

  21

  Into the Lion’s Den

  As Fouché approached, Roger slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, cocked the small pistol, and drew it out. Once before, he had had an opportunity to kill Fouché without endangering himself. To have done so could well have been considered as an act of justice, executed on a man who had sent many hundreds of innocent people to their deaths; but from personal scruples Roger had refrained. Now, a second chance had arisen. He had only to fire both barrels at point-blank range, then take to his heels, for Fouché to be gasping out his life in the gutter and himself be swallowed up in the pitch dark night.

  His hatred of Fouché was such that his fingers itched upon the triggers. Had he pressed them he would have saved himself many future dangers and difficulties; but he could not be certain that killing Fouché would make Paris again safe for himself. Only Fouché could be tricked or persuaded into telling him the degree of risk he would run should he disclose himself to their old associates.

  Without suspecting his presence, Fouché walked past him to the door, took out a key, unlocked and opened it. Stepping up behind him Roger pressed the pistol into the small of his back, and said quietly:

  ‘Go inside. Make no noise. Take six paces then turn and face me. Lift a finger or raise your voice and I shall put two bullets into your liver.’

  The lights in the room above had gone out soon after Roger had begun his vigil; so Madame Fouché could be assumed to have gone to bed and was, he hoped, asleep. But the narrow hall-way was still lit by a single candle in a cheap china holder on a small deal table. Without a word Fouché walked past it, then turned round. Meanwhile Roger had closed the door and stood with his back to it, watching his old enemy narrowly.

  Fouché was then thirty-two, and a more unattractive looking man it would have been difficult to imagine. His cadaverous face had a corpse-like hue, his hair was thin and reddish, his eyes pale, fish-like and lacking all expression; his nose was long and, in spite of his frequent snufflings, it sometimes had a drip on its end, as he suffered from a perpetual cold. His tall, bony frame suggested that of a skeleton, and he looked too weak and ill to be capable of any effort; but no appearance could possibly have been more deceptive. Actually he possessed considerable physical strength, and his mind was such a dynamo of energy that he often worked for twenty-four hours on end without relaxation.

  As a means of preventing people from guessing his thoughts he had formed the habit of never meeting anyone’s eyes with his own; but his shifty glance had swiftly taken in Roger, from his bewhiskered face to his shiny boots, and after a moment his bloodless lips moved to utter the words:

  ‘So, Englishman; you have come back.’

  ‘How did you recognise me?’ Roger asked with quick interest.

  ‘By your voice, your hands, and your principal features. Any one of the three would have given me the clue to your identity. I have trained myself to be observant in such matters. There was too, the manner of your arrival. I took it for granted that when you did appear you would take the precaution of catching me unprepared.’

  ‘You were, then, expecting me to return to Paris?’

  ‘Certainly. I have been wondering for some months past why you had not done so.’

  ‘You surprise me somewhat; as many men in my peculiar circumstances might well have decided against ever again risking their necks in this pit of vipers.’

  Fouché shrugged. ‘Ah, but not a man of your resource and courage. How otherwise could you hope to reap the benefit of your last great coup?’

  ‘I thank you for the compliment; but I might have sent someone else on my behalf.’

  ‘That would not have been in keeping with your character. You are too vain to believe that anyone other than yourself could have played the Royal Flush you hold to the best possible advantage. You had to return to Paris yourself, and you had to come to me.’

  Matters were developing in a manner entirely unlike anything that Roger had visualised, and after a second’s thought, he said: ‘You are, then, prepared to talk business?’

  ‘Of course. Surely you did not suppose that I should refuse, and do my best to get you arrested the moment your back was turned? I am not such a fool as to cut off my nose to spite my own face. Put your pistol away and come into the living-room. We will discuss our mutual interests over a glass of wine.’

  Roger needed no telling that not one single word Fouché uttered could be relied upon, but it now seemed possible that his formidable enemy believed that there was more to be gained from a temporary alliance than by an immediate betrayal; so he lowered his pistol and nodded.

  Picking up the candlestick, Fouché led t
he way through a doorway opposite the foot of the stairs, and set it down on a table where some cold food had been left for him. Glancing round, Roger saw that the inside of this obscure dwelling was no better than its outside. It was clean and neat, but sparsely furnished, and in places the plaster was peeling from the walls. He wondered what Fouché had done with the ill-gotten gains he had accumulated during the Revolution, and assumed that this apparent poverty was no more than a mask assumed to protect himself, now that the tide had turned and he might be accused of peculation.

  Fouché picked up a bottle of red wine that was already a quarter empty, fetched an extra glass from a cupboard and poured out. Both men sat down and Fouché made no comment when Roger, knowing that he must continue to observe every possible precaution against sudden treachery, laid the still cocked pistol on the table beside him. Lifting his glass, Fouché said with a pale smile:

  ‘Well! Here’s to the little Capet. May he make the fortunes of us both.’

  Roger knew that young Louis XVII would now never make anyone’s fortune; but he echoed the toast and drank of the cheap red wine: then he asked:

  ‘How, think you, can we handle the matter to the best advantage?’

  With his bony hands Fouché made a little gesture to which no significance could be attached. ‘There appeared to me two ways to play this game. Had you arrived earlier in the year, we might have blackmailed a great sum out of the Government to refrain from exposing the fact that the child in the Temple was not Marie Antoinette’s son. That would have entailed handing him over to them. Alternatively, we could have sold him for an equally large sum to the émigrés. But since then an event has occurred which greatly alters the situation.’