The Dark Secret of Josephine

by Dennis Wheatley

  More anxious than ever now to learn what effect Josephine’s afternoon visit to Le Normand had had, and feeling sure she would speak of it if he could get a word with her, Roger went that evening to Madame Tallien’s, but Josephine did not appear there; so somewhat belatedly he went on to Madame de Chéteau-Renault’s. There he found her, but she was with Buonaparte, who soon afterwards escorted her home, and Roger was left to exercise as much patience as he could till next day.

  As early in the afternoon as convention permitted, he went to the little villa in the Rue Chantereine. Josephine looked somewhat surprised to see him, but he took the bold line of saying that he had been sent by Barras to tell her that Carnot’s opposition to Buonaparte’s being given the appointment he so greatly desired had been overcome, and that it now remained only for her to say if she was willing to present it to him as her dowry.

  Raising her eyebrows a little she said: ‘I was not aware that Barras expected any opposition to his plan. He led me to suppose that everything depended on myself.’

  ‘Ah!’ Roger hedged. ‘That was because he wished to give you time to get used to the idea, while he was working to win over two colleagues on Le Directoire. Now that he has done so, within forty-eight hours the matter must be settled one way or the other. As voting is by secret ballot he can still sabotage his own proposition if he wishes; and will, do you not consent. But he would be mightily put out should you now refuse to take this splendid opening that he has been at such pains to provide for you.’

  She motioned Roger to a chair and said as she sat down on another: ‘I would be a heartless wretch were I not sensible of the gratitude I owe him. No woman could ever have had a more generous protector. As for the future that this marriage promises, yesterday I went with Theresa Tallien to consult the sibyl Le Normand. Should only half the things that she predicts for it come true few fortunes could equal mine. I am still overwhelmed by the things she told me.’

  ‘She has a great reputation,’ Roger smiled. ‘And I am truly delighted that the omens should be favourable. Will you not tell me what she said?’

  ‘It sounds utterly fantastic. She spoke of palaces and crowns. She said that Buonaparte’s star is the most brilliant in all the heavens. That Kings will bow down to him. That he will make me a Queen. That in his footsteps my Eugène will also become a great General. He will, too, be a Prince, and little Hortense like myself a Queen.’

  For a moment Roger wondered uneasily if any of this might be due to true second-sight, or if it was simply that the sibyl had given him full measure in payment for his gold. Then Josephine caught his attention again as she went on:

  ‘I’d not believe a word of it, but for one thing. When I was a young girl in Martinique an old negro woman of partly Irish descent predicted just such a future for me. More, she also foretold the troubles that would come upon France, my marriage to M. de Beauharnais, and the manner of his death.’

  Roger was much impressed and no little perturbed; but true tp his principle that first things must come first, he said seriously: ‘Such confirmation can leave you in no doubt of your destiny. Pray, Madame, accept my congratulations. With your permission then, I will return to Barras and tell him the good news; leaving it to you to acquaint General Buonaparte that through you he is to receive the first step to his magnificent fortune.’

  ‘Nay! Wait!’ She stretched out a hand to stop him as he rose.

  ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Surely you cannot mean that you are still troubled by doubts?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed I am!’

  ‘How can you even contemplate the rejection of these great gifts that the gods are prepared to shower on you and your children?’

  ‘I do not wish to; but it may be that I must.’

  ‘How so? You are your own mistress! What in the world is there to prevent your marrying General Buonaparte other than your own hesitations?’

  Instead of answering his question, she leaned forward and said earnestly: ‘Monsieur; you are most sympathetic. Although our acquaintance is a short one, I feel that you are my friend. You are, I know, a great friend of Paul Barras. Could you persuade him to grant me a favour?’

  Roger returned her glance with some surprise. ‘Madame, I can hardly think that my influence with him is greater than your own. But I will willingly serve you in any way I can.’

  ‘It concerns Citizen Fouché. Much ill has been said of him, but he is a good man at heart. His calumniators have brought about his ruin, but I would much like to see his excellent mind once more employed in the interests of his country. If you would serve me, use your utmost endeavours to persuade Barras to give him some suitable appointment.’

  ‘Forgive. me, Madame, if, before agreeing to do as you wish, I ask you one question. What has this to do with the project of your marriage?’

  Josephine began to twist her fingers together in evident agitation. ‘I beg you, Monsieur, do not press me on that. It concerns a matter in my past which I would prefer not to discuss. Please let it suffice that though I do not love General Buonaparte, I would do my best to make him a good wife—if … if only this other, matter could be settled.’

  ‘Madame, you imply that Fouché is holding you to ransom?’

  ‘No, no! he is most well disposed towards me, and acting in this as my friend. It is for that reason I wish to oblige him. He comes of a shipping family that once owned estates in the West Indies but the Revolution robbed him of any private income, and now that he is no longer a Deputy he is in sad straits.’

  Her mention of the West Indies suddenly rang a bell in Roger’s brain. Coming to his feet, he exclaimed: ‘I have it now! Fouché had found out about your marriage to William de Kay.’

  Josephine’s big eyes widened. Springing up, she gasped: ‘How … how can you know aught of that?’

  Roger had to think quickly, After a second he replied: ‘When I was living in England I had the story from a Mr. Beckwith, a British merchant who had lived in Martinique for many years.’

  ‘I knew him,’ Josephine murmured, pale to the lips. ‘Oh, Monsieur! You are wrong in thinking that it is Fouché who is blackmailing me, but right in thinking that I am again being victimised on account of that youthful folly. It has proved the curse of my life.’

  ‘I happened to hear of it only by the merest chance; and would have thought it by now long since forgotten.’

  ‘I had hoped it was, or at least that I was cleared of it. A few years after I was married to M. de Beauharnais, ill-fortune caused us to take a mulatto among our servants. He turned out to be the brother of a woman slave who had been brought up in my father’s household, and from her he had had the whole story. He demanded money from me as the price of his silence. For a time I paid him; then when I could no longer afford to meet lus demands, I told my husband. I swore to my innocence and he believed me. All would have been well but for an evil woman who pretended to be my friend while having designs upon him. She so worked upon his mind that he decided to go to Martinique and ferret out the truth. When he returned he brought an action with intent to repudiate me. Fortunately for myself, good friends of mine succeeded in having the case removed from Paris to a provincial court where he had no influence. There was no proof that my marriage to William de Kay was a legal one, or that it had been consummated; so a verdict was given in my favour. Later my husband and myself were reconciled, and I lulled myself into the belief that I had been punished enough for the deceit I had practised on my parents.’

  ‘Indeed you have, Madame. But I beg you to calm yourself. That this mulatto rogue should have appeared again is naturally a grave annoyance to you, but now he should not prove difficult to deal with.’

  ‘He has no part in this. I know it for certain that he was killed in a riot during the Revolution.’

  ‘I see. So some other is now attempting to blackmail you. Am I to understand that Fouché is acting as your agent, and endeavouring to buy this person’s silence?’

  ‘Not that, exactly. I am not quite so simp
le as to fail to realise that in serving me he hopes to serve himself. But I think him right in his contention that it is far better to eliminate the blackmailer than to pay, perhaps indefinitely. His suggestion is that, if I could obtain for him some Ministerial office or high appointment in the Police, without giving any reason he could issue a warrant for the rogue, then secure an order for his deportation; and that would be the end of the matter.’

  ‘But Madame, one moment!’ Roger spread out his hands. ‘Why allow the restoration of your peace of mind to be dependent on restoring Fouché’s fortunes? Why not go direct to Barras? He could do all that is required with a stroke of the pen.’

  ‘It is not so simple. Monsieur. Fouché refuses to reveal the identity of the blackmailer.’

  ‘Even so, Barras could deal with this. He could put his police on to shadow Fouché night and day. The one rogue would soon lead them to the other, and the whole affair be settled without causing you the least embarrassment.’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head violently. ‘That I will not have. Fouché may be a rogue, but he knows how to keep a secret. Barras does not. He is the biggest gossip in all Paris. Did. I confide in him it would ultimately do me near as much damage as if I allowed the blackmailer to do his worst.’

  For a moment Roger was silent, then he said: ‘But really, I cannot see what you have to fear. Since the Court gave a verdict in your favour, you are already proved innocent. Should this old scandal be dug up you can afford to laugh at it.’

  The laugh that Josephine gave was a bitter one. ‘Monsieur, I have not yet acquainted you with the crux of the matter. This person has in his possession a diary that I wrote during my love affair with William. That he actually has it I know, for I have been sent some of the more harmless leaves from it. In it I referred to William as my husband, and wrote many things the memory of which now causes me to blush.’

  Roger drew in a sharp breath. ‘You are right, Madame. This is serious.’

  ‘Serious!’ she echoed, her voice rising hysterically. ‘Should my diary be published, for me it would be the end! The end, I tell you! The ultimate degradation! For all their lives my poor children would bear the stigma of bastards. As for myself, should I marry Buonaparte and this were disclosed, for having consciously made him a party to bigamy and the laughing stock of Paris I believe he would strangle me with his own hands.’

  In a swift succession of flashes, like those given off by an exploding Chinese cracker, Roger saw the sequence of situations which threatened to arise from this new development. Unless the diary could bè recovered Josephine would not dare to marry Buonaparte. If she would not marry him, Barras would not risk entrusting him with the Army of Italy. Unless Buonaparte was given the Army of Italy he would insist upon being allowed to carry out his plan for the invasion of England.

  Once more, Roger had a mental picture of the old High Street of Lymington, his home town, in flames; and he knew that it would be only one of many; for, although the invasion might be repulsed later, nothing short of a tempest could stop the initial landings. Somehow, if it was the last thing he ever did, he had to get hold of and destroy that diary.

  26

  Blackmail

  That evening, after Roger had supped, he went to Fouché’s little house. The ill-favoured Madame Fouché answered the door and showed him into the poorly-furnished sitting-room. Fouché was there working upon some papers. As soon as the two men had greeted one another, she discreetly withdrew and went upstairs.

  Without looking at Roger, Fouché motioned him to a chair and said: ‘I heard you were back in Paris; but the state of things here has altered little since you left; so I felt that it would be pointless to seek you out.’

  ‘It would have been,’ Roger agreed. “The time has not yet come to make a move in the matter that we talked of when last we met.’

  Fouché sighed. ‘I feared as much; although your coming here momentarily raised my hopes that I might be wrong. To what, then, do I owe this visit?’

  ‘I wished to inform myself if your circumstances had improved during my absence.’

  ‘That was considerate of you. The answer, alas, is no.’ Fouché made a gesture of disgust towards the papers on the table. ‘Here is fine work for one whose words were once hung upon in the Chamber. These are calculations showing how much it will cost to feed young pigs until they reach a certain weight and can be sold at a few francs profit.’

  ‘Indeed! I had no idea that you had any experience of farming or raising animals.’

  ‘Nor have I. But the ex-Deputy Gérard offered to finance me if I would buy a few litters and fatten them swiftly by forcible feeding, then share the profits with him. So now I spend my days-on a farm in the suburbs cleaning out pigsties.’

  ‘You would, then, be glad if I could put you in the way of earning a considerable sum?’

  Fouché gave a quick snuffle. There are few things you could ask of me that I would not do in order to improve my present wretched situation.’

  ‘The matter depends only on your willingness to do a deal with me. This afternoon Madame de Beauharnais confided to me the gist of some recent conversations she had with you.’

  ‘Ah!’ Fouché’s bloodless lips twitched in a faint smile. ‘Sa you know about the diary, and have come to try to buy it for her?’

  ‘Yes. How much do you want for it?’

  ‘I have not got it.’

  ‘No matter. You know who has, and could get hold of it.’

  ‘Even if I could, I would not sell it.’

  ‘Why not? I am prepared to pay you handsomely.’

  Fouché shook his head. ‘It is worth more to me than money. That diary should prove the means of obtaining for me a new chance in life.’

  ‘In that, I fear you wrong.’

  ‘Why so? Madame de Beauharnais has great influence with Barras. He could easily procure for me an appointment in the Administration, and that would bring me in a regular income. Once back, too, I should soon find opportunities of furthering my fortunes. Such a prospect is much more valuable than a sum of money down.’

  ‘It would be if Barras were agreeable to do as you wish; but he is not.’

  ‘I see no reason why he should refuse. Everyone knows my capabilities, and there are plenty of men with far worse records than mine holding office. My enemies in the two Chambers might make some outcry; but they have no power in such matters now. Within twenty-four hours people would be talking of something else; Barras would have done himself no material harm, and I should have the means of supporting my unfortunate family.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Your reasoning is sound enough; but the fact remains that Barras has refused Madame de Beauharnais’s appeal on your behalf.’

  ‘Then she will not get back her diary. The person who has it is no fool, and would not part with it even if I offered the half of as big a sum as I might hope to get from you. The intention is to retain it and keep her bled white through monthly payments of as much as she can afford. That, my own interests apart, is why she should give Barras no peace until he does something for me. I have always wanted a post in the Police. If she could get me one, I could deal with the blackmailer for her in such a way that she would have no more to worry about.’

  ‘Again your reasoning is sound enough; but is made impracticable of application owing to the ill-will that Barras bears you. Therefore some other means must be employed.’

  ‘What have you to suggest?’

  ‘That you should sell me the blackmailer’s name and leave me to handle the matter of getting back the diary,’

  Fouché gave an angry snort. ‘I have already told you that in this lies my only hope of re-establishing myself in the career for which I am best fitted. Is it likely that I would sacrifice such a chance for a hatful of ready money?’

  ‘You would be well-advised to; otherwise you may get nothing.’

  ‘There, you are quite wrong. Even if Barras proves adamant, a steady income can be made out of Madame de Beauharnais; an
d as the go-between I’ll get my share of it.’

  ‘Do not delude yourself. She is far from rich, and you will be lucky if you receive even a first small payment.’

  ‘On the contrary, the prospects of La Belle Créole becoming a good milch cow were never better. A reliable little bird told me that General Buonaparte is pressing her hard to marry him. In her situation she would be mad to refuse such an offer. Once she is Madame Buonaparte, not only will she feel it more necessary than ever to buy our silence, but she will have ample means to do so.’

  ‘You have yourself alluded to the factor which will prove your own downfall.’ woodpile,’ Roger announced with a grim little smile. ‘Madame de Beauharnais opened her heart to me this afternoon. She is shrewd enough to guess that you are banking on General Buonaparte’s proposal to her, and knows that should she not give you satisfaction you may attempt to bring about her ruin. But she is a courageous woman, and so prepared to face up to this crisis you have forced upon her. She is also an honest one. She declared to me that nothing would induce her to marry the General with this sword of Damocles hanging over her head. And she went further. Rather than suffer a perpetual drain upon her very limited resources as the only alternative to having her children proclaimed bastards here in Paris she will take them to Martinique. There, her youthful indiscretion is known to most people and already condoned; so the most you can hope to gain is as much as you can screw out of her to buy your silence while she makes her preparations for leaving France.’

  Roger had misrepresented matters with considerable ingenuity as Josephine had no idea of returning to Martinique, and the suggestion that Fouché might get a little money from her rather than nothing at all was a touch of genius. It was that, no doubt, which caused him to accept the statement as the truth. His grey, blotchy face twitching with annoyance, he muttered:

  ‘How cursed am I with misfortune that this bridge to a steady income should have broken under me. I was counting on it to ease the burden that my poor wife has already carried far too long. Since, then, I must do a deal with you, what are you prepared to pay?’