The Wanton Princess

by Dennis Wheatley

  Six other Frenchmen were seated round a table at cards, and when the General introduced Roger to them the only names that Roger recognised were those of Baron de Roll and Méhée de la Touche. The latter was a tall gawky man with, Roger decided, a decidedly shifty look. After a few polite exchanges they pushed the cards aside and got down to business.

  It emerged that the brave Chouan leader, Georges Cadoudal, was already in Paris and, with a small company of his Breton patriots, was prepared to undertake the kidnapping of Napoleon one dark Saturday night when he was on his way from the Palace of St. Cloud to spend Sunday at Malmaison. Other Chouans in relays would rush the prisoner to the coast, but for that many horses would have to be purchased and tended in secret stables, for perhaps several weeks, and a ship would have to be held in readiness to transport the captive across the Channel.

  Roger conceded in his own mind that Pichegru, and perhaps several of the others, honestly believed this to be possible; but his own conviction was that it was not. Too many people would have to be involved in it for the plot not to be betrayed or go wrong somewhere; so all the odds were that to make certain of the success of their coup some of the more unscrupulous of the conspirators intended to murder Napoleon soon after he had been kidnapped.

  The next stage in the plan was to seize power before one of the other Consuls, or perhaps Bernadotte, could do so. For this a man was required who had the confidence and respect of the French people. As a general who had been denounced and sought refuge in England, Pichegru could not fill the bill; but Moreau could. So it was intended that Pichegru should go secretly to Paris, and persuade his old comrade-in-arms, on a given signal that Bonaparte had been got out of the way, to raise the troops of the Paris garrison, who adored him, and declare for the King. At the same time a Bourbon Prince was to enter France and take over from Moreau as Regent until Louis XVIII could be brought from Mittau on the distant Baltic.

  A long discussion followed during which Roger learned that an Abbé David, General Lajolais and a man named Querelle were the principal Royalist agents then in Paris and that one of them would arrange the meeting between Pichegru and Moreau. But when he pressed for further information about these people and the identity of the Prince who was to act as Regent the conspirators refused it. They declared that they could not disclose such matters without the consent of their chief, Monsieur Hyde de Neuville, who had recently been in Paris and caught such a severe cold while recrossing the Channel that he was in bed, which had prevented him from attending the conference that evening.

  At that, in order to learn further details of the plot Roger dug his toes in. He said that if he was to finance the operation he must be able to give his master full particulars of it, and especially the name of the Prince, as there were several and the British Government would have greater confidence in some than in others.

  In consequence it was agreed that, as by Monday Hyde de Neuville should be sufficiently recovered, they would meet again with him present. Roger then spent the remainder of the evening drinking and talking with his new friends and left them greatly pleased with the progress he was making.

  On the evening of Monday 9th Roger again went to the Cercle Français and, this time, on giving his name was shown straight up to the front room on the first floor. As he was a little early only four of the conspirators—de la Touche, the Baron de Roll, the Chevalier de Brie and a Colonel Lafont—had assembled, but they greeted him cordially and poured him a glass of wine. A few minutes later Pichegru came in followed by a thick-set middle-aged man. After smiling at Roger the General turned to his companion and said,

  ‘De Neuville, this is Mr. McElfic who, as I have told you, has promised …’

  The rest of his sentence was drowned in a roar from de Neuville. His eyes starting from his head, he thrust out an accusing finger at Roger and shouted, ‘Are you gone mad that you have betrayed our secrets to this man? He is le Colonel Breuc, one of the Corsican’s Aides-de-Camp.’

  22

  The Grim Affair of the Duc d’Enghien

  Roger drew a quick breath. He had never before to his knowledge seen de Neuville, so was taken completely by surprise.

  Pichegru’s jaw dropped and for a moment he looked dumbfounded. Then, turning on de Neuville he said sharply, ‘You must be mistaken. This is the man who in ’95 signed an order for a million francs on the British Treasury with the object of bringing about a Restoration. I’d stake my life on that.’

  ‘In ’95,’ de Neuville sneered. ‘Many a man has changed his coat since then.’

  ‘But damn it man!’ protested the General. ‘He is prepared to do the same again. To suggest that he is one of Bonaparte’s people does not make sense. He was then Mr. Pitt’s personal emissary, and now represents my Lord Hawkesbury.’

  ‘Have you proof of that?’

  ‘No,’ Pichegru hesitated. ‘I’ve naught but his word.’

  ‘Then you have been fooled. I tell you I know him to be le Colonel Breuc. In Paris, less than a month ago, I stood within fifteen feet of him. It was at the entrance to the Tuileries and he held Bonaparte’s horse as the Corsican dismounted.’

  De la Touche, de Roll and the other two men had come to their feet and were staring at Roger threateningly. For a moment he considered attempting to play his old gambit of mistaken identity. But he was seized with a sudden conviction that they would never believe him if he now protested that he was the English Admiral’s son and Colonel Breuc a cousin who had often been mistaken for him.

  It was de la Touche who clinched the matter by exclaiming, ‘De Neuville is right! On Friday evening I thought I knew his face. Now I recall where I saw him. It was last September. He was sitting at a table drinking with General Bessiéres outside a café in the Palais Royal gardens. I was at the next table trying to catch what I could of their conversation.’

  ‘Mort Dieu!’ de Roll muttered. ‘And he knows our plan. If he gets back to France our friends there will be ruined.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ put in the Chevalier de Brie. ‘He got from us only general particulars and a few names, but no details or addresses.’

  ‘He knows too much,’ said de Neuville grimly. ‘We must see to it that he does not return, or pass on what he has learned to some traitor here.’

  ‘That is easier said than done,’ remarked Pichegru with a frown.

  ‘Then you have become squeamish for a soldier, General,’ de la Touche declared. ‘There is but one penalty for a spy who is caught, and he has earned it.’

  During these swift exchanges Roger’s mind had been working furiously, and he had no illusions about the imminent peril in which he stood. He did not think they would dare murder him in the club, but the six of them could overpower him and force brandy down his throat until he was dead drunk. Drunkenness was so common that the other members of the club and the servants would think nothing of seeing a man who had passed out being carried downstairs by a party of apparently half-drunk friends and being driven off with them in a coach. They could then finish him off with a knock on the head and leave his body in some back alley where, when it was found in the morning, it would be assumed that he had been attacked and killed by a footpad.

  The six of them were standing on the far side of the table with the door behind them, so he stood no possible chance of getting past them to it. Had he had a sword he could have held them off long enough for his shouts for help to bring other people to his assistance; but he was unarmed. And if he did shout, that would drive them into rushing him and knocking him out at once, then telling whoever arrived on the scene that he had gone down in a fight following a quarrel over cards. His only asset lay in his extreme fitness and agility; but he rated his chances of getting away as slender.

  Nonetheless he had made up his mind what to do when the attack came, and the moment de Neuville opened his mouth to cry ‘Come; get him!’ he acted.

  Springing forward, he grasped the edge of the heavy table with both hands, gave a violent heave and overturned i
t. To his right, only two paces away, lay the fireplace. Even before the glasses and decanter had crashed on the floor, by a sideways dive he had grabbed the poker. The far edge of the table struck Pichegru and the Baron de Roll hard above the knees, knocked them both backwards and temporarily pinned them beneath it. Assuming that Roger meant to make a rush for the door, de Neuville jumped back and planted himself firmly in front of it. De Brie, who had been beside him, leapt round that end of the overturned table towards Roger, while Lafont, followed by de la Touche, ran at him round the other.

  Lafont was a pace ahead of the others, so Roger turned to face him, swung the poker high and aimed a blow at his head. Just in time he jerked his head aside; but the poker slashed down across his ear, tearing it half off. Clapping his hand to it, the Colonel gave a screech of pain, reeled backwards, tripped on the edge of the hearth and fell backward upon it.

  Before Roger had time to recover from the stroke, de Brie was upon him and had grabbed him by the back of his coat collar. As he twisted round they were at too close quarters for Roger to strike at his assailant’s head. Instead he drew the poker back and drove its point hard into the plump Chevalier’s stomach. De Brie gave a gasp and his eyes popped from their sockets. Letting go Roger’s collar he, too, staggered back then doubled up in agony.

  Knowing that de la Touche must now be immediately behind him, Roger swivelled on his heel. As he turned his head he thought that he was finished. De la Touche had drawn a poniard from beneath his coat and had it raised high to plunge into him. It was too late for him to spring away or bring up the poker to guard against the blow. But he was saved from it most unexpectedly. Still standing in the doorway de Neuville gave a sudden shout.

  ‘Stop, you imbecile! No bloodshed! No bloodshed here or we’ll hang for it.’

  With an effort de la Touche checked the stab in mid-air. Glowering with hatred he stepped back. Now facing him, Roger brought up his right foot and kicked him hard on the shin. He gave a grunt, swore foully and, as Roger swung at him with the poker, swiftly retreated.

  Panting from his exertions but still unharmed, Roger was now free from attack; but he knew that he would remain so only for a matter of moments. Pichegru and de Roll had come out from beneath the table, de la Touche had received only a minor injury, de Brie was getting back his wind and de Neuville might, at any moment, decide to enter the fray. To fight his way through them to the door was still out of the question. Grimly he realised that there was only one way in which he might perhaps save himself. Turning his back on them, he brought the poker with all his force against the lower half of the tall window.

  It shattered, but great jagged pieces of the glass still adhered to the sides and bottom of the frame. Three more swift blows sent the largest of them crashing into the street below. Pounding feet on the floor behind him told him that he would never get through the window before his enemies had seized and overcome him.

  Turning, he faced them once more. Clenching his teeth he slashed at them right, left and centre. His first blow caught Pichegru on his outstretched arm; his second felled the Baron with a cracked skull; his third missed the Chevalier but, throwing Roger off balance, saved him from a brandy bottle that de la Touche had picked up from the floor and hurled at his head. Recovering from his lurch he lunged with the poker at de Brie’s face, smashing in his front teeth. Pichegru, in spite of his disabled arm, came at him again but got a jab from the poker right over his heart that rendered him temporarily hors de combat.

  Colonel Lafont still sat moaning on the hearth with his hand over his torn ear. De Neuville had not entered the fray but remained guarding the door. De la Touche now hung back, evidently unwilling to risk serious injury. It was Roger’s chance and he took it.

  The bottom of the tall window was only a foot from the floor. Thrusting one leg over he dropped the poker, grasped the sill with both hands and swung himself out. Giving a swift glance down he was appalled. To the pavement below was a drop of fifteen feet. If he let go it seemed certain that he would either break his neck or a leg.

  Then he saw that only a yard to the right of the window and a few feet below it there projected from the wall an iron bracket holding a lantern that lit the entrance to the club. For a second he wondered whether it would bear his weight, then decided that he must chance that. Shifting his grip on the sill, he swung himself sideways, grasped the bracket and lowered himself to it. But he was still twelve feet above the street level. Yet worse—another quick look downward showed him that he was now hanging immediately over a row of spiked railings on one side of the steps that led up to the door of the club, if he let go his hold he would be impaled upon them.

  His breath coming in gasps he hung there, his mind fraught with terrible indecision. He could still climb back and surrender to his enemies. He had no doubt they meant to kill him, but to let himself drop might also mean death; or, at least, terrible injuries.

  A moment later he was given no option. De la Touche was leaning out of the window, an evil grin on his shifty countenance and his dagger in his hand. He made a slash at Roger’s fingers. Instinctively Roger let go of the iron bracket.

  As he plunged downward terror seized him. In his vivid imagination he could already feel the iron spikes piercing his flesh and smashing his bones. Ten seconds later he was brought up with a violent jerk. He had missed being impaled by a fraction of an inch. The spikes had penetrated under his flying coat tails, ripped through the back of his coat and left him suspended by its thick collar.

  For a moment he hung there. Then he realised that his feet, beneath bent legs, were resting on the steps up to the club. From inside it there came the sound of excited shouts. Although every minute of the desperate encounter he had just survived had seemed like five to him, he knew that it could have occupied only a very short time; so the shouts and crash of glass in the room above had not drawn attention to the fact that there was trouble there until it was almost over. But by now the other occupants of the club must be up there seeking an explanation.

  To accuse his attackers of an attempt to kidnap and later murder him could serve no useful purpose, and to lend himself to an enquiry into the affair by their compatriots might even prove dangerous. So, bracing his legs, he wrenched at his coat until he had torn himself free of the railings, then staggered off round the square until he came upon an unoccupied sedan chair that carried him back to Amesbury House.

  Next morning, knowing himself to be now a marked man, and that as long as he remained in London the conspirators would do their utmost to trace him, then stick at nothing to prevent his return to France, he said good-bye to Droopy and set out for Walmer.

  That evening he informed Mr. Pitt of all that had taken place and, as he had hoped, his old master agreed to place at his disposal one of his cutters manned by Sea Fencibles, as the quickest way for him to get back to France. He sailed in it that night and shortly before dawn on the 12th the cutter put him ashore in a quiet cove some miles south of Boulogne. Soon after he had landed he had a narrow escape from being caught by a beach patrol, but he succeeded in evading it and on the morning of the 14th was back in Paris.

  After sleeping through most of the day at La Belle Etoile, he rode out that night to St. Cloud and made his report to Talleyrand. His old friend listened with much concern to his account of the danger to which by an ill chance he had been exposed, then congratulated him warmly on having penetrated the conspiracy.

  Over a tête-à-tête supper, worthy of them both, they discussed the matter at length and agreed that, as Roger had not secured sufficient details of the plot to nip it in the bud, the probability was that it would be proceeded with. Although Fouché was still out of office Talleyrand was of the opinion that he, and the agents he continued to employ, were much more likely to get to the bottom of the affair than were Savary’s regular police. He said he would seek the cooperation of that subtle master-mind the following day and ask its unprepossessing owner to endeavour to discover the whereabouts of Cadoudal, the
Abbé David and M. Querelle and to have a close watch kept on General Lajolais.

  They then speculated on which of the Bourbon Princes had been selected to make a dash for Paris, take over from General Moreau and act as Regent until the Comte de Provence could reach the capital and be proclaimed as Louis XVIII.

  The legitimate choice was his younger brother, the Comte d’Artois; and it was known that he had spent long periods on the Isle of Yeu, off the Brittany coast, under the protection of the English, so that he could be swiftly landed in France in the event of a successful counter-revolution. But Charles d’Artois was a lazy, pleasure-loving man and Talleyrand who had known him well in pre-Revolution days, thought it unlikely that he would risk putting his head into a noose if there was the least possibility of it closing on him.

  The Prince de Condé seemed a better bet, as it was he who had commanded the army of Royalist exiles on the Rhine and done all he could to aid the Austrians in their war against Revolutionary France. But in recent years his army had withered away, many of the exiled nobles having made their peace with Napoleon, and others having left it to settle as civilians in the German cities. So the Prince had become dispirited and was no longer looked on by the Monarchists as a leader of promise. It might, however, be the Prince’s son, the Duc d’Enghien. He was a handsome and vigorous young man in his early thirties with a dashing personality and likely to have a strong appeal to the French people.

  Another possibility was d’Artois’ son, the twenty-six-year-old Duc de Berri; but he was living in Italy, so it would not be possible for him to enter France overnight, and for a coup d’état to prove successful swift action was essential.

  Lastly there was Louis Philippe, Duc d’Orleans, who was living at Twickenham near London. But his side of the Bourbon family had ever been a thorn in the side of the senior branch. His father had even gone to the length of siding with the Revolutionaries, laying down his title and calling himself, ‘Philippe Egalité’ then, as a member of the Convention, voting for the death of his cousin, Louis XVI. Roger had later taken considerable pleasure in being instrumental in getting him sent to the guillotine. They decided that for the Monarchists to choose a prince with such antecedents was very unlikely.