The Price of Glory

by Seth Hunter

  A clatter of steps upon the cobbles. He tensed, every nerve alert, but it was only a delivery boy, or some other early riser, for the noise faded and there was no thunderous knocking upon the outer door. He dragged himself up, all the same, and went to the window. The sun was rising over the shining rooftops of Paris, the sky tinged with rose. Rose. The thought of whom might have occupied him far more pleasantly through the long hours of darkness, had it not been for Bennett. Bloody Bennett.

  What was he doing in Paris?

  Useless. He might as well get up.

  He was about to turn away from the window when a movement caught his eye at the far end of the little street. Two figures were standing in the shadows, one tall, one quite small. He watched, frowning. A transaction of some sort. Then he saw that the smaller figure was just a boy, a baker’s boy with a basket of rolls. But what of the other, who stood there still, having his breakfast? And still apparently watching the hotel at the far end of the street. Nathan let the curtain fall and sat on the edge of his bed. He had been watched before, on his last trip here. It was an unpleasant experience. Not quite as bracing as having a 16-gun broadside trained upon you, but no less discomforting for that. Worse, in a way, because of the uncertainty. The thought that it was all in the mind, while every instinct assured you that it was not.

  He dressed carefully, patting his pockets to make sure he had everything he might need if he was obliged to make a sudden decamp or was hauled off to the Châtelet or the Luxembourg or whatever other place of detention and torture they used in Paris these days, for he was sure they would not have been entirely swept away. He ensured that the thin blade was concealed in the specially tailored sheath inside his boot, and that the gold coins sewn into the lining could not be detected by a casual touch. Then he went downstairs to have his own breakfast. It was rather better than he was used to in Paris, consisting of several fresh rolls, still warm, probably from the same baker’s boy he had seen in the street, even a small pat of butter and some jam. But no coffee: that was a rare delicacy thanks to the British blockade; they offered small beer instead.

  Nathan ate heartily—his worries never seemed to affect his appetite—and made conversation with some of the other guests. They were Americans for the most part: businessmen and shipping agents, making a killing from the war. They talked mainly of prices and food shortages and the continuing problems of the French economy. There was a great scarcity of gold and the paper currency, the assignat, was practically worthless. The general opinion was that if the French did not contrive to build up their gold reserves, they would not be able to trade at all. This was of more than passing interest to Nathan, who had contributed significantly to the problem by smuggling millions of fake assignats into the country during the time of the Terror. But the greater part of his mind continued to be preoccupied with the problem of Bennett—and the possibly related issue of the figure lingering at the end of the street.

  He sat at a table in the window where he could keep an eye on the man. He was at some distance and wore a crown hat with a wide brim—making it impossible to see his features—and, unusually for the time of year, a long greatcoat, reaching almost to the ground. Sometimes he walked up and down but mostly he just leaned against the wall, biting his nails. But several times Nathan would see him looking towards the hotel. Not one practised in the art of surveil-lance, he decided. Perhaps he was trying to pluck up the courage to come in and ask for work.

  This was absurd. There were any number of reasons for someone to be hanging about in the vicinity of the hotel. Nathan tried to put it out of his mind and think about his next move. He needed to renew his acquaintance with the Madonna and the Rose. It was irritating that Bennett’s appearance had obliged him to leave early or he felt sure he could have contrived another meeting. Now he would have to think of another way of approaching them. Perhaps he might send some flowers with a note of thanks.

  He was still pondering his options when he saw a carriage turn into the street and draw up outside the front door. Quite a splendid carriage with a team of four matching greys and two footmen, also a near match, at the rear. So much for the Revolution, Nathan was thinking, not considering it had anything to do with him. But then as he watched, one of the footmen leaped from his perch and ran to let down the steps, opening the door to reveal the dapper figure and handsome features of the Banker Ouvrard. He glanced up at the hotel, saw Nathan’s face in the window, and touched his hand to the brim of his hat in a gesture that was not without irony.

  “I felt I should apologise for my abruptness of last night,” began the banker promisingly. “I did not wish you to feel put out.”

  “Not at all,” Nathan assured him. “You were right. It was neither the time nor the place.”

  “I appreciate your understanding. Paris is now much safer than it was for the pursuit of business interests, but it is still necessary to be discreet.”

  They sat in a quiet corner of the lobby. The same corner, in fact, where Nathan had met Thomas Paine, the evening before his arrest.

  “I will come directly to the point,” Ouvrard continued briskly. “Gilbert Imlay.” He leaned back and regarded Nathan with a secret smile as if they shared some delightful private joke.

  “You are acquainted with Mr. Imlay ?” Nathan enquired politely.

  “I have met him.” The smile broadened a little. Whatever the joke, he was clearly enjoying it. “Did he not mention my name to you?”

  “Whatever my own failings in the matter, Imlay has a great regard for discretion,” Nathan replied. “He named very few of his acquaintance in Paris.”

  “But Madame Tallien was among them.”

  There was no point in denying it but Nathan’s nod was reserved.

  “I am here as the representative of Madame Tallien,” the banker assured him, though with a continued amusement that Nathan was beginning to find irritating. “Imagine she is before you.” He watched Nathan’s countenance with interest. “Difficult, I agree. Perhaps this will assist you.” He reached into his pocket and produced a slim violet envelope which he slid over the table. It was addressed to Nathan and contained a single sheet of paper, also violet and heavily scented.

  Dear Captain Turner,

  I am pleased to introduce to you Monsieur Ouvrard who has been so good as to advise me on certain matters of business. You may place your complete trust in him, in the sure knowledge that he has all that of

  Your good friend, Thérésa Tallien.

  Nathan replaced the letter in the envelope and passed it back. Rather to his surprise Ouvrard took it and put it carefully back in his pocket.

  “Good. Now we can talk business,” he continued briskly. “As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Imlay made certain investments for Madame Tallien before I had the honour of advising her on such matters.” Did this imply a criticism or degree of doubt? “I take it he has instructed you to report on the progress of those investments.”

  Nathan dropped his voice. “Imlay is presently in London,” he confided, “but he has recently returned from Louisiana where he was able to make an account of the situation in the western territories. Unfortunately the Spanish authorities continue to oppose settlement in the region, actively encouraging the Indian tribes to attack those brave enough to venture west of the Appalachians—apparently with the approval of Madrid.” He paused and tried to think how a land agent might put it. “As a consequence of which, land values in the region remain static.”

  “Static,” Ouvrard repeated, as if this was not a word with which he was familiar.

  “Neither up nor down,” added Nathan, for the sake of clarity.

  “So, pretty much at the price Madame Tallien paid for the land,” Ouvrard persisted.

  “Perhaps a little less.” Nathan was beginning to get the hang of this. “At present.”

  “Not to say worthless.”

  “On the contrary. It is worth a great deal—to someone with, shall we say, the antennae of a man finely tuned to the political s
ituation. In fact, Imlay feels that now is the time to buy.”

  Ouvrard raised a quizzical brow. “And may I ask what has led him to such a remarkable conclusion?”

  Nathan glanced out of the window. He could no longer see the man at the end of the street but his view was partly obstructed by Ouvrard’s coach and four. He leaned forward and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Because Imlay has learned that an agreement is in prospect between Madrid and Paris. An agreement that would not only bring peace between the two nations but cede the entire region west of the Mississippi to France.”

  The smile was still on Ouvrard’s face but the humour no longer reached to his eyes.

  “If that were to happen,” Nathan continued, “and the French authorities were to open the region to settlement—as Imlay is persuaded they must, given their close alliance with the United States—then any land purchased now, at the present low price, will increase enormously in value.”

  “And how confident is Mr. Imlay that this situation will arise?”

  “He appeared confident enough,” Nathan replied, “when I met him in London.”

  “Imlay, I am told, invariably appears confident. But how reliable is his information, do you suppose?”

  “Well, he may not be privy to state secrets, but he is prepared to stake his reputation upon it.”

  “His reputation.” Ouvrard’s tone implied this was worth pretty much the same as the discredited paper currency of France. Or the land west of the Appalachians. “And other people’s money.”

  “He has invested a great deal of his own, I believe,” Nathan declared with slight, if affected, umbrage, “and is anxious that his friends in Paris should not think he has taken an unfair advantage.”

  Ouvrard appeared genuinely amused. “So he wishes Madame Tallien to invest more of her money in this venture.”

  “Frankly, as much as she can raise.”

  “Though her previous speculation has failed to return a profit. And is now running, I suspect, at a considerable loss.”

  “But the potential …”

  Ouvrard raised his hands. “Please. I think we have heard quite enough about the potential from Imlay. He even wrote a book about it, I recall.”

  “A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North America.” Nathan pronounced the title as grandly as if he were Imlay. “Published by Debrett.”

  “He also writes fiction, I believe.”

  “I understand he has turned his hand to fiction on at least one occasion, but to the same purpose—to encourage emigration to the American frontier and beyond. Mr. Imlay believes, as I do, that this is a great country with the potential …” He ignored Ouvrard’s expression, “to become a new Empire of the West. All it requires is people to farm the land and expand the trade of the region by way of the Mississippi. And whoever owns the land …” He leaned back spreading his hands and leaving the banker to imagine the riches that would accrue to them.

  “Will very likely dispute the ownership with the Indians for many years to come,” Ouvrard concluded dryly. “While the Spaniards control the entire trade of the region from their base in New Orleans.”

  “That is the point,” Nathan insisted. “The Spaniards may no longer control New Orleans. Nor be in a position to encourage the Indians in their resistance.”

  “And pigs may fly to the moon but I would not advise an investment in lunar husbandry.”

  Nathan regarded him coldly. “Then you would advise Madame Tallien not to extend her investment in the western territories.”

  “With respect, sir, you have given me no good reason why I should—apart from some half-baked notion of Imlay’s that as the price for peace in Europe, Spain will be willing to hand over the bulk of her possessions in North America.”

  “Imlay pointed out that Madame Tallien is in a position to make her own informed judgement on that subject.”

  “Did he indeed?” Ouvrard’s voice was soft but his eyes were danger ous. “An informed judgement based upon what?”

  Now Nathan smiled, though he felt he had laid his head upon the block. “Based, I imagine, upon the advice she receives from her friends.”

  “Well, I will pass on your observations to Madame Tallien.” Ouvrard took up his hat and prepared to leave. “And her friends in high places.”

  Was there an implied threat in that? It rather depended on who he meant. In his role on the Committee of Public Safety Tallien probably issued instructions to the Sûreté.

  They walked to the door together.

  “How long do you intend to stay in Paris?” Ouvrard enquired politely.

  “Not more than a few days. I have business in other parts of Europe.”

  “I see. How enviable to be an American,” the banker murmured, “and move freely through the warring nations of the continent. So advantageous to business. Among other things.” Nathan made no reply. Ouvrard preceded him through the door. The sun had risen high above the rooftops.

  “The summer continues,” Ouvrard declared, putting on his hat. He glanced at Nathan. “What is the expression you use in America? For when the summer continues into autumn?”

  Nathan was unable to enlighten him.

  “I am sure Imlay told me. I have it. “An Indian summer,’” he said in English. “Because it extends the season of attacks by Indian war parties. An expression much used on the American frontier. I am surprised you have not heard of it.”

  “Perhaps that is because I am from New York,” said Nathan.

  Ouvrard laughed. “Of course. Well, we must try to become better acquainted during your stay in Paris. Perhaps you would care to dine with me one evening. I will invite some people along whom you might find entertaining.”

  “I would be delighted.”

  The footman held open the door of the carriage. Ouvrard offered his hand.

  “Very good. Until then.”

  Nathan stood watching as the coachman expertly turned the carriage in the narrow courtyard. He had made as much progress as he dared hope, and although Ouvrard had made some sly remarks concerning his business credentials, on the whole he felt he had reason to feel pleased with himself.

  Then the carriage swept away and he found himself staring into the face of a young man in a long greatcoat and a battered beaver hat. The man who had been waiting at the end of the street.

  “Captain Turner?” he enquired.

  Nathan inclined his head in what might have been assent or puzzled consideration.

  “My name is Junot,” continued his new acquaintance, “and I have the honour of acting for General Buonaparte.”

  “Acting?” Nathan’s sharp response cut across the name which was, in any case, unfamiliar to him. “General who?”

  “He considers that you have greatly maligned him, sir, with a lady whose good opinion he very much values and he invites you to name your second.”

  Nathan stared at him in disbelief. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am confused. You are telling me that some man I have never met wishes to fight with me?” Buonaparte. The name meant nothing to him. It sounded Italian. Then he knew. My God! Captain Cannon!

  “He will fight you with swords or pistols at any place and time you care to name.”

  “But this is absurd.”

  The voice was cold with dislike. “You made several disparaging remarks about the general before a number of witnesses, sir. And he will have satisfaction.”

  Nathan almost laughed. First Imlay. Now Captain Cannon. He would get himself a reputation. But then he looked into the man’s eyes and saw that they were quite serious, or quite mad, and he did not feel like laughing at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Captain Cannon

  MOST UNFORTUNATE,” agreed Gabriel Ouvrard, when Nathan came to his office with news of the general’s challenge. His face was grave but his eyes betrayed a lively curiosity. “What exactly did you say ?”

  “I cannot remember the exact words,” Nathan confessed, “but something along the lines of
, ‘Who is that man over there who looks as if he has been shot from a cannon?’” Ouvrard’s lips twitched a little. “And I believe I may have asked if he was an entertainer.”

  “You said that about General Buonaparte?”

  “Is that his name? I did not quite catch it. He is Italian, I believe.”

  “He is from the island of Corsica, which became French about a year before he was born. He is quite sensitive about his nationality. Indeed, about most things. Fired out of a cannon. Oh dear. You could not have done worse had you tripped him up and kicked him. Ridicule is a powerful weapon in Paris. And a grievous insult.”

  “But I did not mean to give offence,” Nathan protested. “I did not know he was a general. And besides, I am sure I was not overheard. Apart from Madame de Beauharnais, of course, to whom I was talking at the time.”

  “And who is possibly the most indiscreet woman in Paris.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Well, we will have to see what we can do.”

  “I am sorry to be so importunate, but I know so very few people in Paris—will you act as my second?”

  Ouvrard shook his head firmly. “You cannot fight him,” he said.

  “I would not wish to be thought shy,” Nathan insisted warily. “I would gladly apologise but would he accept it?”

  “Probably not, but there are other pressures that can be brought to bear. Leave it with me.”

  Nathan returned to his hotel and spent a restless afternoon cursing his folly. He could not begin to think how he could explain the situation to the First Lord of the Admiralty, if he lived to enjoy that privilege. He was sitting in the lobby nursing a glass of wine when Ouvrard returned, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.

  “General Buonaparte begs your pardon,” he said, throwing down his hat, “and hopes there are no hard feelings.”