The Price of Glory

by Seth Hunter

  What did he want—money ? Somehow Nathan doubted it. But certainly he wanted something.

  “You have not thought of seeking help from the American ambassador? Or of using the Committee’s funds to contrive your escape from Paris?”

  “I considered it. Briefly.” Bennett studied the chessboard as if the game was not yet over. “But I am obliged by certain constraints. Certain hostages have been taken—one in particular—who would suffer from such self-regard.” He picked up one of the squandered pawns and replaced it on the board, to no particular advantage that Nathan could see. “Besides, I have decided to wait for the counter-Revolution. And then I shall kill Jean-Lambert Tallien.”

  Nathan studied him carefully. He did not appear to be joking, though it was hard to tell with Bennett.

  “For some personal reason, or because of what he did at Auray ?”

  Bennett turned on him with a sudden flush of anger: an intimation of a different character. “That is not personal enough?”

  “You could kill him now,” Nathan ventured guardedly.

  The mask came down. Bennett studied the chessboard again. “Not so easily. And I would doubtless suffer the consequence, whereas the new regime might consider I had saved them the trouble. However …” He toyed with his pawn. “I may need a character reference.”

  “What, for killing Tallien? I doubt it.”

  “It is not inconceivable that my activities on behalf of the Sûreté will become more widely known. That my masters will, under pressure, name their principal informers.” He looked directly at Nathan. “In which case it would be wise to have someone to speak up for me, someone who has the ear of the Royalist command.”

  So that was it. Nathan checked his immediate impulse to point out that the Royalist command would scarcely give him the time of day—in Paris, or elsewhere. “Well, if I am around at the time and in a position to do so, I will be pleased to give you all the references you require,” he assured him. “Our fates, I comprehend, are intertwined.”

  They walked on, back towards the city through an avenue of chestnut trees, the spiky fruit heavy upon the bough and beginning to fall.

  “This commissaire you encountered in the Châtelet,” Nathan mused. “Did you ever discover his name?”

  “Oh, he made no secret of it. His name is Gillet.”

  Nathan stopped in his tracks and stared at him. “Gillet?”

  “Like the guillotine. Why ? Do you know him? Is he another of your Paris acquaintances?”

  “No. No, I’m sorry. It was just—just the name. As you say, so like the guillotine.”

  Bennett was regarding him with a curious smile, either because he knew more than Nathan suspected or because of the shock on Nathan’s face. For he did indeed know Gillet. He had first met him at White’s Hotel on Christmas Day 1793, when he turned up at the head of a file of gendarmes, sent to arrest Thomas Paine on the orders of the Committee of Public Safety. They had avoided conflict then, if narrowly, but their subsequent encounters had been far more violent. Nathan still bore the scars of the flogging he had received at Gillet’s hands in one of the sinister Maisons d’Arrêt used by the secret police at the time of the Terror. And the last time they had met had been in the Hôtel de Ville in Paris on the day of Robespierre’s downfall. Nathan was convinced that in the confusion of that night, Gillet had fired the shot that carried away Robespierre’s jaw. They had exchanged shots themselves as Gillet fled into the night and Nathan was certain he had hit him in the arm. He still saw him sometimes, in his nightmares, swishing that bloody cane as he walked around him, lashing out at his naked thighs and back and buttocks. And the savage smile on his face. He was the only man in the world Nathan had ever vowed to kill on sight. In cold blood or not.

  But in those days Gillet had been a committed Jacobin. It was a shock to know he was still alive and at liberty—and, from what Bennett reported, still in his old profession.

  “Well, he seems to know you,” Bennett insisted. “Though he appears to be under the impression that you are an American. He proposed that I should solicit your friendship, win your confidence and discover what you are doing back in Paris. Otherwise, he said, he may be forced to resume his own acquaintance where he was forced to leave it last summer. I formed the impression,” he added, watching Nathan’s face carefully, “that he had conceived an active dislike for you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dining Sans Culottes

  NATHAN RETURNED TO THE HOTEL rather more thoughtfully than he had left it, wanting nothing more than to lie down in a darkened room and draw the shades upon Paris and all its uncertainties.

  This was not to be.

  A familiar carriage was standing in the Passage des Petits Pères, its four immaculate greys champing at the bit, and there was a note waiting for him in reception. Monsieur Ouvrard’s compliments and he would very much value Captain Turner’s company as soon as it was convenient for him. The carriage was at his disposal.

  Nathan consoled himself with the thought that the banker might have the information he required and that he would be able to leave the city at first light, if not before. He felt a greater sense of oppression than at any time since his arrival here, as if Paris were some living, breathing entity: an animal that had sniffed him out, the parasite in its midst, and was hunting him with deliberate menace. He felt it rising from the streets, glaring down at him from the rooftops, just as he had on that thunderous day in Thermidor when Robespierre and his supporters plotted insurrection in the Hotel de Ville and the tocsin rang to summon the people of the sections to rise in their de-fence. And Sara, unbeknown to him, waited for the death wagons in the sweltering courtyard of the Conciergerie. He longed to be driving westward to the coast. He felt an immense physical longing for the sea, so intense that for a moment he imagined he could smell it on the wind.

  But instead he was driven to the place Ouvrard called his offi ce on the Île de Saint Louis, an ancient warehouse smelling of money.

  “I have made certain enquiries concerning the subject we discussed earlier,” the banker began, when the usual courtesies had been exchanged and they had settled into a pair of large comfortable chairs in his study. “Peace talks between France and Spain have been in progress since late spring—in Basel, in Switzerland. They have been cloaked by parallel talks with the Prussians and the German principalities. A treaty of sorts was agreed at the end of July between François de Barthélemy for the Republic and Domingo d’Yriarte for the Spanish Crown, though it has yet to be ratified by the Convention and the precise details are hard to come by. There are also a number of secret clauses. Now, what I am about to say to you is in the strictest confidence, as I hope you understand.” Nathan nodded gravely, his hopes rising. “It appears that the future of Spain’s possessions in North America did come under discussion. How Imlay came by that information I do not know—nor do I wish to. A man of business has as much of a right as any man, or government, to keep himself informed in these troubled times. However, it would be dangerous—even for me, with my connections—to admit that I knew of such discussions, and I would be obliged to explain how I came by such information.” Nathan nodded again in acknowledgment of the implied threat. “However, Spain appears not unwilling to return New Orleans to France—and with it, all its territories west of the Mississippi River.” Nathan allowed his features to betray a degree of natural satisfaction and Ouvrard wagged an admonitory forefinger. “But at a price. In gold. Come in!” A servant entered with coffee on a tray. “Leave it,” said Ouvrard, without looking up. “I will see to it myself.

  “I regret I am not at liberty to reveal the exact amount,” he resumed when the door had closed. “In that respect, I am sworn to secrecy. However, it is, as you might imagine, significant. And the stipulation that it must be paid in gold makes it impossible for the Republic to contemplate such an outlay. It is no secret that the French government is on the verge of bankruptcy. To raise anything like such a sum the government would have to go ca
p in hand to the international banking community. And the bankers are by no means eager to oblige a Republic which has—at least until recently—shown itself hostile to their interests. Nevertheless, the advantages of securing such a prize have persuaded Barras to seek advice from those in a position to assist him.”

  He poured coffee into two delicate Sèvres cups. “Milk?”

  For a brief moment Nathan saw him in the little grocery store in Nantes. “A little.”

  “Sugar?”

  “One spoon, if you will.”

  “I think I am the only man in France who does not take sugar,” the banker revealed composedly. “I like the true bitter taste of the coffee bean. One spoonful did you say ? Well, the main money market in Europe is, of course, London which, for obvious reasons, may be ruled out of contention. The German and Swiss bankers are far too cautious to contemplate such a risk. Besides, they do not think the present government will survive the autumn. Which leaves the Italians. The Casa di San Giorgio in Genoa has a long history of investment in the New World. It financed the expedition of Columbus in 1492, did you know?”

  Nathan indicated that he did not and expressed polite interest though it was not the most pressing of his concerns.

  “Well, I have reason to believe that the Genovese would not be adverse to funding the venture, ceteris paribus. Alas, in the world of finance all things are rarely equal. And here one must weigh a number of adverse items in the balance.” This talk of money made Ouvrard seem much older of a sudden and for all his youthful good looks and the profusion of his brown locks, there was something of the Bicknell Coney about him, even in his voice which took on a dry, almost gnomic quality. “You must understand that the Casa di San Giorgio and the government of the Republic of Genoa are, to all extents and purposes, one and the same. The present Doge is a director of the bank, as are many of the leading members of his council. I believe this has been the case for several centuries. If it became known that the bank had lent money to the present government of France, it would be regarded as a hostile act by the Allied powers. The British maintain a large fleet in the Mediterranean, with a base close at hand in Corsica from which to sustain a blockade of the port of Genoa, while a large part of the Austrian army is garrisoned in Lombardy and in the Alpine passes. And, of course, the Papacy would undoubtedly pronounce the leading families of Genoa excommunicate, to which, as Italians, they cannot be entirely indifferent.”

  Nathan concluded that he would not have embarked upon such a detailed exposition if the cause was as hopeless as it appeared. “So where does that leave the western territories of North America?” he enquired.

  “On the table, as they say. Negotiations continue. Certain pressures may be brought to bear. You must understand that the Casa di San Giorgio has been controlled by the same families since the Middle Ages and they are not always in agreement; far from it. The Brignole and Spinola are thought to favour the French interest. The Doria and the Grimaldi are much opposed. It is unfortunate that the Convention thought fit to expel the Grimaldis from Monaco where they have been its princes for some hundreds of years. And to make matters worse the daughter-in-law of the last prince was a victim of the guillotine on the last day of the Terror … Have I said something to alarm you?” he added, for Nathan had started and was staring at him with a curious expression.

  “I am sorry.” Nathan took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I had just remembered something.”

  The last day of the Terror, when he had followed Gillet to the Hôtel de Ville with murder in his heart, ignorant that Sara was even then on her way to the guillotine. Had this woman, this Princess of Monaco, been with her at the time? His information was that two women had fled from the death carts but one of them had been recaptured and dragged back to the scaffold.

  He forced his mind back to the present. “And in the meantime—your advice to Madame Tallien?”

  “You are thinking of Imlay’s investments, naturally. Well, in the meantime, I am afraid that they, too, must stay ‘on the table.’ However, I am urged to use what means I can of prolonging your stay in Paris.”

  He smiled disarmingly but Nathan could not help but wonder if the banker had now become his jailer; surely he would never have taken Nathan into his confidence if there were the slightest chance of his leaving Paris.

  “It would be a pleasure,” he replied, though he was already wondering how to contrive his escape from the city; he had, after all, discovered all that was asked of him, and with Gillet breathing down his neck he could not afford to push his luck.

  Ouvrard stood. “Splendid. We will do our best to make your stay as pleasurable as possible. Indeed, I am instructed to invite you to a late supper at the house of Madame de Beauharnais, if you are not too fatigued.”

  Nathan groaned inwardly, for it had been a fatiguing day and though he would have been ashamed to admit it, the charms of Madame de Beauharnais paled in comparison to a quiet evening at White’s Hotel. But he put a brave face on it and mentioned only that he would welcome the opportunity to change his shirt and splash a little water on his face.

  “My dear sir, you must avail yourself of my wardrobe. And, my valet, too. No, I insist. I have shirts of every size and description. I will instruct the good Anton to bring you a selection.”

  Nathan could not help wondering if Ouvrard had bought a job lot from those obliged to part with them at approximately the same time they had been forced to part with their heads, but they were of good quality and not a trace of blood upon them and so, washed, shaved and made as presentable as the good Anton could contrive in the time available to him, Nathan joined Ouvrard in his carriage for the short journey to the house of Madame de Beauharnais.

  “It is a modest little townhouse near the Palais Egalité,” Ouvrard informed him, “but quite charming. And perhaps I should warn you that suppers à la Beauharnais are apt to be a little, well … theatrical.”

  Nathan eyed him warily. “In what way ?” He imagined party games, possibly of a rather lewd nature. He was not far wrong.

  “Well, sometimes there is dancing.”

  “That does not sound too outrageous.”

  “Upon the table.”

  “Ah.”

  “And on the last occasion Madame Tallien took off her clothes.”

  “I see. All of them?”

  “All of them. Though, as you may have noticed, she does not wear a great deal at the best of times. There had been comments on the flimsiness of the fabric and she had a wager with one of the other guests that her entire costume did not weigh more than two silver coins. On the instructions of Madame de Beauharnais scales were brought in by a servant and she stripped before the entire party of thirty or forty people. She won the bet.”

  “And will Madame Tallien be there tonight?”

  “Oh, assuredly. She and Madame de Beauharnais are inseparable.”

  “And Monsieur Tallien?”

  Ouvrard laughed. “I do not think so. Have you ever met him?”

  “No, I do not believe I have had that pleasure.” In fact, they had met briefly on the evening of Ninth Thermidor, when Tallien was celebrating his success in denouncing Robespierre before the National Convention. But in the subsequent, more violent events of that night he had been notable by his absence. Nathan remembered him as a handsome man but with a slightly vacuous look as if he did not quite believe in his own distinction.

  “He has been in the Vendée for some months now, helping to repress the local peasantry, but I believe he has lately returned to Paris. However, Madame de Beauharnais cannot stand him and between the two of us I do not believe Madame Tallien can, either. He can be a terrible bore and she tries to keep him away from her friends. Before the Revolution he was a printer’s devil, which is to say the apprentice who runs about with the typeface and mixes up the ink. Many of us came from humble origins but his seem to have affected him more than most. He feels obliged to proclaim his virtues in a loud voice, as if he were speaking in the Convention. Then o
f course someone like Barras feels equally obliged to put him down and he sulks for the rest of the evening.”

  Nathan was aware that they had been following the route of the death carts from the Palais de Justice and along the Rue Saint-Honoré. They passed through the old Palais Royale, now the Palais Egalité, with its shops and its cafés, strangely quiet for this time of the evening. Looking through the windows of the carriage he could see the towers of the Louvre and the Tuileries, the new administrative centre of the capital where the Convention now met. But there were so few people about. Was this normal? Then they saw the soldiers. Regular soldiers, marching in good order, behind a mounted officer. Ouvrard had seen them, too. He was looking thoughtful.

  “They are heading for the Stock Exchange,” he said.

  “Why the Stock Exchange?”

  “I imagine to guard it, rather than to close it down. I trust I am not mistaken. It is in the Le Peletier section where the mob has been especially restive of late. I hope there is not going to be trouble.”

  “Is it likely ?”

  “My dear fellow, the city is like a powder keg. It could go up at any time. The people are angry. Also, hungry. They deplore the price of bread. They deplore the extravagance of their new rulers. They wish to restore the monarchy. They have short memories, it appears.”

  Clearly Ouvrard was not overly impressed with the will of the people.

  “Does that not trouble you?” Nathan asked.

  The banker smiled. “I expect I will survive,” he said.

  The carriage turned into a small street off the Rue Saint-Honoré; the Rue Chantereine, another name from the old regime. Nathan saw the heavy street lanterns where the mob used to string up anyone they suspected of being a part of it. In the heyday of the Revolution this had been bandit territory, handy for the agitators in the Palais Royale and the market women from Les Halles with the sharp knives they used for gutting fish and other objects. It was not a part of Paris he knew well. He jerked his head hastily back inside the window as they turned through a narrow archway, almost scraping the sides of the carriage against the crumbling columns, and on into a narrow unpaved lane between high walls and lime trees—Nathan blinked at the rural setting so close to the heart of the city—and finally stopped in a cobbled courtyard. The footman opened the door and let down the steps and Nathan was confronted by stables and a coach house and what appeared to be a neo-Greek pavilion topped by a typical Paris attic with steeply sloping roof.