Napoleon's Police

by Michele McGrath

  “Come on,” my rescuer said, “let's get away from here.”

  I looked around the scene and realised what he meant. Two bodies lay still and my sword stick dripped with blood. We needed to leave before anybody arrived to ask us awkward questions. I was the victim, not the attacker, but I was a stranger here. Mistakes are often made in such circumstances. I did not want to spend my first night in Paris locked up in one of its gaols. We hurried away, stumbling down the alley towards the river. When we gained the riverbank, I stopped and turned to my rescuer.

  “Thank you, friend. You saved me - my purse certainly and probably my life.”

  His eyes gleamed in the flickering light of a nearby lantern. “You’re wondering why I bothered to help you, since we are strangers to each other.”

  I laughed, for he had read my thoughts accurately enough. “Why did you?”

  “I didn’t like the odds and one of those men is no friend of mine. About time someone tackled him; he needed a lesson. You’d have given him one too, if he'd been alone, but he always makes sure he's with his cronies.” He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Jean Lefebvre.”

  “Duval, Alain Duval.” We shook hands. “I should know better than to go down a side street like that.”

  “Lucky I spotted you. They wouldn’t have left you alive, in case you could identify them.”

  “I’ve little enough to repay you...”

  He shook his head, stopping me. “Buy me a bottle of wine and we’re even. As I said, Bouchier had it coming.”

  My heart gradually stopped thumping and my breathing eased. My leg, forgotten in the heat of battle, began to throb again and made me limp more than I usually do. Lefebvre glanced at it.

  “An old wound," I explained to him. “I strained it in the fight.”

  “I thought you must be a soldier. You handle yourself well and don’t know when you’re beaten. There’s a drinking shop up ahead. You’d better rest for a while if you want to use that leg tomorrow.”

  The tavern was big and set back behind some railings. Once it might have been a coach house, for it had wide doors. The place seemed to be popular. People were coming and going and I heard singing inside. We pushed our way into the tap room. The din increased as soon as the door opened. The room's rough walls had been stained brown from all the smoke and the place reeked of cheap tobacco.

  We went up to the counter where the innkeeper was pouring some thin red wine into clay beakers. He shot me a suspicious look when he realised I was unknown to him, but obviously Lefebvre wasn't. He greeted him with a frown.

  “Wine?” he asked us gruffly.

  “Your best,” I answered and tossed several coins onto the stained surface. I could ill afford them, but, except for Lefebvre’s help, they would have been in Bouchier’s pocket, not mine.

  The innkeeper muttered something under his breath. He pulled down another jug from the shelf behind him and pushed it towards us. “Easy to see you’re not buying, Jean,” he commented to my companion.

  “You’ve had enough of my money, at the prices you charge me,” Lefebvre retorted and turned away before the man responded. We sat down at one of the trestle tables.

  “Been in Paris long?” Lefebvre asked me, after we toasted each other and the successful outcome of the fight.

  “Just arrived.”

  “Thought so. No one here uses side streets alone in the dusk. A fine welcome to the city for you.”

  “At least I survived, thanks to you. I’d forgotten I wasn’t in uniform any more or in a garrison town full of soldiers. Stupid of me; I’ll remember better in future. Your good health!” I raised my beaker to him again and he nodded.

  “Stay among the crowds and keep your purse well hidden. Do that and you’ll manage well enough. You staying here or passing through?”

  “Staying here, if I can find any work. I’m finished with the army.”

  “Got somewhere to sleep?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can stay here if you want to. I sometimes do myself, when the wine gets to me. This is about as good as you’ll find tonight. Ho, Louis!” He waved to the innkeeper, who pushed his way over to us, although I sensed his reluctance.

  “Another jug.”

  “Haven’t you had enough yet, Jean?” he asked.

  “Not when I’ve found a new friend with money,” Lefebvre said. “This is Bourienne, Duval.” He introduced us. “Bring us another bottle and a better one than this swill, if you please.”

  The man snorted. “Go away and take your friend with you. Some of us do a hard day's work and you’re keeping me from my bed.”

  “You’ll get your hands on your latest whore soon enough, you lecher. Now do as you’re asked or I’ll tell her a thing or two she won’t like.”

  Unexpectedly Bourienne laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Jean. All talk and piss. Tell her whatever you want. She won’t believe anything you say; she’s got more sense.”

  “Bring the bottle anyway. This lot aren't going to leave for another hour or so and we’ll be gone by then.” Lefebvre pointed over his shoulder. The rest of the tavern’s clients had the look of hardened drinkers, in no hurry to go home.

  “Let’s see your money.” I pulled out a few more coins and Bourienne took them from me with a grumble.

  “My friend also needs a bed for the night.” Lefebvre stopped him.

  Bourienne glanced at me speculatively. “He can stay tonight, but I’ll be full up tomorrow, when the traders come in from the country.”

  “Tonight will be fine.”

  “Treat him well. I’ll hear if you don’t.” Lefebvre said the words with a certain emphasis which I did not understand.

  The landlord did, though, for he answered, “Don’t threaten me, Jean. I treat all my customers well, as you ought to know. You stay here often enough.”

  Bourienne brought us the wine which was, indeed, far better than what we’d been drinking before. In fact it fogged my mind, so I had to watch my words, in case I blurted out too much. I liked Lefebvre, but I knew very little about him, except he had done me a good turn and proved interesting company.

  I felt pleased to find a room, any room, without a further search. I was weary but I could not, in decency, go to bed yet. The jug was over half full and I still have some rags of manners left. So I sat chatting with Lefebvre until we finished the wine.

  I found out that he had been born in Paris and never left the place. He’d lived through all the upheavals of the Revolution and told me some strange tales of those times. I’d only read about it in newspapers and pamphlets before. You rarely meet anyone who’s been there and seen with his own eyes what happened. Lefebvre did not give me his opinion of all the changes and I did not ask him. Such talk can still be dangerous, even now. Another thing I did not find out was his trade. I thought about it later and wondered. He obviously made a reasonable living. His coat was well cut and his linen neat, though it had been disarranged and muddied in the fight. He would easily pass for a clerk or a merchant; although I was sure he did not come from that background. I’d known enough merchants and clerks back in Grenoble and Lefebvre spoke like a working man. When I accidentally discovered his true profession some months later, I was stunned.

  I judged Lefebvre’s age to be twenty-two or three, a few years older than me. We looked different too. I am of medium height with black hair and eyes, a legacy from my grandmother, who came from Modena. He is small and fair, the type of person who would pass unnoticed in a crowd. Having seen him fight, though, I knew his size bore no relation to his strength.

  I enjoyed Lefebvre’s stories and he seemed to enjoy mine. I told him about life in the army. He was interested in the countries I’d been to: Italy and Germany mostly and once into part of Switzerland. He drew me out with skill and I found myself relating some of my more amusing adventures. Telling them to a stranger was an unexpected pleasure. My former colleagues had either lived through them with me or listened to my stories too many t
imes before. Lefebvre asked shrewd questions and laughed in the right places. For a while, I lost myself in my memories. My first evening in Paris passed far more pleasantly than I expected.

  When the second jug went the way of the first, I began to stutter, as my tiredness and pain increased. Lefebvre realised it, for he rose and bade me good night. I repeated my thanks to him, both for the rescue and for his company. I was sorry to part from him, for he was my only acquaintance in Paris.

  He must have enjoyed the evening too, because he said, “We’ll meet again and I’ll buy the drinks next time. Bourienne can always tell you where I am.” We shook hands and parted. Neither of us realised then just how much our lives would be twisted together in the future. Perhaps it was as well.

  After he left, I climbed the creaking stairs and went straight to my room. I fell down on the moderately clean bed, without bothering to undress. I had just enough sense to hide my purse and keep my swordstick close beside me. I hadn’t eaten enough to soak up all the alcohol. I have never been a hard drinker, unlike some of my men. Tonight the wine made me sleep like the dead, completely without dreams. Paris and my uncertain future were both forgotten in oblivion.

  Chapter 2

  Next morning I felt stiff from the gruelling journey and the after-effects of the fight. My shoulder and leg ached abominably. I did a few brisk exercises and some of the stiffness went away. I had woken early and decided to get the worst task over with first. The innkeeper, Bourienne, served me bread and something that passed as coffee for my breakfast. God knows what the muddy liquid really was. I’ve drunk worse and, indeed, I hardly tasted anything. I ate quickly, with little appetite.

  When I asked Bourienne for directions to the Ministry of Police, he looked at me oddly. It was as if I had brought something dangerous and dirty into his house.

  “What do you want to go there for, Citizen?” he asked with speculation in his voice.

  “Why should I not?” I tried to be nonchalant, ignoring his curiosity.

  “Not everyone who goes into that place gets out again, so they say. I wouldn’t know myself, of course, although I bet Lefebvre does.” He cocked his eyebrow at me but I didn’t respond. At this moment I only wanted certain information and to arouse as little curiosity as possible.

  “Someone gave me a message to deliver to one of the men who work there,” I said, feigning indifference. “I don’t suppose it's important, but he paid me well. I’d like to get rid of the thing before I lose it.”

  Bourienne shrugged. “Rather you than me,” he said. “That place makes me shudder!”

  He told me which way to go and I had a pleasant walk along the river, feeling far more cheerful than the day before. The weather helped too, for the wind had dropped and the sun shone. The city was a pleasing sight in the sunshine, at least until I reached my destination.

  The Ministry of Police is a gloomy building, full of echoes and people waiting around looking apprehensive. I was shown into a large room, once I had handed my letter to one of the officials at the door. The people who were already there seemed a strange lot. Judging by the way they dressed, they came from every section of society - workmen, tramps and gentlemen, all mixed up together. One or two women sat retired in a corner, away from the rest of us.

  Nobody spoke. The gathering was uncannily quiet. Most people seemed to be ignoring the others in the room. I propped myself against one of the walls and waited. The silence screamed at me. I began to wish for some sound, any sound. Then a small hiss made me flinch. Someone had dared to whisper to his companion. I wanted to shout aloud, or even speak in a normal voice, but I didn't. I had a strange idea the pack would fall on me if I did.

  From time to time, a messenger came in and called out a name. Someone would walk forward and follow him out of the room. None of these people ever returned, lending some credence to the innkeeper’s warning, as I thought with a smile. The building undoubtedly had several exits, so no one needed to return the same way. That is how the rumours must have started, as these things often do. Long intervals passed between each of the messenger's visits and I became remarkably bored. When I could stand the boredom and the silence no longer, I turned to the man beside me.

  “Is it always like this, Citizen?” I whispered to him.

  He started and whispered back, “I wouldn’t know. This is the first time I have been here myself.”

  “Me too.”

  My attempt at conversation must have worried him, for he edged away from me and turned his back. So I didn’t try to talk to anyone else, as the long minutes merged into hours. I was both hungry and tired by now. Some of the other people had brought food and drink to sustain them. I had no idea how much longer I would have to remain. The crowd in the room did not seem to be getting any smaller. For every person who left, one or two entered. I kept glancing at my pocket-watch. The time was already well after noon. I had been here for over five hours. I decided to stay for one more hour. If nothing happened, I would get my letter back and come again on another day, when fewer people might be before me. I would also bring food and drink. The hands of my watch had almost reached the hour when the messenger returned once more.

  “Citizen Duval!” he called out. I jumped, because, by now, I didn't expect to hear my name at all. I hurried forwards in case I missed my chance.

  “I’m Duval,” I told him.

  “Follow me, Citizen.”

  He led me along several corridors and up a broad flight of stairs. On this floor, the furnishings became finer, although they had not always been handled with care. Some of the wood was marked and cracked. A pity, for the pieces had once been elegant.

  “In here,” the messenger said and scratched on a panelled door.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door. “This is Duval, Citizen Réal.” He stood aside for me to enter. A burly official sat at a desk, in what appeared to be an antechamber to another room. A set of wide, carved doors shut off the entrance. The man seemed to be a private secretary, the gate-keeper to someone more important.

  “Be seated, Citizen Duval, if you please,” he said, pointing to a spindly chair. “The Minister will be finished in a few minutes and he will see you then.”

  His eyes assessed me. They seemed to sum me up and find me wanting. Then they dropped and he went back to reading his papers. I sat down and waited, trying to compose myself and think of what I must say. I hadn’t expected to meet the Minister himself, only one of his assistants. It was rather a shock to realise I would soon confront the man I had heard so much about. I wondered what he would be like and how long ‘shortly’ meant. I wanted to get the interview over. As it happened, it wasn’t long before one of the carved doors opened and a man emerged, shutting it carefully behind him. He glanced at me as he passed. A few minutes later, Réal stood up and opened the door.

  “Duval is here, Citizen Minister,” he said.

  “Let him come in.”

  My heart pounded as I rose from my chair. I expected some sort of ogre out of a fairytale. The reality was very different. At first sight, Fouché seemed ordinary enough, a man of medium height and slight build. He sat behind an elegant table heaped with papers. His greying hair had been tied back from his hard lined face. He wore a black cravat and a simple black coat. Only his eyes, keen, dark and penetrating, betrayed the man inside. He still held the Colonel’s letter, as if he had just finished reading it.

  He put it down on the desk and said, “Sit down, Citizen.” He waved me towards a chair and I almost fell onto the seat because my legs had started shaking.

  “My cousin writes requesting me to receive you. How can I be of help?” His voice was quiet and gentlemanly. He sounded more like the teacher of mathematics he had once been, rather than the fiery Jacobin orator who was responsible for so many deaths.

  “I need employment, Citizen Minister. I’ve had to leave the army.”

  “Yes, a most unfortunate accident. What is the state of your injury now?”

  “I
can still ride and walk, but I cannot cover long distances at speed.”

  “Your record is excellent. You had no thought of leaving the army until this happened to you?”

  I’d expected him to ask this question and prepared a truthful answer. Fouché would undoubtedly recognise a lie. So I said simply, “No. I intended to stay and I hoped, one day, to rise up the ranks, as others have done before me.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “You are young to be a confidential messenger. A pity your career has been cut short. France needs her good soldiers. My cousin, although he, too, is a fine soldier, does not understand the work we do here. In what way do you imagine you might be useful to me?” His tone became sharp and I tensed as I struggled to find the words I needed to convince him.

  “Before I joined the army, I was apprenticed to my father, who is a locksmith in Grenoble. I became privy to many secrets and I was taught where people hide important things. I used to help the Colonel with his administration and accounts.” I remembered the old man in the coach and continued more confidently. “I can write a fair hand and figure accurately. I know how to use logic to assess a situation. I often scouted ahead of our regiment and had to decide whether or not an ambush was waiting for us.” I smiled. “The Colonel thought those skills might be useful to you.”

  “They are. There is a large amount of paperwork to be done.” He waved his hand over the piles lying on his desk. “We also employ locksmiths here, although another with such skills could be valuable. Logic, especially the kind that keeps a person alive, never comes amiss. Yet many former soldiers apply to me, including some who share your abilities. Why should I employ you in particular?”