Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 36

CHAPTER XLV. THE CABINET OF A CHEF DE POLICE

Whatever opinion may be formed of the character of the celebrated conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru, the mode of its discovery, and the secret rules by which its plans were detected, are among the great triumphs of police skill. From the hour when the conspirators first met together in London, to that last fatal moment when they expired in the Temple, the agents of Fouché never ceased to track them.

Their individual tastes and ambitions were studied; their habits carefully investigated; everything that could give a clue to their turn of thought or mind well weighed; so that the Consular Government was not only in possession of all their names and rank, but knew thoroughly the exact amount of complicity attaching to each, and could distinguish between the reckless violence of Georges and the more tempered, but higher ambition of Moreau. It was a long while doubtful whether the great general would be implicated in the scheme. His habitual reserve – a habit less of caution than of constitutional delicacy – had led him to few intimacies, and nothing like even one close friendship; he moved little in society; he corresponded with none, save on the duties of the service. Fouché‘s well-known boast of, ‘Give me, two words of a man’s writing and I’ll hang him,’ were then scarcely applicable here.

To attack such a man unsuccessfully, to arraign him on a weak indictment, would have been ruin; and yet Bonaparte’s jealousy of his great rival pushed him even to this peril, rather than risk the growing popularity of his name with the army.

Fouché, and, it is said also, Talleyrand, did all they could to dissuade the First Consul from this attempt, but he was fixed and immutable in his resolve, and the Police Minister at once addressed himself to his task with all his accustomed cleverness.

High play was one of the great vices of the day. It was a time of wild and varied excitement, and men sought even in their dissipations, the whirlwind passions that stirred them in active life. Moreau, however, was no gambler; it was said that he never could succeed in learning a game. He, whose mind could comprehend the most complicated question of strategy, was obliged to confess himself conquered by écarté! So much for the vaunted intellectuality of the play-table! Neither was he addicted to wine. All his habits were temperate, even to the extent of unsociality.

A man who spoke little, and wrote less, who indulged in no dissipations, nor seemed to have taste for any, was a difficult subject to treat; and so Fouché found, as, day after day, his spies reported to him the utter failure of all their schemes to entrap him. Lajolais, the friend of Pichegru, and the man who betrayed him, was the chief instrument the Police Minister used to obtain secret information. Being well born, and possessed of singularly pleasing manners, he had the entrée of the best society of Paris, where his gay, easy humour made him a great favourite. Lajolais, however, could never penetrate into the quiet domesticity of Moreau’s life, nor make any greater inroad on his intimacy than a courteous salutation as they passed each other in the garden of the Luxembourg. At the humble restaurant where he dined each day for two francs, the ‘General,’ as he was distinctively called, never spoke to any one. Unobtrusive and quiet, he occupied a little table in a recess of the window, and arose the moment he finished his humble meal After this he was to be seen in the garden of the Luxembourg, with a cigar and a book, or sometimes without either, seated pensively under a tree for hours together.

If he had been conscious of the espionage established over all his actions, he could scarcely have adopted a more guarded or more tantalising policy. To the verbal communications of Pichegru and Armand Polignac, he returned vague replies; their letters he never answered at all; and Lajolais had to confess that, after two months of close pursuit, the game was as far from him as ever!

‘You have come to repeat the old song to me, Monsieur Lajolais,’ said Fouché one evening, as his wily subordinate entered the room; ‘you have nothing to tell me, eh?’

‘Very little, Monsieur le Ministre, but still something. I have at last found out where Moreau spends all his evenings. I told you that about half-past nine o’clock every night all lights were extinguished in his quarters, and, from the unbroken stillness, it was conjectured that he had retired to bed. Now it seems that about an hour later, he is accustomed to leave his house, and, crossing the Place de l’Odéon, to enter the little street called the “Allée du Caire,” where, in a small house next but one to the corner, resides a certain officer, en retraite– a Colonel Mahon of the Cuirassiers.’

‘A Royalist?’

‘This is suspected, but not known. His polities, however, are not in question here; the attraction is of a different order.’

‘Ha! I perceive; he has a wife or a daughter.’

‘Better still, a mistress. You may have heard of the famous Caroline de Stassart, that married a Dutchman named D’Aersohot.’

‘Madame Laure, as they called her.’ said Fouché, laughing.

‘The same. She has lived as Mahon’s wife for some years, and was as such introduced into society; in fact, there is no reason, seeing what society is in these days, that she should not participate in all its pleasures.’

‘No matter for that,’ broke in Fouché; ‘Bonaparte will not have it so. He wishes that matters should go back to the old footing, and wisely remarks, that it is only in savage life that people or vices go without clothing.’

‘Be it so, monsieur. In the present case no such step is necessary. I know her maid, and from her I have heard that her mistress is heartily tired of her protector. It was originally a sudden fancy, taken when she knew nothing of life – had neither seen anything, nor been herself seen. By the most wasteful habits she has dissipated all, or nearly all, her own large fortune, and involved Mahon heavily in debt; and they are thus reduced to a life of obscurity and poverty – the very things the least endurable to all her notions.’

‘Well, does she care for Moreau?’ asked Fouché quickly; for all stories to his ear only resolved themselves into some question of utility or gain.

‘No, but he does for her. About a year back she did take a liking to him. He was returning from his great German campaign, covered with honours and rich in fame; but as her imagination is captivated by splendour, while her heart remains perfectly cold and intact, Moreau’s simple, unpretending habits quickly effaced the memory of his hard-won glory, and now she is quite indifferent to him.’

‘And who is her idol now, for, of course, she has one?’ asked Fouché.

‘You would scarcely guess,’ said Lajolais. ‘Parbleu! I hope it is not myself,’ said Fouché, laughing.

‘No, Monsieur le Ministre, her admiration is not so well placed. The man who has captivated her present fancy is neither good-looking nor well-mannered; he is short and abrupt of speech, careless in dress, utterly indifferent to woman’s society, and almost rude to them.’

‘You have drawn the very picture of a man to be adored by them,’ said Fouché, with a dry laugh.

‘I suppose so,’ said the other, with a sigh; ‘or General Ney would not have made this conquest.’

‘Ah! it is Ney, then. And he, what of him?’

‘It is hard to say. As long as she lived in a grand house of the Rue St. Georges, where he could dine four days a week, and, in his dirty boots and unbrushed frock, mix with all the fashion and elegance of the capital; while he could stretch full length on a Persian ottoman, and brush the cinders from his cigar against a statuette by Canova, or a gold embroidered hanging; while in the midst of the most voluptuous decorations he alone could be dirty and uncared for, I really believe that he did care for her, at least, so far as ministering to his own enjoyments; but in a miserable lodging of the “Allée du Caire,” without equipage, lackeys, liveried footmen – ’

‘To be sure,’ interrupted Fouché, ‘one might as well pretend to be fascinated by the beauty of a landscape the day after it has been desolated by an earthquake. Ney is right! Well, now, Monsieur Lajolais, where does all this bring us to?’

‘Very near to the end of our journey, Monsieur le Ministre. Madame, or mademoiselle, is most anxious to regain her former position; she longs for all the luxurious splendour she used to live in. Let us but show her this rich reward, and she will be our own!’

‘In my trade, Monsieur Lajolais, generalities are worth nothing. Give me details; let me know how you would proceed.’

‘Easily enough, sir: Mahon must first of all be disposed of, and perhaps the best way will be to have him arrested for debt. This will not be difficult, for his bills are everywhere. Once in the Temple, she will never think more of him. It must then be her task to obtain the most complete influence over Moreau. She must affect the deepest interest in the Royalist cause – I’ll furnish her with all the watchwords of the party – and Moreau, who never trusts a man, will open all his confidence to a woman.’

‘Very good; go on!’ cried Fouché, gathering fresh interest as the plot began to reveal itself before him.

He hates writing; she will be his secretary, embodying all his thoughts and suggestions, and, now and then, for her own guidance, obtaining little scraps in his hand. If he be too cautious here, I will advise her to remove to Geneva for change of air; he likes Switzerland, and will follow her immediately.

‘This will do; at least it looks practicable,’ said Fouché thoughtfully. ‘Is she equal to the part you would assign her?’

‘Ay, sir, and to a higher one, too! She has considerable ability, and great ambition. Her present narrow fortune has irritated and disgusted her; the moment is most favourable for us.’

‘If she should play us false,’ said Fouché, half aloud.

‘From all I can learn, there is no risk of this; there is a headlong determination in her, when once she has conceived a plan, from which nothing turns her; overlooking all but her object, she will brave anything, do anything, to attain it.’

‘Bonaparte was right in what he said of Necker’s daughter,’ said Fouché musingly, ‘and there is no doubt it adds wonderfully to a woman’s head that she has no heart. And now, the price, Monsieur Lajolais? Remember that our treasury received some deadly wounds lately – what is to be the price?’

‘It may be a smart one; she is not likely to be a cheap purchase.’

‘In the event of success – I mean of such proof as may enable us to arrest Moreau, and commit him to prison – ’

He stopped as he got thus far, and paused for some seconds – ’ Bethink you, then, Lajolais,’ said he, ‘what a grand step this would be, and how terrible the consequences if undertaken on rash or insufficient grounds. Moreau’s popularity with the army is only second to one man’s! His unambitious character has made him many friends; he has few, very few, enemies.’

‘But you need not push matters to the last – an implied, but not a proven guilt, would be enough; and you can pardon him!’

‘Ay, Lajolais, but who would pardon us?’ cried Fouché, carried beyond all the bounds of his prudence by the thought of a danger so imminent. ‘Well, well, let us come back; the price – will that do?’ And taking up a pen he scratched some figures on a piece of paper.

Lajolais smiled dubiously, and added a unit to the left of the sum.

‘What! a hundred and fifty thousand francs!’ cried Fouché.

‘And a cheap bargain, too,’ said the other; ‘for, after all, it is only the price of a ticket in the lottery, of which the great prize is General Ney!’

‘You say truly,’ said the Minister; ‘be it so.’

‘Write your name there, then,’ said Lajolais, ‘beneath those figures; that will be warranty sufficient for my negotiation, and leave the rest to me.’

‘Nature evidently meant you for a chef de police, Master Lajolais.’

‘Or a cardinal, Monsieur le Ministre,’ said the other, as he folded up the paper – a little insignificant slip, scrawled over with a few figures and an almost illegible word, and yet pregnant with infamy to one, banishment to another, ruin and insanity to a third.

This sad record need not be carried further. It is far from a pleasant task to tell of baseness unredeemed by one trait of virtue – of treachery, unrepented even by regret. History records Moreau’s unhappy destiny; the pages of private memoir tell of Ney’s disastrous connection; our own humble reminiscences speak of poor Mahon’s fate, the least known of all, but the most sorrowful victim of a woman’s treachery!

CHAPTER XLVI. A GLANCE AT THE ‘PREFECTURE DE POLICE’

Poor Mahon’s melancholy story made a deep impression upon me, and I returned to Paris execrating the whole race of spies and mouchards, and despising, with a most hearty contempt, a Government compelled to use such agencies for its existence. It seemed to me so utterly impossible to escape the snares of a system so artfully interwoven, and so vain to rely on innocence as a protection, that I felt a kind of reckless hardihood as to whatever might betide me, and rode into the cour of the Préfecture with a bold indifference as to my fate that I have often wondered at since.

The horse on which I was mounted was immediately recognised as I entered; and the obsequious salutations that met me showed that I was regarded as one of the trusty followers of the Minister; and in this capacity was I ushered into a large waiting-room, where a considerable number of persons were assembled, whose air and appearance, now that necessity for disguise was over, unmistakably pronounced them to be spies of the police. Some, indeed, were occupied in taking off their false whiskers and moustaches; others were removing shades from their eyes; and one was carefully opening what had been the hump on his back in search of a paper he was anxious to discover.

I had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the very lowest order of mouchards, whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond the Faubourgs or the Batignolles, and indeed soon saw that my own appearance amongst them led to no little surprise and astonishment.

‘You are looking for Nicquard, monsieur?’ said one, ‘but he has not come yet.’

‘No; monsieur wants to see Boule-de-Fer,’ said another.

‘Here’s José can fetch him,’ cried a third.

‘He ‘ll have to carry him, then,’ growled out another, ‘for I saw him in the Morgue this morning!’ ‘What! dead?’ exclaimed several together.

‘As dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! He must have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a lace ruffle found in his fingers.’

‘Ah, voilà!, cried another, ‘that comes of mixing in high society.’

I did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away as the disputants were waxing warm. Instead of turning into the cour again, however, I passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a door of green cloth. Pushing open this, I found myself in a chamber, where a single clerk was writing at a table.

‘You’re late to-day, and he’s not in a good-humour,’ said he, scarcely looking up from his paper. ‘Go in!’

Resolving to see my adventure to the end, I asked no further questions, but passed on to the room beyond. A person who stood within the doorway withdrew as I entered, and I found myself standing face to face with the Marquis de Maurepas, or, to speak more properly, the Minister Fouché. He was standing at the fireplace as I came in, reading a newspaper, but no sooner had he caught sight of me than he laid it down, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, continued steadily staring at me.

‘Diable! exclaimed he, at last, ‘how came you here?’ ‘Nothing more naturally, sir, than from the wish to restore what you were so good as to lend me, and express my sincere gratitude for a most hospitable reception.’ ‘But who admitted you?’

‘I fancy your saddle-cloth was my introduction, sir, for it was speedily recognised. Gesler’s cap was never held in greater honour.’

‘You are a very courageous young gentleman, I must say – very courageous, indeed,’ said he, with a sardonic grin that was anything but encouraging.

‘The better chance that I may find favour with Monsieur de Fouché,’ replied I.

‘That remains to be seen, sir,’ said he, seating himself in his chair, and motioning me to a spot in front of it. ‘Who are you?’

‘A lieutenant of the Ninth Hussars, sir; by name Maurice Tiernay.’

‘I don’t care for that,’ said he impatiently; ‘what’s your occupation? – how do you live? – with whom do you associate?’

‘I have neither means nor associates. I have been liberated from the Temple but a few days back; and what is to be my future, and where, are facts of which I know as little as does Monsieur de Fouché of my past history.’

‘It would seem that every adventurer, every fellow destitute of home, family, fortune, and position, thinks that his natural refuge lies in this Ministry, and that I must be his guardian.’

‘I never thought so, sir.’

‘Then why are you here? What other than personal reasons procures me the honour of this visit?’

‘As Monsieur de Fouché will not believe in my sense of gratitude, perhaps he may put some faith in my curiosity, and excuse the natural anxiety I feel to know if Monsieur de Maurepas has really benefited by the pleasure of my society.’

‘Hardi, monsieur, bien hardi,’ said the minister, with a peculiar expression of irony about the mouth that made me almost shudder. He rang a little hand-bell as he spoke, and a servant made his appearance.

‘You have forgotten to leave me my snuff-box, Geoffroy,’ said he mildly to the valet, who at once left the room, and speedily returned with a magnificently chased gold box, on which the initials of the First Consul were embossed in diamonds.

‘Arrange those papers, and place those books on the shelves,’ said the Minister. And then turning to me, as if resuming a previous conversation, went on —

‘As to that memoir of which we were speaking t’ other night, monsieur, it would be exceedingly interesting just now; and I have no doubt that you will see the propriety of confiding to me what you already promised to Monsieur de Maurepas. – That will do, Geoffroy; leave us.’

The servant retired, and we were once more alone.

‘I possess no secrets, sir, worthy the notice of the Minister of Police,’ said I boldly.

‘Of that I may presume to be the better judge,’ said Fouché calmly. ‘But waiving this question, there is another of some importance. You have, partly by accident, partly by a boldness not devoid of peril, obtained some little insight into the habits and details of this Ministry; at least, you have seen enough to suspect more, and misrepresent what you cannot comprehend. Now, sir, there is an almost universal custom in all secret societies of making those who intrude surreptitiously within their limits to take every oath and pledge of that society, and to assume every responsibility that attaches to its voluntary members – ’

‘Excuse my interrupting you, sir; but my intrusion was purely involuntary; I was made the dupe of a police spy.’

‘Having ascertained which,’ resumed he coldly, ‘your wisest policy would have been to have kept the whole incident for yourself alone, and neither have uttered one syllable about it, nor ventured to come here, as you have done, to display what you fancy to be your power over the Minister of Police. You are a very young man, and the lesson may possibly be of service to you; and never forget that to attempt a contest of address with those whose habits have taught them every wile and subtlety of their fellow-men will always be a failure. This Ministry would be a sorry engine of government if men of your stamp could outwit it.’

I stood abashed and confused under a rebuke which at the same time I felt to be but half deserved.

‘Do you understand Spanish?’ asked he suddenly.

‘No, sir, not a word.’

‘I’m sorry for it; you should learn that language without loss of time. Leave your address with my secretary, and call here by Monday or Tuesday next.’

‘If I may presume so far, sir,’ said I, with a great effort to seem collected, ‘I would infer that your intention is to employ me in some capacity or other. It is, therefore, better I should say at once, I have neither the ability nor the desire for such occupation. I have always been a soldier. Whatever reverses of fortune I may meet with, I would wish still to continue in the same career. At all events, I could never become a – a – ’

‘Spy. Say the word out; its meaning conveys nothing offensive to my ears, young man. I may grieve over the corruption that requires such a system, but I do not confound the remedy with the disease.’

‘My sentiments are different, sir,’ said I resolutely, as I moved towards the door. ‘I have the honour to wish you a good-morning.’

‘Stay a moment, Tiernay,’ said he, looking for something amongst his papers; ‘there are, probably, situations where all your scruples could find accommodation, and even be serviceable, too.’

‘I would rather not place them in peril, Monsieur le Ministre.’

‘There are people in this city of Paris who would not despise my protection, young man – some of them to the full as well supplied with the gifts of fortune as Monsieur Tiernay.’

‘And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it!’ said I sarcastically; for every moment now rendered me more courageous.

‘And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it,’ repeated he after me, with a wave of the hand in token of adieu.

I bowed respectfully, and was retiring, when he called out in a low and gentle voice —

‘Before you go, Monsieur de Tiernay, I will thank you to restore my snuff-box.’

‘Your snuff-box, sir?’ cried I indignantly; ‘what do I know of it?’

‘In a moment of inadvertence, you may, probably, have placed it in your pocket,’ said he, smiling; ‘do me the favour to search there.’

‘This is unnecessary insult, sir,’ said I fiercely; ‘and you forget that I am a French officer!’

‘It is of more consequence that you should remember it,’ said he calmly. ‘And now, sir, do as I have told you.’

‘It is well, sir, that this scene has no witness,’ said I, boiling over with passion, ‘or, by Heaven, all the dignity of your station should not save you.’

‘Your observation is most just,’ said he, with the same coolness. ‘It is as well that we are quite alone; and for this reason I beg to repeat my request. If you persist in a refusal, and force me to ring that bell – ’

‘You would not dare to offer me such an indignity,’ said I, trembling with rage.

‘You leave me no alternative, sir,’ said he, rising, and taking the hell in his hand. ‘My honour is also engaged in this question. I have preferred a charge – ’

‘You have,’ cried I, interrupting, ‘and for whose falsehood I am resolved to hold you responsible.’

‘To prove which you must show your innocence.’

‘There, then – there are my pockets; here are the few things I possess. This is my pocket-book – my purse. Oh, heavens, what is this?’ cried I, as I drew forth the gold box, along with the other contents of my pocket; and then staggering back, I fell, overwhelmed with shame and sickness, against the wall. For some seconds I neither saw nor heard anything; a vague sense of ineffable disgrace – of some ignominy that made life a misery, was over me, and I closed my eyes with the wish never to open them more.’

‘The box has a peculiar value in my eyes, sir,’ said he – ‘it was a present from the First Consul – otherwise I might have hesitated – ’

‘Oh, sir, you cannot, you dare not, suppose me guilty of a theft. You seem bent on being my ruin; but, for mercy’s sake, let your hatred of me take some other shape than this. Involve me in what snares, what conspiracies you will, give me what share you please in any guilt, but spare me the degradation of such a shame!’

He seemed to enjoy the torments I was suffering, and actually revel in the contemplation of my misery; for he never spoke a word, but continued steadily to stare me in the face.

‘Sit down here, monsieur,’ said he, at length, while he pointed to a chair near him; ‘I wish to say a few words to you, in all seriousness, and in good faith also.’

I seated myself, and he went on.

‘The events of the last two days must have made such an impression on your mind that even the most remarkable incidents of your life could not compete with. You fancied yourself a great discoverer, and that, by the happy conjuncture of intelligence and accident, you had actually fathomed the depths of that wonderful system of police, which, more powerful than armies or councils, is the real government of France! I will not stop now to convince you that you have not wandered out of the very shallowest channels of this system. It is enough that you have been admitted to an audience with me, to suggest an opposite conviction, and give to your recital, when you repeat the tale, a species of importance. Now, sir, my counsel to you is, never to repeat it; and for this reason: nobody possessed of common powers of judgment will ever believe you! not one, sir! No one would ever believe that Monsieur Fouché had made so grave a mistake, no more than he would believe that a man of good name and birth, a French officer, could have stolen a snuff-box. You see, Monsieur de Tiernay, that I acquit you of this shameful act. Imitate my generosity, sir, and forget all that you have witnessed since Tuesday last. I have given you good advice, sir; if I find that you profit by it, we may see more of each other.’

Scarcely appreciating the force of his parable, and thinking of nothing save the vindication of my honour, I muttered a few unmeaning words, and withdrew, glad to escape a presence which had assumed, to my terrified senses, all the diabolical subtlety of Satanic influence. Trusting that no future accident of my life should ever bring me within such precincts, I hurried from the place as though it were contaminated and plague-stricken.