Another Small Kingdom (32 page)

Chapter Seventy-one

M
acleod and Marie presented a sharp contrast to their surroundings. They were tired and shabby, whereas the room to which they had been brought was alive with light, colour and decoration. They stood in front of an ornate, lapis-lazuli-topped desk. Behind the desk sat a man whose appearance was also at some variance with their surroundings. He was plainly dressed and somewhat nondescript. Nondescript that is, except for the intensity of his eyes.

They had arrived in Paris in the morning but had not been brought to Government offices as they had expected but to this private house. Even the cursory glance at the exterior told them that this was the house of an important man, a man of consequence and a man with undoubted power. Nonetheless, it was still a private residence.

The room in which they stood appeared to be a large study. Count Brutti stood behind them, silent, while the man behind the desk gazed at them.

Then the man reached out a hand and Count Brutti's voice came from behind Macleod.

‘M'sieur Fouché requests the Cardinal's letter.'

Macleod did not respond to the outstretched hand or Brutti's words.

The man at the desk put his hand down.

‘How disappointing. I had hoped for a little intelligence, that crude violence would not prove necessary.'

He was about to make a sign to Brutti but Marie interrupted.

‘Give it to him, Jean. If you do not he will only take it from you.'

Fouché gave her the smallest of smiles.

‘Thank you, Madame.' He once again held out his hand. ‘The letter, M'sieur.'

Macleod put his hand inside his coat and withdrew the envelope. He stepped to the desk and threw it down. Fouché took it up and examined the seal carefully before breaking it and opening the envelope. He took out and unfolded two sheets of paper which he read. Then he placed them face up side by side in front of him and stood up.

‘Allow me to properly introduce myself. M'sieur, Madame, I am Joseph Fouché, Duc d'Outrane and until recently Chief of Police to the French Republic.'

He waited.

Macleod felt Brutti's finger poked into his back.

‘I am Jean Marie Macleod of Boston and this is my wife, Marie.'

Brutti gave a harsh laugh but stopped as Fouché's eyes fell on him.

‘You may leave us, Count.'

‘But, Your Excellency …'

‘Yes, Count Brutti?'

‘Nothing, Your Excellency.'

Brutti went to the door of the study and left. Fouché came round from the desk and indicated a table on which there was a decanter with wine and three glasses.

‘Please, will you sit down? You have suffered a long and tedious journey under the most trying circumstances. But now you have arrived safe and well, so there is no longer any need for severity of any kind.'

Macleod and Marie looked at the wine and then at each other. Fouché smiled and walked to the table, poured himself a glass of the wine took a long drink, then put the glass down.

‘If the wine has been tampered with then we will all suffer the same consequences. Your luggage has been placed in a room in my house and all facilities will be available to you once we have spoken. But first some wine.' He poured two more glasses then re-filled his own. Macleod and Marie waited until he picked up his glass and once more took a drink. When he had done so they both drank, grateful for the taste of the wine. ‘Now, before I can play the host I fear I must play the interrogator. As I said, I no longer hold the position of Chief of Police so my enquiries are completely unofficial. If you choose not to answer any of my questions you are, of course, at complete liberty to do so.'

‘And are we at liberty to leave if we choose to do so?'

‘Ah, so very direct, M'sieur Macleod. No, I regret you are not at liberty to leave, but I assure you that is entirely for your own protection. Were I still to hold my office I could have let you go wherever you wished and offered you assurances of security during your stay in Paris. Without the force of my late office I have to tell you that were you to leave this house, your safety would be far from assured.'

Fouché waited for a moment. Macleod wasn't sure what to say, so it was Marie who asked the next question.

‘But if we chose to accept whatever risks to our safety Paris might hold, could we then leave?'

‘Most assuredly, Madame. You are not in any sense prisoners here.'

Macleod put down his glass and stood up.

‘Then, sir, we choose to leave.'

‘Wait, Jean. At least let us hear why Monsieur Fouché has brought us here.'

‘Bravo, Madame, beauty and sense combined, you are a lucky man, M'sieur Macleod.'

Macleod reluctantly sat down.

‘As you seem impatient to be free of my hospitality I will be as brief as I can. Do you know what is in the letter the Cardinal gave you?'

Macleod's response was immediate.

‘Yes.'

Marie's qualification was more gentle in delivery.

‘We know some of it.'

‘And that would be?'

‘The Cardinal told us the letter contained a list of names. You know the connection in which those men whose names are on that list stand to you and also to the Government of America. We have no knowledge as to what more may be in the letter.'

‘I see. I wish I could believe you.'

‘The seal was unbroken, you saw that for yourself and, as we were kidnapped almost as soon as we left the Cardinal, we had no way of tampering with it.'

‘Yes, Madame, I realise that. The seal was, as you say, unbroken. But I have no way of knowing whether the Cardinal had not already told you what the letter contained.'

‘He did not, M'sieur.'

‘Then of course I take your word, Madame.'

Macleod interrupted once more.

‘Why go on with this farce, Fouché? You're beaten.'

‘Farce, Monsieur? Beaten?'

‘If as you say you are no longer Chief of Police and the Cardinal is prepared to reveal the names of the plotters in America what hope is there for your plan now?'

‘Wait, Jean.'

‘Wait? What for?'

But Marie ignored his question. Her attention was on Fouché.

‘I think, M'sieur, you had already anticipated that the Cardinal's list of names would fall into someone's hands. I think you were waiting for it to happen.'

‘What?'

Fouché ignored Macleod, his attention was on Marie.

‘Madame, I salute you.'

‘Thank you, Monsieur Fouché, and I salute you on the success of your plan.'

‘Merci, Madame, from someone as perceptive as yourself such praise is most gratifying.'

Macleod forced himself back into the conversation.

‘Success, what success?'

But both ignored him.

‘What will happen to us now?'

‘That depends on how much you know, Madame.'

‘We know nothing, I assure you, nothing that is for certain. It is merely that we have made assumptions. We could, of course, be wrong.'

‘Made assumptions? Dammit, what assumptions have we made?'

‘Yes, Madame, I join with your husband. Please tell me your assumptions.'

‘We assume that it was never your intention to put Cardinal Henry on the throne of America.'

‘What!'

‘Please, Jean, let me finish.'

‘Yes, M'sieur Macleod, I beg of you, let Madame finish.'

Macleod lapsed into a reluctant and sullen silence.

‘The Cardinal is an old man and frail. Also I believe he is a good man. I think this because I know his people love him. What sort of king would he make and for how long?'

‘He claims the English throne, he claims that he is already a king.'

‘He honours his father's and brother's memory, no more.'

Macleod broke out of his silence.

‘But for God's sake, Marie, if Fouché never intended to put him on the throne, then what the hell was it all …'

‘Indeed, Madame, as M'sieur Macleod asks, if not the throne then what?'

‘To get the list of names written in the Cardinal's own hand and sealed with his seal, as for the rest …'

She paused.

‘Yes, Madame, as for the rest?'

‘Our assumption is that it is a short declaration by the Cardinal rejecting any arrangement whereby the throne of America would be offered to him and identifying the men in the list as those who had sponsored such an proposal.'

‘Bravo again, Madame.'

‘I see, M'sieur Fouché, that I am right.'

Fouché stood up.

‘Substantially. You differ from the actuality in details only.' He walked back to the desk and rang a small bell. ‘I truly regret, Madame, what it is that I am about to do.' The door opened and Count Brutti re-entered. ‘Take them to La Force. They are to be held as “Specials”, you understand, no charge, no records, no names. They are to communicate with no one, no one at all you understand? In secret. And no food or water until I give the order.'

‘At once, Excellency.' The Count went back to the door and gestured to someone outside. Two men entered. ‘Those two to La Force in a closed carriage under your guard. If I find they have spoken to anyone before they are confined you will both suffer for it.'

The two men marched across the room. One grabbed Macleod and one grabbed Marie. Macleod made a brief struggle.

‘Damn you, Fouché, you can't do this.'

‘Oh, but I can, M'sieur Macleod.' He turned to Count Brutti. ‘If either resists in any way, be sure to kill them both.'

Macleod ceased his struggle and they were taken away followed by Count Brutti.

Fouché returned to his desk and looked at the Cardinal's papers in front of him.

‘Well, Mr Trent, we have both played the game. Soon we will see which of us has won.'

Chapter Seventy-two

L
a Force was not a particularly horrific prison, not by Bastille standards. Situated in the Rue du Roi de Sicile, the building had originally been the home of the Duc de la Force. A few years before the Revolution it had been converted to a prison and, although it could not be said to be comfortable, La Force was provided with well-ventilated shower areas and, apart from some excesses during the early years of the Revolution, was not a place whose name instilled fear into people. However, in what had been the Duc's wine cellars there were a few cells where “Specials” were brought and lodged. Such inmates were never allowed any contact except with carefully selected guards. No sound ever emanated from these dark, damp cells into the main prison, and for that the more fortunate inmates were heartily grateful.

Macleod and Marie had arrived at La Force in daylight but no light penetrated their damp, dark cell. The floor was stone not relieved even by straw and there was no form of bedding. They could not see each other and neither spoke, for both shared the same thoughts, that from this place, if they ever left it, it would only be to be taken to a place of execution. Once the door had slammed shut they had found each other's hands and sat together in silence.

Neither had any idea how long they had been there, possibly a night and into the next day. But in such a place, how did one measure time?

Suddenly they heard the door of their cell open and the light of a lamp flooded into the dark stone chamber. A harsh voice behind the lamp gave a command.

‘Come.' Marie's grip on Macleod's hand tightened. The voice spoke again. ‘You heard, come out.' They stood up and Macleod spoke to the unseen figure behind the light.

‘Where are we being taken?'

‘Come, or I'll have you dragged out.'

In the lamplight Macleod saw Marie turn to look at him. He knew what she thought awaited them.

‘Marie, whatever happens remember that I love you.'

‘And I love you, Jean.'

And then, with as much nobility as they could, they emerged from the damp, filthy cell into the damp filthy stone passage.

Their gaoler led the way with the lamp and they followed. Marie slipped her hand into Macleod's and he pressed it as if to say, have courage.

They were led up a flight of wet stone steps, on through further dark stone passages until finally they emerged through a heavy door into what looked like a guard room. Two uniformed soldiers, each with a musket resting butt-end on the floor, stood and watched them as they entered. Their time spent in the total darkness of the cell made it difficult for Macleod or Marie to adjust to the well-lit room and, looking at what they both assumed to be their final escort, neither noticed the other man present until he spoke.

‘M'sieur Macleod, dear Madame, please accept my apologies. It has all been a most unfortunate mistake. Monsieur Fouché would not have wished this to happen for the world, I assure you.'

Macleod focussed his eyes and looked at Count Brutti blankly. Marie was the first to manage a question.

‘We are not going to be executed?'

‘But, my dear Madame, what could have put such a thought into your pretty head?'

He tried to give a light laugh which broke through Macleod's momentary confusion.

‘Because it was that swine Fouché who had us thrown into that stinking hole. That put the thought into our heads. That and his orders to kill us if we resisted.'

‘But, my dear Mr Macleod, he did not speak literally. It was merely a manner of speech.'

‘A manner of speech!'

‘Monsieur Fouché would be desolate if any harm befell either of you.'

‘Good God man, you'll be telling me next it was only his little joke. I've a good mind to take you by the neck and throttle the damn life out of you.'

The two soldiers had stood impassively throughout the exchange but Macleod's words and his menacing manner caused them to pick up their muskets and point them casually at him. Marie saw what they had done.

‘Jean, please, what has happened is past. What matters now is that we leave this place and try to leave it unharmed.' Macleod saw her look at the soldiers and became aware of the muskets. ‘We must go with this man and see what Monsieur Fouché intends to do with us.'

Count Brutti gratefully greeted his new ally.

‘Dear lady, how very sensible.' Brutti made a quick gesture to the soldiers one of whom opened a door. Brutti, still talking, led them out of the guard room into a well-lit corridor. ‘I assure you M Fouché regrets wholeheartedly what has happened. There is a carriage outside. You, Madame, will be taken to some ladies who will assist you in your toilette and provide you with suitable attire and anything else you require.' They passed through a large hall which had once been a grand reception area, where prisoners now stood or lounged about the walls. On the far side of the hall two soldiers stood on either side of a pair of heavy, ornate doors. Into one of these doors had been set a smaller, plain door. On seeing Brutti approach, one of the soldiers, who had been in conversation with an inmate, stepped to this door, unlocked it and pulled it open. Brutti led Marie and Macleod out. Standing in the street by the door was a closed carriage. Brutti pulled open the carriage door and offered his hand to Marie who took it and got in. Brutti stood to one side and smiling, gestured for Macleod to follow her. Once in the carriage and moving Brutti resumed his flow of conversation as if they were old friends sharing a pleasant ride. ‘If, once we have made arrangements for Madame, you would accompany me, M'sieur Macleod, you also will be provided with all attentions. Afterwards, Monsieur Fouché invites you to dine with him. There will be with him a friend of yours who wishes to meet you both again. Your friend will join you for the meal.'

‘A friend?'

‘Indeed, that was what I was told.'

‘What friend?'

‘Alas, no name was confided to me, but it is always pleasant to renew old acquaintances, is it not? You will be refreshed and restored, meet an old friend, and then you will dine well, I promise you.' He gave a small laugh. ‘So, all is well and we can put all this,' he waved a deprecatory hand at their stained and cell-scented clothing, ‘unfortunateness behind us.'