The Price of Glory (27 page)

“I am only surprised the Sûreté takes such an active interest in a few American expatriates,” Nathan remarked dryly, “given the friendship between your two countries.”

“Oh, the French could never entirely trust a man who speaks English as his native tongue,” Bennett declared with his easy grin. “And can you blame them? But after my initial reports, which reached a level of banality that, I pride myself, has never been surpassed in the secret world of intelligence, their interest diminished somewhat. I was required to broaden my studies. I was to use my position in fashionable society—for my natural charisma, aided by my lavish spending of the Committee's funds, had given me a certain standing therein—to become an agent provocateur, eliciting the Royalist inclinations of my fellow Sybarites and encouraging their indiscretions. In short, to add to the Committee's knowledge on the likelihood of a Royalist insurrection in the capital.”

Nathan's interest increased. “And is there a possibility of that?”

“Oh yes,” replied the American with apparent satisfaction. “Oh indeed yes. And it may happen a great deal sooner than my employers seem to think.”

“With any prospect of success?”

“A very good prospect, I would venture. There are a great many Royalist agitators active in the city. Foreign, too. The Austrians, of course, the Venetians and other Italian states who have an interest in knowing which way the wind is blowing. And, I am sure it will surprise you, the British.” He regarded Nathan with his easy, if irritating, smile.

“It does not surprise me in the least,” replied Nathan evenly. “Though I do not have your advantages. But what have they achieved?”

Bennett looked at him. “How long have you been in Paris?”

“A few days.”

“And have you not sensed the anger in the streets?”

Nathan could not say that he had.

“Believe me, you will—and very soon, if I'm not much mistaken. When Barras and his gang got rid of Robespierre they promised the people a new Convention. Only now it turns out the people don't get to choose who is in it. Barras does. He and his toadies. Two thirds of them are to be ‘nominated' from among the members of the old Convention.”

“So what do you think will happen?”

Bennett looked up at the sky as they continued their promenade along the terrace. “I guess that depends on the weather.” He cocked an eye on Nathan. “And the British.”

“What can the British do—in Paris?”

“Nothing in Paris. But a new push in Brittany at the right time—and if the weather stays like this … It could be a real Indian summer.”

Nathan looked at him, startled, recalling his conversation with Ouvrard.

“I gather from this that your own loyalties are unaltered,” he proposed, with a hint of irony. In truth, he had never been sure where Bennett's loyalties lay, one way or another. They were certainly not with the British Navy.

“I am an agent provocateur,” replied Bennett dryly. “This is how I operate.”

Nathan paused at an empty table with an abandoned chess set, the King in checkmate to a knight and two rooks and the board surrounded by fallen pieces. “My life is in your hands,” he said. “As I suppose you must know.”

“Oh I do,” Bennett assured him. “My masters require constant feeding with information and you would be a dainty dish indeed to set before a commissioner of the
Sûreté.
I find myself in something of a dilemma.”

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.”

N
ATHAN
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 cap 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.”