The Cornish Heiress (41 page)

Philip considered that in silence. It really was a very good
plan. The letter was, of course, on fine paper and folded small and in code.
Cadoudal need only thrust his hand into Meg’s muff for an instant, and that
action would be screened by the feet and other people in the café, so long as
he and Meg chose a table carefully. Surely Cadoudal must stop and talk to
innocent bystanders from time to time to cover his more purposeful
conversations. Meg was right. They were far better off being very open. That
business about giving Cadoudal their direction openly was a clever idea too. It
would certainly seem that they had nothing to hide.

“I suppose anyone Cadoudal talks to must be checked upon.
Yes, and we can make the whole even more innocent by staying right there. I had
thought of taking rooms at Epée de Bois on the rue de Venise, but it would be
more natural for a young sightseeing couple to stay in the Palais Royale
itself, and at this season of the year we may find accommodation there easily
enough.”

Philip was quite correct. Before dark, they were comfortably
situated in the Milles Colonnes. Philip had explained Meg’s problem to the
landlord and the servants while she smiled like an idiotic angel, dropped her
reticule, dropped her muff and bumped into a chair before he got her up to
their room. That night they were extra careful, Megaera speaking only in
whispers after they were in bed. About five o’clock in the morning she
transferred the letter from Philip’s boot to her blue bonnet by the light of
the night candle while Philip glued his boot together again and put it back
outside the door where the bootboy had left the pair after cleaning.

The next day passed without incident. Megaera and Philip
visited various sights around Paris and Megaera purchased several lengths of
silk at remarkably good prices. The vendors were touched by her disability and
sympathetic to Philip, who was obviously embarrassed by needing to bargain for
her. Somewhere along the way the bottle of glue Philip had used was “lost”. At
two o’clock they went to the Cafe Foy, where Philip explained again to a waiter
who was impatiently expecting Megaera to order. If he would name the dishes
slowly, she would sign what she wanted. They ate slowly. Then, since no one had
approached them by four o’clock and the sun was not quite set, they took a
brisk walk around the square before they returned to their own establishment.

The second day was much like the first, except that they ate
at the Café Carazza. Again Megaera’s condition was explained and the
complexities of sign language for ordering displayed. Megaera’s muff slid from
her lap twice while her hands were engaged in the signs, to be retrieved once
by Philip and again by a waiter, but the careful preparations were useless.
That night Megaera said to Philip just before they drifted off to sleep after
making love that their friend had better find them soon or people would begin
to notice how often she wore the blue bonnet.

The third day, to avoid that problem Megaera and Philip
dined at the Milles Colonnes. They were both dressed to go out after their
meal. Megaera wore a fetching green bonnet with pale green trim, and her muff
slid to the floor so often that Philip told her to put it on the chair next to
her. At three-thirty they were about ready to give up when a gentleman entered
the room and looked around for a moment before moving toward an empty table
near them. Philip reached for the wine and his foot hit his walking stick,
which had been prominently propped against the wall beside him, so that it
toppled to the floor with a crash. The gentleman naturally looked at the cause
of the noise—as did all the other diners—then at Philip who was retrieving the
stick.

“I beg your pardon, m’sieu,” he said quietly but not
secretively, “you have the very look of an old friend of mine, Monsieur Fidèle.
Is it possible that you are related?”

“If you mean Honoré Fidèle,” Philip replied, “I am his
nephew.”

“Indeed, dear Honoré… Then you must be—”

“His sister’s son, Philippe Saintaire, sir.”

“And I am Monsieur Georges.”

Philip got to his feet at once, exclaiming, “Monsieur
Georges! Of course! I have heard my uncle speak of you many times. Will you not
join us? This is my wife, Marguerite. Unfortunately she cannot speak, but…
Marguerite, my love, take your muff off the chair so that Monsieur Georges may
sit down.”

Megaera’s heart was beating like a hammer in her breast but
she moved her muff to her lap and smiled as naturally as she could. She
realized then that she had never really believed this would happen. It had been
like a story to her, exciting but unreal. Only it
was
real. She could
only thank God that her French was so bad Philip had decided on the “mute” role
for her. She knew she could never have controlled her voice. It would have
squeaked or been too loud or come out in gasps.

Concurrently with that knowledge, her admiration for Philip
rose. He was perfect, smooth and natural with a flow of small talk about his
imaginary uncle and family. Well as she knew him, she could see nothing in his
face other than simple pleasure. Now he was urging Monsieur Georges to order
dinner, but Cadoudal refused, saying he had eaten already and had come to have
coffee with a friend. Philip looked around and said that since the friend was
late, Monsieur Georges should do them the honor to have coffee with them. It
seemed to Megaera that Cadoudal was looking a trifle worried. They had better
give him his message before he became alarmed and ran away. She touched
Philip’s arm and made the agreed on signs.

As she rose Cadoudal did so also, but Philip seized his arm
and leaned a little closer as if to mention something “indelicate”. What he
said was, “Pick up my wife’s muff when she drops it. There will be a message
inside it.” As he spoke, however, he twisted his lips in a slight leer, like a
man who complains that his woman “always” has her flux or has a weak bladder.
It was clear to him that Cadoudal was in two minds at once. One part believed
he was in a trap, and the other told him it was too late to run and if there
was a message, he must have it.

Philip could only hope that Meg would be quick and that
Cadoudal would not lose his nerve. It was then, while he was quickly scanning
the room to see whether any new faces had appeared, that he saw Meg’s muff
still lying on her chair where she had put it automatically when she rose.
Philip’s heart sank. Cadoudal had also seen it, and he looked at Philip with a
mingling of hatred and despair that made Philip burst into a long, uninterruptible
description of his work as a Customs officer.

Plainly Cadoudal believed Meg had gone to warn the
authorities of his presence, and was only hesitating because he did not know
whether to try to take a run through the kitchens or whether that had been foreseen.
Just as Philip was sure Cadoudal was about to escape, Meg appeared at the door,
her cupped hand with a handkerchief in it at her mouth masking a cough.

Philip’s heart had not been the only one that sank when he
saw the muff had been forgotten. As she set her foot on the stairs to go to
their room, Megaera realized that in her excitement and nervousness she had
left the muff behind. For one instant she was paralyzed, half turning to go
back but knowing that it would be too suspicious-looking if she went to get a
muff and carried it upstairs. She would just have to conceal the message
somehow and put it in the muff when she came down.

At first, as she snipped the threads of her bonnet, her mind
was a terrified blank. Tears of fright came to her eyes, and she snatched a
handkerchief to dry them, knowing that she dared not show red eyes. She was
still clutching the handkerchief in her ring finger and little finger when she
drew the letter out. It came to her instantly how she could conceal it and
then, in a rush, that this was much better. Anyone who noticed her carrying the
muff would have realized that was an odd thing to do and wondered why she
should have taken it when she did not intend to go outside.

This happy accident restored Megaera’s confidence so that
when she came down she tripped happily across the room, picked up the muff so
she could sit on the chair, and thrust her handkerchief into it. Cadoudal, who
had started to say goodbye very firmly, abruptly changed to a compliment to
Megaera and a question about something Philip had said. Megaera poured herself
another cup of coffee and began to make signs to Philip. As she did so, her
muff slid to the floor as it had done a hundred times in the past few days.
Most politely, Cadoudal bent to pick it up. A few minutes later a new person
entered. Cadoudal rose at once, saying his friend had arrived and, no doubt, he
would see Philip again.

After the barest hesitation Philip said, “We are staying
right here at the Mille Colonnes, but only until tomorrow. My wife has
conceived a desire to see Versailles and insists, even though I have told her
there is little open to the public worth seeing. And do not smile. She can be
quite vehement, even in silence.”

“At least stay one day longer so that we can dine together.
I would like to give you a little present to take to your uncle.”

Philip glanced at Megaera, and she nodded and smiled, but he
was aware of a sudden stab of fear. It was not going to be so simple after all.
He had assumed that, knowing the situation, Cadoudal would have returned to
England already if he intended to return. Now he wondered whether the man had
remained because he had no way out. If so, Philip was committed to help him,
and that would be dangerous, very dangerous. What a fool he had been to bring
Meg along.

Then he hoped that Cadoudal might think that a return
message would be necessary. He should have guessed from what Philip said that
none was expected; however, Philip now realized that Cadoudal might have
something new to propose or some other message of his own that would take a
longer time to transmit. There was no doubt in his mind that this second
meeting would increase the danger of being associated with Cadoudal and,
therefore, of being caught, and as he agreed with Cadoudal’s proposal he began
to seek some scheme to ensure Meg’s safety.

That night a fierce argument raged in whispers. Philip
wanted Megaera to pretend to be ill and let him go to “dinner” with Cadoudal
alone. Megaera would not hear of it. She pointed out that she would inevitably
be caught, either as soon as they—whoever “they” were—realized she was not with
Philip or as soon as she tried to escape from Paris. In fact she would be in more
danger alone. If anyone tried to arrest them when they were together, she could
provide a diversion, which no one would expect from a mute woman, so that they
could escape or fight their way free. Alone, she would be helpless.

Philip argued that she would have no problem getting to
Dieppe. All she had to do was write her destination down. She had plenty of money,
and everyone would pity a poor mute girl. They certainly would, Megaera agreed,
and that muteness would mark her trail so successfully that she could be
followed no matter where she went. All that could be accomplished by her escape
would be to lead the police agents to Pierre. This was a sufficiently cogent argument,
added to Philip’s reluctance have Meg wandering around totally unprotected, to
silence him. He had some hope that they were unsuspected, too. He had been watching
the room carefully and he had not seen anyone enter except the man whom
Cadoudal claimed as a friend. Since they had left separately and Philip and
Megaera had not gone out at all, Philip had some hope that Cadoudal’s
followers, if there were any, would think he had come to meet that man and no
one else.

This hope showed Philip’s ignorance of the way an effective
police-spy network functioned. It was true that Cadoudal was discreetly followed
by Fouché’s men, but they had no need to do anything so crude as to trail their
subject into a room, making their purpose obvious. Long ago as far back as the
days of the Terror, Fouché had developed sources of information in many of the
cafés and hotels of Paris. When he became Minister of Police, the network was
elaborated until there was hardly a single poor wineshop that did not have an
employee who would pass information to Fouché’s agents.

Thus, some time after Cadoudal had left Mille Colonnes, a
waiter responded to a signal, served wine, and acknowledged credentials he
recognized. Later he met the man just outside, and acknowledged he had seen Cadoudal,
whom the agent described precisely. In response to several, perceptive questions
the waiter described the meeting between Cadoudal and Philip quite accurately,
and as much of the conversation as he had heard, which fortunately was very
little indeed. The agent however was not interested in the conversation, which he
knew would be perfectly innocent. Cadoudal made a practice of stopping to speak
to people who, after checking and rechecking, were found to be totally clear of
any disaffection.

What the agent wanted to know was whether Philip had passed
anything to Cadoudal or vice versa. This the waiter answered in the negative.
He was sure, he said, that Monsieur Saintaire had not touched the other man,
except once to lay his hand on his shoulder, nor given him anything. He did not
mention Megaera leaving the table nor the fact that her muff had fallen to the
floor and Cadoudal had picked it up. In fact, he had not seen that happen, but even
if he had, he would not have mentioned it. He picked up Madame Saintaire’s muff,
at least ten times. It was always slipping, and besides, of what interest could
a woman’s doings be to Monsieur Fouché?

The agent then listened to a description of the second man Cadoudal
had met without much interest. They knew all about him. The agent was not
terribly interested in Philip either. This seemed simply another case of
Cadoudal’s laying a false trail. However, men who worked for Monsieur Fouché did
not trust too much to their own judgments and left no stone unturned. He asked
whether the waiter knew anything at all about Philip besides his name.

“Yes, indeed, Monsieur Saintaire is staying here with his
wife—ah, poor woman, she is dumb.”

“Where are they now?”

“Above in their chamber.”

“They went out after my man had left?”

“No. They had intended to do so, I think, but it started to
rain again and they stayed within. They played cards together, laughing very
much. Ah, yes, before your man left he asked their direction.”

That, plus the change in plans might or might not be
suspicious, the agent thought. He confirmed that Philip and Megaera were expected
to stay, as far as the waiter knew, passed the agreed fee, and then decided to step
inside again to ask the landlord some questions. He wanted to be sure that the waiter
was right. If this couple suddenly decided to leave the next day, that would cast
a different light on the matter.

What he learned made Philip seem even less likely as a
suspect. A clerk in the
bureau de service
of the Customs with a
commendation for finding a cache of smuggled goods (Pierre’s forger had made
good use of the letter Philip had received from the director at Boulogne), a
young man obviously very much in love with his afflicted wife, did not seem, a
good prospect for a conspirator. Nonetheless he ordered the landlord to delay
them and to send a message to him if they tried to leave early in the morning.
Having taken what he felt were sufficient precautions, he troubled no more.

In any case, Saintaire was fixed for the night and could not
leave without notice. There was no emergency about communicating the
information. The morning, when he made his regular report on Cadoudal’s activities,
would do quite well. That next morning, however, Monsieur Fouché was very much occupied.
It was becoming more and more obvious that the First Consul would recall him to
office as Minister of Police, and he had many “unofficial” visits and
conferences with members of the Council of State. That morning the conference was
with Consul Cambacérès, the man most closely in sympathy with Bonaparte’s
desires and deepest in his confidence. Such a meeting could not be interrupted for
a routine report on Cadoudal’s activities, even if there were a minor
variation. Cadoudal had been in Paris for more than three months, and the landlord
had not reported any suspicious activity on the part of the Saintaires.

Only shortly before dinnertime did Fouché’s agent get to
give his report. The white face was expressionless, the frightening eyes masked
by the white lashes until the agent mentioned the name “Saintaire”. Joseph
Fouché was not a man to use obscenity, but he said
Merde
! with such
force that his agent recoiled. Before the agent could catch his breath to speak
again, Fouché had regained his poise and his voice was soft and pleasant when
he assured the agent he did not blame him.

“He is an English spy, this Saintaire, I am sure. I had word
of his coming from our agent in the British Foreign Office, but you say he is a
Customs officer with a young wife. Hmmmm. This is the second time I know of
that d’Ursine has led us astray—just a little astray, just enough so that, had
we not been especially watchful, we would have missed the man completely this
time also. I wonder…”

“Pardon,” the agent interrupted anxiously. “I left word to
be warned if Saintaire intended to leave Paris, but I did not put a man to
watch him. He could have met Cadoudal—“

“Calm, be calm. If he has, we will know of it through the
man watching Cadoudal. If he has, then we will seize them both immediately, but
they have gone to great lengths to make this meeting seem accidental. Thus they
should try to make their next meeting, if there is to be one, a natural thing.
I think they will meet for dinner—that would give the longest time for talk.
Send at once to the Milles Colonnes to learn of Saintaire’s activities.”

The agent ran out to do so and Fouché sat with steepled
fingers, thinking. When his man returned, he asked, “If they meet for dinner,
can you guess where?”

“Almost certainly at La Maison du Faucon. It is a nest of Royalists
where Cadoudal conducts most of his business. But it does not matter, I sent a
man to watch Saintaire and the one watching Cadoudal will send word if he goes out
or meets anyone. That is arranged.”

“Good. Three men should be enough. It must look as if the suspicion
is directed only at Saintaire and that the search of Cadoudal is a mere
formality because he was found in suspicious company. Saintaire is to be
questioned first—by any means necessary—and then killed.”

“What of the woman?”

“Kill her also, but not until the man has answered all
questions. We want to know what message he brought and, most important, which
Bourbon is coming and where he will land. If direct persuasion cannot convince
Saintaire to answer, try working on the woman where he can see and hear it.
There are many men who cannot endure that, particularly when it is their fault
that the woman is in difficulty. Even if they are not lovers, which they
probably are since they claim to be husband and wife rather than sister and
brother, he may give information when she is hurt more quickly than he would to
ease his own.”

“I suppose since she is mute we cannot get information from
her?”

“Why not? She may be able to write but I do not think it
worthwhile. She may be a blind, picked up on the way. D’Ursine would not go so
far as to fail to mention her if her presence had been planned in England. This
Saintaire may have known her from before. He may have spent considerable time
in France before we knew of him. You say he is a young man?”

“I did not see him myself, but there can be no doubt. The
woman is young, and if he were older the waiter would have remarked on it.”

“Yes. It must be the son. I met the father in 1792? Or 1793?
He was a ‘gunsmith’ using the name Saintaire—funny how those men cling to their
own name. I met him again 1802 and learned he was an English barrister, St.
Eyre by name. He said he had been trapped during the Revolution, but I think he
was always an English spy. He worked with a woman also. I think she was an
aristocrat. Later he married her. Yes, from your description it must be the
son. The looks are much the same, except the father’s eyes were blue.”

The agent sat silent, listening. It was not common for
Monsieur Fouché to say more than what was necessary. Therefore, he expected the
agent to use the information in some way, possibly during the questioning of
the prisoner. He rang a bell, a secretary entered, and was directed to bring
the file on d’Ursine. Fouché studied this for a time, and made a moue of distaste.

“It is time to make sure of d’Ursine. I am beginning to think
he may be a double agent. In any case he has near outlived his usefulness. The
administration is about to change in England. That means his employment with Hawkesbury
will not place him in a position to send information of value. Doubtless he will
use that as an excuse to come back to France.”

Fouché looked into the distance. The agent, who knew how his
mind worked—if any man knew how Fouché’s mind worked—believed he was
considering whether d’Ursine would be useful in France. False information could
be sent to England through him if he was really a trusted double agent. Fouché
did not voice those thoughts but summoned his secretary again. He instructed the
secretary to send a footman for François Charon, the spy who had brought d’Ursine’s
message to France first, and when that was done, to add a pass so that Charon
could use government horses to take him to the coast at top speed.

Then Fouché himself wrote to d’Ursine. The letter was cold and
brief. It stated that Philip Saintaire had been killed on d’Ursine’s recommendation
and that Fouché believed this to have been a grave error. “I feel,” Fouché wrote,
“that this was a most cruel and unnecessary waste of life. The young man was a
scion of an honorable English family, as you must have known. He should, even if
he were engaged in spying, have been taken prisoner and held for exchange.” In
the future, Fouché added, d’Ursine should transmit more accurate information, not
instructions that, owing to ignorance, were bound to be incorrect.

It would be interesting, Fouché thought as he signed and
sealed this missive, to see d’Ursine’s reaction to this criticism. If he were
sincerely with the French cause, he would redouble his efforts to redeem himself—and
that would be useful. If he were a double agent, he would be far more careful
about the information he sent. And if by some mischance the letter should fall
into the wrong hands it would clear Fouché of any suspicion of guilt in the
death of an Englishman whose father might possibly have friends in high places.
At the very worst, if d’Ursine should be clever enough to take fright, because
the letter was not in code and was signed and sealed by Fouché himself, it
would save the trouble of having him killed when he came back to France.

When everything was ready, Fouché handed the parcel to the
waiting agent. “François Charon is waiting in the antechamber. He is to be one
of the men who raids La Maison du Faucon—or wherever you trap Cadoudal and
Saintaire. If Cadoudal has given Saintaire a message to carry, lift the seal carefully,
make a copy for me, and let Charon take the original to England. He can report
the sad death of Saintaire and deliver Cadoudal’s message which will reassure
the English as to his reliability, and he can pass my letter privately to
d’Ursine.”

While Fouché was writing his letter, Philip and Megaera were
climbing the stairs to a private room in the Epée du Bois. That morning a
ragged boy had delivered a note for Philip, inviting him to dinner at the
Faucon. Since the boy had been instructed to wait for a reply, Philip had the opportunity
to write that there was some reason to believe the Faucon “no longer served the
kind of dinner we wished to eat”. Could they meet instead at the Epée du Bois
on the rue de Venise off the rue St. Martin? If so, no answer need be sent.