The Cornish Heiress (42 page)

Although Philip was totally unaware that he was already
suspect, he and Megaera went to the meeting armed and ready for trouble. Philip
was very much afraid that this second meeting would mark them and that an
attempt would be made to arrest them after they left Cadoudal or when they
returned to their hotel. He was not even sure they should return to the hotel
at all. Their baggage was still there, but that did not matter. They were warmly
dressed and had all their money and their papers with them.

Cadoudal had changed overnight. He was gray with fatigue and
grief and seized Philip’s hand, apologizing for asking him to come. He looked,
with haunted eyes at Megaera. “Why did you bring her?” he whispered as if her
muteness rendered her hard of hearing also.

“Because I would not stay behind,” she replied softly in English,
smiling at him. I’m ‘mute’ because I speak little French. Don’t worry about me.
I’mwell able to take care of myself.”

“Ah, the gallant English ladies,” Cadoudal said. His expression
lightened for a moment, although he did not really approve of such boldness in
a female. This minor matter could not hold his mind, and he went grim again as
he looked back at Philip. “I had to ask you to make this sacrifice because, although
one hope is dead, another has risen in its place. We were fooled about the attitude
of the people toward Bonaparte, but their satisfaction is not shared by many of
his own high officials. They see now that he will not be content to rule within
a constitution. He seeks to make himself even more absolute than the king.”

Philip merely nodded. This was scarcely a surprise to him.

“Then we still have hope,” Cadoudal continued earnestly. “If
we can bring strong Republican leaders like General Moreau and Monsieur Carnot
to listen to us, we can have a king, like yours, who is not above the law. I
think the Republicans will prefer a constitutional monarch to a tyrannical
emperor, and we who desire a king of the legitimate line will be glad that a foolish
one will not be able to commit the follies and extravagances of the past.”

“Very true,” Philip remarked, “but I do not believe Bonaparte
will step down just for the asking.”

Cadoudal’s face set like stone. “He must die, of course.
That is not your part nor the part of your government. We French must deal in
our own way with a tyrant and usurper.”

Megaera’s lips parted, but she swallowed and held her
tongue. She saw from Philip’s frown that he, too, was not at ease with what could
only be an intention of assassinating the First Consul, Cadoudal had said it was
a matter for the French to deal with themselves, and there was a certain
justice in that.

All Philip said was, “Then what is my part?”

“To obtain the agreement of General Moreau is essential. He
is an honorable man, a strict Republican and regards me as an enemy, knowing
that I desire above all the restoration of the true king. Thus there is no way
for me to approach him. However, General Pichegru, who is now in England,
having fled after Bonaparte’s coup d’etat in Fructidor, is an old and dear
friend of Moreau’s. I am sure Moreau would listen to him. It is our last hope.
It is also England’s best hope for preventing a long bloodbath. This is why I asked
you to come, even after I learned that de la Touche is probably a traitor and
I—all unwitting—have probably marked all my friends for death.”

He covered his face after these words, but recovered in a
moment and continued, “I have written to Pichegru, to Lord Hawkesbury, and to
the Comte d’Artois. Will you carry these letters for me?”

“Yes, of course,” Philip replied at once, “but is it safe
for you to remain here? I have a friend who will give you passage back—”

“I will disappear,” Cadoudal interrupted. “I can. Whoever
follows me is clever Even though I knew today there must be someone, I could
see no sign—but I have made it easy for them in the past. Now that I know better—we
know better—we will all disappear tomorrow, after you are gone. Until then we
will act just as usual. I will go to the Palais Royale, a friend will meet me
there—all as usual. I hope this will be of some help to you.”

“Do not sacrifice your safety for ours,” Philip urged. “Meg
and I are prepared to go now. We will need only an hour or two to leave Paris. After
that—”

“No, no.” Cadoudal found a smile. “You are very generous, but
if I am bait, I am in no immediate danger. Only tell me if there is something
you can think of that will be of more help to you than my simply acting as I
have all along.”

The agent who “shadowed” Cadoudal had seen the boy who
carried the note to Philip go and return, but he had been instructed never to
give Cadoudal any reason to suspect he was watched. Thus the best he could do when
Cadoudal set out for the Epée du Bois was to follow and send a message telling
the new destination back to their informer where Cadoudal lived. He did not
hurry to do this, delaying until he was sure Cadoudal intended to stay at the
Epée. Often his subject moved from place to place meeting different people
before he settled on a spot to dine.

Thus Philip and Cadoudal were almost finished with their
discussion when the messenger arrived at the end of the street in which
Cadoudal lodged. From the corner house, with a glass, it was possible to see
without ever being seen oneself. The landlord of that house who also was in
Fouché’s pay, gestured the messenger upstairs and signaled that he had better
hurry. He found Charon and the other higher level agent waiting with impatience.
They rushed out the moment they knew where to go. It had been clear to both of
them that their master would not be pleased if their quarry should escape.
After a hurried conference to pass on Fouché’s instructions, which were simple enough,
Charon walked into the Epée du Bois and requested a private parlor to entertain
two friends who would arrive in a few minutes. They had already dined, he said,
and chose several bottles of wine, which the landlord carried upstairs with
him, since Charon said he did not wish to be interrupted by waiters. The three
other agents entered as they started up. Two followed Charon and the landlord, the
other went into the bar. At the door of the room Charon took the tray, the
agent opened the door, and the three pretended to enter while watching the landlord
descend the stairs again.

None of the agents had spoken, and the landlord had got out
no more than, “This room, gentlemen—” before he was silenced by a frown.
However, Philip had just been reaching for the door to open it for Megaera, and
he heard. He paused, listening intently. Megaera, who had just put on her
pelisse, stood stiffly beside the table, one hand inside her muff clutching the
two-shot muff gun. Cadoudal, who had been sitting opposite her and had risen
when she did, began to back away from the table to go to Philip’s assistance.

The tableau held only for a moment. Realizing he had not
heard the door of the room opposite shut, Philip thrust his hand into his
greatcoat to draw his gun, but before he could do so, the door slammed open,
knocking him backward. Cadoudal leapt forward, but it was too late. All three
men were in the room. Two brandished pistols, while the third stopped to turn the
key in the lock of the door. Megaera uttered an inarticulate cry and toppled to
the floor beside the table.

When he saw Megaera fall, Philip cried out also and started
forward, only to be knocked down by a blow from the barrel of Charon’s pistol.
Disregarding the threat of the other agent’s gun, which was leveled at him,
Cadoudal rushed at him. He knew he would be executed anyway if he were
taken—probably after extensive “questioning”—so he had little to lose in dying
at once. The agent, who knew no harm must come to Cadoudal, naturally did not
fire. He managed to sidestep the rush, and the third man, who had been pulling
off his neckcloth to tie up Philip, grappled with Cadoudal.

No one gave a glance to the crumpled heap of garments that
marked Megaera’s position. Fouché’s men had not given her a thought, assuming
she would be equally harmless conscious and only glad that she had fainted
because it kept her from screaming. But the heap of garments had not been
still. With surprising alacrity it had wriggled past a chair and under the
table.

When Philip had stiffened at the door, Megaera knew
instantly that they were trapped. It never occurred to her that the people on
the other side of the door could be innocent visitors to the inn. For a second
or two she was so frightened that vision and hearing faded and she felt that
she would faint. The weakness retreated as her heart pounded harder, pushing
blood to her brain. Her next fear was that she would be a danger to Philip. She
knew he might expose himself unnecessarily to protect her or that she could be
used as a weapon against him if she were seized.

She had been holding the gun in her muff since she got to
her feet. It was necessary to do so or it would fall out, being heavy. At
first, in her terror, she only clutched it tighter, mindlessly, not
understanding what she held. When her accelerated heart rate and breathing had
cleared her head, however, she remembered she was not helpless and defenseless.
In the small room the little muff gun was as deadly as the more accurate
long-barreled pistols Philip carried. All she needed was a central position so
that she would not be too far from any part of the room.

As that idea came to her she realized she would never be
given time to cock and fire her gun. As soon as she drew it from the muff, she
would be either shot or seized. Fear gripped her again, her head spun, and all
the thoughts jostled together. Out of the maelstrom came a plan that seized on
weakness and used it to hide her strength. Thus, when the door shot open,
thrusting Philip backward, Megaera did just what a proper lady should do and
sank to the floor in a faint.

After that she was too busy for the next minute or two to
notice what happened to anybody but herself. By the time she had wriggled
herself under the table, pulled the gun from her muff, and cocked it—all
without anyone noticing—chaos had erupted in the room. The noise was behind
her, but Megaera did not turn her head. Her gaze was fixed on Philip, lying on
the floor with blood running down his face. Without a second thought Megaera
lifted her pistol, and shot Charon in the back. He screamed and fell on top of
Philip, his gun exploding harmlessly into the air.

The other agent spun around, cursing, looking wildly for a
target. His half-formed thought that another man had been concealed in the room
was not quite finished when Megaera, swiveling around on her knees under the
table, shot him full in the chest. He did not scream. Shock overrode pain. Even
as he died he could not believe that the woman who had fainted with fright as
they came in the door had changed into a fury, with blazing purple eyes,
pointing a gun. Had he lived another minute, he would have told himself that it
was a small man in disguise, or that his eyes had deceived him and a man had
been hidden under the table all along and shot from behind the woman as she
roused from her faint.

Death saved him the trouble of rationalizing reality to fit
his prejudices and from the further shock of seeing Megaera busily crawl out
from under the table with a vicious expression on her normally sweet face. It
seemed as if the first man she had shot was struggling with Philip despite the
widening stain of blood on his coat. However, just as she got to her feet,
firmly clutching her empty gun with the intention of hitting Philip’s attacker
on the head as hard as ever she could, Philip rid himself of the corpse and
rose also. The man who had been grappling with Cadoudal to restrain him was now
trying desperately to get free, but it was far too late. In the next instant
Philip’s long-nosed Lorenzoni was pressed against his head. He ceased to
struggle, stammering a plea for mercy. Although he received no response, his
terror diminished somewhat when the neckcloth he had partially undone was
removed and used to bind his hands. Those of his unfortunate comrades were then
used to finish the job and to blindfold and gag him also.

Megaera, who had controlled herself nobly while there was
still danger, now flew to Philip crying that he was hurt. Cadoudal gaped at the
two men lying dead on the floor, looking from them to Megaera and back again.
Finally Philip broke off assuring her that it was nothing, that even a small
cut on the head was a great bleeder, to laugh.

“You are getting hardened, love,” he said softly, kissing
her carefully so as not to get blood on her. “You were all upset when you shot
Jean.”

“Not after I knew he was after you. And that man was going
to shoot you too,” Megaera replied, trying to wipe the blood from his face with
his handkerchief. She shuddered once, and then said determinedly, “Do you want
me delicate and you dead?”

That made Philip laugh again. He knew Meg was deliberately
echoing the words he had used to excuse his conduct with Désirée. Cadoudal was
now looking at her with mingled admiration and horror. She had said she could
take care of herself, but he had not expected the proof of it to be two dead
men. “So delicate a lady…”

“It is too quiet below,” Philip said suddenly, interrupting
Cadoudal’s thought and pulling away from Megaera. “Surely the shots should have
brought the landlord up here. There must be more of them downstairs—or the
landlord knew…”

“Yes, but whoever is there must believe that we were
subdued,” Cadoudal pointed out.

“I agree. Otherwise they would have come up to lend a hand.
That means we have a little time—I hope. I cannot believe they came here just
to kill us. That one,” Philip gestured toward the bound man, “was undoing his
neckcloth, and that could only have been to tie up someone.”

He handed his gun to Cadoudal, in case there should be
another attempt at surprise and began to search the corpses. On the man shot in
the chest he found papers from both the Ministry of Police and Fouché. On the
man shot in the back he found a wallet containing the passes Fouché’s clerk had
written out and a small-folded sheet sealed with an emblem he did not
recognize. He did not pause to examine that, there would be time enough later,
and he did not wish to break the seal. Perhaps the message, read and passed on,
could be of use to trap a whole ring of spies. On the living man was
identification as Fouché’s agent, but nothing more.