The Price of Glory (23 page)

“Oh, it is Barras!” she exclaimed. She shot Nathan a brief glance but it was clear she had dismissed him entirely from her mind. “You must excuse me,” she said, and she was off across the lawn, holding up the hem of her robe and running as lightly as a young girl though even from where he sat Nathan could see how the newcomer goggled at her dancing breasts.

Barras. One of the saviours of Thermidor. Nathan had met him on the night of the coup, with Imlay and the other plotters in the Café Carazzo. Later he had watched as Barras led a contingent of the National Guard to the Hotel de Ville to arrest Robespierre. Now he had replaced the Incorruptible as the leading man in France. There could scarcely have been a greater contrast. Where Robespierre had been every inch the provincial lawyer from Arras, Barras was a former viscount and an officer in the King's army who had fought against the British in India. Notoriously corrupt but effi cient, too, from what Nathan had heard tell. He must be in his early forties now, energetic, amorous, indulgent. He had certainly put on weight since Nathan last saw him but he strode across the lawns with all the vigour of a man in his prime. He swept off his hat to Rose, caught her by the waist and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her lips.

But Nathan had stopped taking any further interest in the proceedings, for among the entourage that had followed Barras down the steps of the terrace, attired in all the magnificence of one of the Golden Youths of Paris, was Able Seaman Benjamin Bennett, late of His Britannic Majesty's Navy. And before Nathan could duck under the table, or hide behind a tree, or do one of a dozen things that might later have occurred to him, their eyes met and he saw that Bennett recognised him and was as astonished as he.

N
ATHAN
LAY
AWAKE
staring at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of the city as it dragged itself from sleep: a sleep that had evaded him for most of the night as his over-wrought brain struggled to make sense of the events of the previous evening. In particular the astonishing appearance of the man he had last seen running across the sand dunes on the beach of Quiberon.

What the devil was Bennett doing in Paris? And in such company?

And what was he doing now?

Nathan had not stopped to enquire. It seemed sensible to make himself scarce. Now he was not so sure. Perhaps he should have stayed, sought a private audience. Taken him somewhere quiet, down by the river, where he could have demanded an explanation or slit his throat with the midshipman's dirk he carried in his boot and slid the body into the dark waters of the Seine.

But he knew, even in the fantasies of his sleepless mind, that there was no way he could have done that: that it was one thing to kill in the mad slashing rush of a boarding party on the deck of an enemy ship and quite another to cut a man's throat in cold blood at a private party. Not unless you were well practised in the occupation.

But what was he doing in Paris?

Useless to speculate, though it had not stopped Nathan from doing so for most of the night, when he was not thinking about Thérésa Tallien and Rose de Beauharnais and Gabriel Ouvrard and the strange, dark little man they called Captain Cannon.

And Imlay, of course—pulling the strings back in Charlotte Street.

Was this what it was like for him—playing his endless games of pretence and deceit, ever fearful of exposure? Did Imlay lie awake at night, night after night, wondering if he had been found out? Braced for the clatter of marching boots, the thunderous pounding of fists or musket butts upon the door; the sight of the bayonets gleaming in the lamplight when he looked down from his bedroom window. As Nathan did.

It had happened before. The last time he was at White's. Only on that occasion it had been Thomas Paine they had come for. On Christmas Day, during the time of the Terror.

I saw three ships come sailing in,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day,

I saw three ships come sailing in,

On Christmas Day in the morning.

He remembered the flushed Toby jug faces of the Americans singing their carols on Christmas Eve at White's Hotel, in defiance of official censure. The gendarmes in the hangover dregs of the middle watch, running up the stairs, pounding on the doors with their terse commands:
Allez, allez! Reveillez-vous!
The Americans, sober now and hurting, peering out of the doors in their nightcaps. And the long, lupine face of Commissioner Gillet of the
Sûreté
with his warrant for the arrest of Thomas Paine, author of
The Rights of Man,
Deputy of the French National Convention, subject of King George, citizen of the United States …

Citizen of the world.

But that was in the time of the Terror and the Law of Suspects, when every house was obliged to post the names of its occupants beside the front door and no man in Paris slept sound in his bed, nor woman, for gender was no impediment to the remorseless juggernaut of the State, and police raids were a nightly occurrence. And the candles burned late in the room that had once been the Queen's boudoir in the Palace of the Tuileries, where the Committee of Public Safety met and decided who was to live and who was to die.

It was different now. Or so he had been assured. The Law of Suspects was repealed, the prisons emptied of all but the most hardened criminals, the most recalcitrant dissidents; the trips to the guillotine no longer a daily feature of Paris life.

But the Committee still met. Still signed their warrants for arrest. Still held the power of life and death over every French citizen and every foreigner unwise enough to be drawn into their web. And even if the men who had succeeded Robespierre were too idle, too indulgent, too interested in making money to execute their authority with anything like the same zeal, it was not beyond their powers to do so. For all Nathan knew the warrant was made out already: signed, sealed and delivered to that other Committee who met along the landing—the once-dreaded
Sûreté
. And the gendarmes already despatched.

A clatter of steps upon the cobbles. He tensed, every nerve alert, but it was only a delivery boy, or some other early riser, for the noise faded and there was no thunderous knocking upon the outer door. He dragged himself up, all the same, and went to the window. The sun was rising over the shining rooftops of Paris, the sky tinged with rose. Rose. The thought of whom might have occupied him far more pleasantly through the long hours of darkness, had it not been for Bennett. Bloody Bennett.

What was he doing in Paris?

Useless. He might as well get up.

He was about to turn away from the window when a movement caught his eye at the far end of the little street. Two figures were standing in the shadows, one tall, one quite small. He watched, frowning. A transaction of some sort. Then he saw that the smaller figure was just a boy, a baker's boy with a basket of rolls. But what of the other, who stood there still, having his breakfast? And still apparently watching the hotel at the far end of the street. Nathan let the curtain fall and sat on the edge of his bed. He had been watched before, on his last trip here. It was an unpleasant experience. Not quite as bracing as having a 16-gun broadside trained upon you, but no less discomforting for that. Worse, in a way, because of the uncertainty. The thought that it was all in the mind, while every instinct assured you that it was not.

He dressed carefully, patting his pockets to make sure he had everything he might need if he was obliged to make a sudden decamp or was hauled off to the Châtelet or the Luxembourg or whatever other place of detention and torture they used in Paris these days, for he was sure they would not have been entirely swept away. He ensured that the thin blade was concealed in the specially tailored sheath inside his boot, and that the gold coins sewn into the lining could not be detected by a casual touch. Then he went downstairs to have his own breakfast. It was rather better than he was used to in Paris, consisting of several fresh rolls, still warm, probably from the same baker's boy he had seen in the street, even a small pat of butter and some jam. But no coffee: that was a rare delicacy thanks to the British blockade; they offered small beer instead.

Nathan ate heartily—his worries never seemed to affect his appetite—and made conversation with some of the other guests. They were Americans for the most part: businessmen and shipping agents, making a killing from the war. They talked mainly of prices and food shortages and the continuing problems of the French economy. There was a great scarcity of gold and the paper currency, the
assignat,
was practically worthless. The general opinion was that if the French did not contrive to build up their gold reserves, they would not be able to trade at all. This was of more than passing interest to Nathan, who had contributed significantly to the problem by smuggling millions of fake
assignats
into the country during the time of the Terror. But the greater part of his mind continued to be preoccupied with the problem of Bennett—and the possibly related issue of the figure lingering at the end of the street.

He sat at a table in the window where he could keep an eye on the man. He was at some distance and wore a crown hat with a wide brim—making it impossible to see his features—and, unusually for the time of year, a long greatcoat, reaching almost to the ground. Sometimes he walked up and down but mostly he just leaned against the wall, biting his nails. But several times Nathan would see him looking towards the hotel. Not one practised in the art of surveil-lance, he decided. Perhaps he was trying to pluck up the courage to come in and ask for work.

This was absurd. There were any number of reasons for someone to be hanging about in the vicinity of the hotel. Nathan tried to put it out of his mind and think about his next move. He needed to renew his acquaintance with the Madonna and the Rose. It was irritating that Bennett's appearance had obliged him to leave early or he felt sure he could have contrived another meeting. Now he would have to think of another way of approaching them. Perhaps he might send some flowers with a note of thanks.

He was still pondering his options when he saw a carriage turn into the street and draw up outside the front door. Quite a splendid carriage with a team of four matching greys and two footmen, also a near match, at the rear. So much for the Revolution, Nathan was thinking, not considering it had anything to do with him. But then as he watched, one of the footmen leaped from his perch and ran to let down the steps, opening the door to reveal the dapper figure and handsome features of the Banker Ouvrard. He glanced up at the hotel, saw Nathan's face in the window, and touched his hand to the brim of his hat in a gesture that was not without irony.

“I felt I should apologise for my abruptness of last night,” began the banker promisingly. “I did not wish you to feel put out.”

“Not at all,” Nathan assured him. “You were right. It was neither the time nor the place.”

“I appreciate your understanding. Paris is now much safer than it was for the pursuit of business interests, but it is still necessary to be discreet.”

They sat in a quiet corner of the lobby. The same corner, in fact, where Nathan had met Thomas Paine, the evening before his arrest.

“I will come directly to the point,” Ouvrard continued briskly. “Gilbert Imlay.” He leaned back and regarded Nathan with a secret smile as if they shared some delightful private joke.

“You are acquainted with Mr. Imlay ?” Nathan enquired politely.

“I have met him.” The smile broadened a little. Whatever the joke, he was clearly enjoying it. “Did he not mention my name to you?”

“Whatever my own failings in the matter, Imlay has a great regard for discretion,” Nathan replied. “He named very few of his acquaintance in Paris.”

“But Madame Tallien was among them.”

There was no point in denying it but Nathan's nod was reserved.

“I am here as the representative of Madame Tallien,” the banker assured him, though with a continued amusement that Nathan was beginning to find irritating. “Imagine she is before you.” He watched Nathan's countenance with interest. “Difficult, I agree. Perhaps this will assist you.” He reached into his pocket and produced a slim violet envelope which he slid over the table. It was addressed to Nathan and contained a single sheet of paper, also violet and heavily scented.

Dear Captain Turner,

I am pleased to introduce to you Monsieur Ouvrard who has been so good as to advise me on certain matters of business. You may place your complete trust in him, in the sure knowledge that he has all that of

Your good friend, Thérésa Tallien.

Nathan replaced the letter in the envelope and passed it back. Rather to his surprise Ouvrard took it and put it carefully back in his pocket.

“Good. Now we can talk business,” he continued briskly. “As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Imlay made certain investments for Madame Tallien before I had the honour of advising her on such matters.” Did this imply a criticism or degree of doubt? “I take it he has instructed you to report on the progress of those investments.”

Nathan dropped his voice. “Imlay is presently in London,” he confided, “but he has recently returned from Louisiana where he was able to make an account of the situation in the western territories. Unfortunately the Spanish authorities continue to oppose settlement in the region, actively encouraging the Indian tribes to attack those brave enough to venture west of the Appalachians—apparently with the approval of Madrid.” He paused and tried to think how a land agent might put it. “As a consequence of which, land values in the region remain static.”

“Static,” Ouvrard repeated, as if this was not a word with which he was familiar.

“Neither up nor down,” added Nathan, for the sake of clarity.

“So, pretty much at the price Madame Tallien paid for the land,” Ouvrard persisted.