‘And… and…?’ Fouché’s anticipation was almost erotic.
‘I do not have the precise words, but apparently the Arch-Traitor said something to the effect that ‘this was the plan that would make or break him.’ Then the servant heard him pray—actually pray—for success—and then laugh!’
Fouché wrote it all down and then stood up straight. He exhaled deeply.
‘You did not report this.’
‘I was wounded and in a fever, Minister. Also, the debrief on my return was not… gentle. It seemed nothing; not even a tassel on the great tapestry of my other news.’
Fouché nodded understandingly.
‘Just so. Is there more?’
‘None, minister. You have everything.’
How true, how true. Joseph Fouché, Minister of Police, Duke of Otranto, Prince of Elyria, father of four, and now possessor of this priceless gem of intelligence, reflected that, yes, he did indeed have everything. The Convention, his nominal masters, hearing some of this, would be pleased with him. His real master (other than himself) would praise and possibly promote him. It was a lovely feeling. Too good for words.
Therefore, he wordlessly beckoned the Revolutionary Guards forward, and in silence signalled they should kill the prisoner now.
Two weeks before, back when the prisoner was still an agent and had a whole fortnight left to live, he was far away from that grim Parisian condemned cell. Likewise, though a frequent business visitor to the Nouvelle Bastille in the past, he was then merely aware of, but unacquainted with, its tears and stoicism soaked ‘special rooms’ where he’d be worked over and murdered.
Specifically, two weeks ago the Sun still shone on him and his blissful ignorance, whilst he hid in an hedge shielding the privacy of a mansion in England. Formal gardens were all around and a gravel drive beside him. In the middle distance the North Downs loomed, adding perspective to the pretensions of the house. Those chalk hills were here before it and would remain so after.
That thought pleased the waiting man. Injustice was not eternal. Also, he was gratified to have his fellow agents beside him, similarly concealed to the best of their elite abilities. He felt as reassured as a revolutionary cadre on active service reasonably could be in this very epicentre of black reaction.
If his brothers and sisters in arms didn’t know their orders by now they never would. Therefore the prisoner-to-be had nothing to say to them save exhortation.
‘Citizens,’ he whispered softly, but with fervour, ‘The spirit of History is watching: do not disappoint it. What is there to fear? Death is but an eternal sleep! Vive la Republic!’
Those with him, live and Revived alike, mouthed the salutation back.
‘Vive la Republic!’
It was the golden cliff-hanger spell between summer evening and summer dusk. Slap in the middle of that time when humble folk had meals to attend to in their own homes, but before the gentry answered invitations to dine. Only a few carriages hung around the main entrance, their drivers deep in chat or day-dreams. The mission enfilade had managed to worm their way close without detection.
Its captain, the prisoner-in-prospect, looked at the blue sky overarching him and all men. He knew for a fact there was no eternal eye watching: merely the moon, eight planets, a few thousand stars, and then space for infinity; all signifying nothing. Only the Republic had weight and reality. It was both the vanguard and epitome of mankind. What was one man’s life compared to that? It was a privilege to have been raised to make sacrifice to it.
Here, at the likely end of things, he had found certainty. It felt like armour.
So, if not now, then when?
‘En avant!’ he hissed.
The doomed man emerged from the foliage and shot the guard before Loseley House’s front entrance.
Chapter 8: A CRAVAT INTERRUPTED
‘What is the description of the perfect minister for foreign affairs? A sort of instinct, always prompting him, should prevent him from compromising himself in any discussion. He must have the faculty of appearing open, while remaining impenetrable, of masking reserve with the manner of careless abandon; of showing talent even in the choice of his amusements. His conversation should be simple, varied, unexpected, always natural and sometimes naïve; in a word, he should never cease for an instant during the twenty-four hours to be a Minister for Foreign Affairs.
‘Yet all these qualities, rare as they are, might not suffice, if good faith did not give them the guarantee which they almost always require. Here there is the one thing I must say, in order to destroy a widely spread prejudice: no, diplomacy is not a science of deceit and duplicity. If good faith is necessary anywhere it is above all in political transactions, for it is that which makes them firm and lasting. People have made the mistake of confusing reserve with deceit. Good faith never authorises deceit but it admits of reserve; and reserve has this peculiarity that it inspires confidence.’
Shooting? At this hour? What a bore!
The Prince de Beavente, Lord Vectis, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord, was disturbed during the second most important part of his day. Only the morning fitting of his silken cravat outranked having his hair dressed for dinner. How tiresome it was for this crucial moment—or hour—to be disrupted by gunfire! And in the sacred sanctum of his dressing room as well!
One member of the massed servantry legged it straightaway, off without a word and at speed through the far door connecting to the bedroom. Talleyrand pursed his lips in disapproval—no one need ever mention him again!
The balance stayed but were dismayed. Minor musketry they could live with (the local gentry were always murdering animals for sport), but this was developing into an early Guy Fawkes night. From beyond the now ajar door and not so far away, cries and angry men’s voices were adding to the mix of single shots and massed volleys. There was nothing within either designed to provide comfort.
So, Talleyrand provided it. Aside from allowing them to turn him to face the fracas, he shifted not an inch, bolt upright in the ornate chair before the dressing table, still apparently awaiting the application of curling tongs and wig-powder.
‘Some callers,’ he said, quite unafraid, ‘have no manners! I’ve half a mind to quite refuse to see them!’
A few laughed nervously. Others—the serious waverers—said nothing. Talleyrand laboured under no illusion (of any sort): the local labour bore no great love for him, for all his open-handedness and gentle yoke. They still bore a torch for their previous masters, the More family, turfed out after half a millennia of residency to make way for this foreign turncoat. Meanwhile, his French staff were just wig-combers and coat-brushers, the merest candyfloss of the human family. Not one would stand between him and an assassin’s bullet.
Why should they? Talleyrand entirely understood and bore no grudge. They were material creatures, of limited duration, inhabiting a material world. Excess expectations of humanity only brought melancholy in its train. He would be the same in their position.