"Well, I'll be damned," he exclaimed, still bubbling with mirth. "I asked Barras to give you something that would keep you out of mischief, and he could hardly have done so better."
"You did intend to ruin me, then!" Fouché cried, frothing at the mouth with rage.
"No, no. I kept to my word. I asked him first for a post in the Police for you; then for one in some other department. He would not hear of the first; but at length, with reluctance as I thought, gave me this."
"If that is true, you can still save me. Return to him and get the order withdrawn."
"Nay. Barras is not a man who goes back on his decisions."'
"He will if you plead for me. I insist that you do! You owe it to me! You promised to get me a post in the Administration, even if it had to be a minor one."
"I did nothing of the kind!'* Roger was now angry too. "I said only that I would do my best for you. Barras decided on this step without my knowledge; and I tell you frankly that I find his way of dealing with the matter highly suitable. You had it in your power to wreck Madame de Beauharnais's life and that of her two children. You used that power without the least scruple in an endeavour to forward your own interests. Had you succeeded in your design you then meant to turn upon Madame Remy, who had employed you as her agent, and have her transported to Cayenne. That you have been caught in your own toils is poetic justice. Aye, and had I been in Barras's place it would not be banishment that I would have meted out to you, but transportation."
"Now you stand revealed in your true colours," Fouché cried, again trembling with fury. "After what you have said how could anyone believe that you had no hand in this?"
"Believe what you like! I give not a rap," declared Roger roundly. "I have had to use you for my own purposes and am now delighted to be shot of you, for I rate you the vilest rogue unhung."
"That comes well from a cheat and liar like yourself," Fouché sneered. "You seem to have forgotten, too, that we are partners in another matter. That is why you would like to see me transported, is it not; so that when the time comes you could keep the whole of the great prize to yourself? But try to cheat me over the little Capet and I'll see to it that you meet a worse fate than being sent to Cayenne."
"The little Capet!" Roger gave an angry laugh. "Why, 'tis an age since I even gave the boy a thought. You need count no more on making your fortune out of him. He is dead."
"Dead!" gasped Fouché” "You cannot mean that! You are lying again."
"He is dead, I tell you, and has been so well above a year. It was in that I used you; buying your silence for a worthless partnership that you proposed yourself."
"Then... then I have kept your true identity secret all these months for nothing?"
"A most fitting reward for your double-dealing with your colleagues and your treachery to your country." Red blotches stood out on the white mask of Fouché's face. His pale eyes were starting from his skull-like head, and he looked as if e were about to have a fit. But, when he spoke again, his voice held a quieter, sinister note.
"Now you have been too clever. Yes, too clever, Mister Brook. For this cheap triumph over me you have thrown away your armour. Since I can no longer hope to gain anything by keeping your secret, why should I continue to do so? Before morning I will have you in jail for what you are. You accursed English spy!"
Roger shrugged contemptuously. "Time was when you might have done so had you played your cards with that in mind. But to denounce me so belatedly could profit you nothing. You have given me the time I needed to re-establish myself and dovetail the pieces of my story in the minds of those who would judge between us. My upbringing in England, my coming to Brittany as a youth, my secretaryship to M. de Rochambeau and duel with M. de Caylus, my return to Paris as a journalist for certain English news-sheets, my life as a member of the Paris Commune, and my having become a prisoner of the English after Thermidor: all these things are now strung together as a whole, and so many people could vouch for various parts of the story that all would believe the whole of it. You might as well accuse Barras or Buonaparte; for no one would believe you. Had you even a single witness to support you, matters would be different. But you have not.
It would be your word against mine. Our respective situations being as they are, ask yourself whose would be taken?"
In the face of Roger's cynical assurance, Fouché wilted visibly. Striking his forehead, he gave a bitter cry. "Oh that I had that one witness; or my old power back, even for a single hour!"
"Had you used it less evilly you might never have lost it," Roger retorted swiftly. Then pointing at the Order of Banishment, which still lay on the table, he gave a final turn to the screw before turning to leave the room.
"Try denouncing me if you will. You'll find it will be regarded as the pathetic effort of a man half crazed, endeavouring to revenge himself upon me. because I brought him that."
As he stepped through the doorway, Fouché, goaded beyond endurance, seized an empty bottle on the side table by its neck, swung it aloft and came at him from behind.
But Roger knew his man too well not to have kept a wary eye out for a sudden resort to violence. Swinging round, he sprang back into the hall, whipped out the slender blade from a tall sword-cane that he was carrying, jerked back his elbow, and levelled the point at Fouché's heart.
"Stand back!" Roger's voice was low but menacing. "Drop that bottle or I'll run you through with less compunction than I'd stick one of your pigs."
With a curse, Fouché dropped the bottle. Then, almost weeping with rage, he cried: "To hell with you! I'll get the better of you yet."
Lowering his blade Roger turned away, but flung a parting shot over his shoulder. "You are welcome to attempt it. But you had best be gone from here by tomorrow morning. I mean to send the police to see that you have obeyed Barras's order."
Roger's anger had now cooled. He had, all through, had the best of the encounter. No qualms of conscience troubled turn about having brought Fouché an Order of Banishment instead of the expected post. Neither did he blame Barras for having in this manner deprived FouchS of the power to menace their plans concerning the marriage of Buonaparte and Josephine. On the contrary, he was thoroughly pleased with himself for the way in which he had handled the situation.
His feelings would have been very different had he had the least inkling of the evil trick that Fate was about to play him, and the desperate straits in which he would find himself within a bare half-hour.
chapter XXVII
THE CAT GETS OUT OF THE BAG
A quarter of an hour's drive brought the coach to the far end of the Quai de la Grève where, between the two bridges, a row of decrepit-looking buildings backed on to the river. Even in daylight it was an unsavoury part of the city, as it was adjacent both to the wharfs and to the Faubourg St. Antoine, a great area of slums, from which the most sanguinary mobs had emerged to loot and kill at every crisis during the Revolution. Now, in the late evening, ill-lit and evil smelling, its dark and crooked ways seemed to conceal a menace round every corner.
. But Roger was used to taking care of himself, and his only worry at the moment was that he might not find Madame Remy at home. As the coach rumbled, now at a walk, over the cobbles he peered from its windows, till, by the light of a lantern-lit doorway from behind which there came the muffled sounds of raucous singing, he located the drinking den of which Fouché had spoken.
Halting the coach he got out, told Corporal Peltier and his men that in no circumstances were they to leave it until he called to them, then faced about to take stock of Madame Remy's dwelling. It was quite a tall building but had only two storeys. In the upper one there was a single unusually large window, presumably put in by its late tenant, the artist, to give a good north light. Curtains were drawn across it, but through them came a dull glow, Roger noted it with much satisfaction, as an indication that Madame Remy was probably at home. Walking forward, he rapped sharply on the door of the place with the butt end of his sword-cane.