“What I cannot understand is why this man Carbon isn’t in the Quai Desaix files,” said Nicolas Dubois.
Police Minister Fouché spread his long yellow palms.
“There is no reason he would be. Threats to the government are outside your bailiwick as a Paris police officer. It took an infernal machine to cross you over. Had the attempt been made at Malmaison or Saint-Cloud, you’d have been out of the thing entirely.”
In saying this, Fouché neither confirmed nor denied that the man was known to his people. He would hardly confide to a subordinate that his system contained holes; but Dubois himself could scarcely imagine such a thing. The popular phrase “The walls have ears” had originated during the Minister’s first year in the post, and in the interim it had become a maxim.
In any event, the cadaverous man with the jaundiced complexion could not be shaken from a deep sense of satisfaction. The reason? After days of relentless questioning under the supervision of Chief Inspector Limodin, Carbon had broken, and broken big. He’d confessed to his part in the assassination attempt on behalf of the Royalist commander, Georges Cadoudal. Neither had any connection with the Jacobins. The fanatic Republicans had not had even so much to do with the plot as the hapless Marguerite.
The First Consul would not care for that. His favorite goat had come away clean.
Fouché bore on his lap, in a worn leather portfolio tied with a cord, that evening’s edition of the Bulletin de la Police, a newspaper with the most exclusive subscription in France. Only two copies were ever printed, one intended for the Minister himself, the other for the First Consul. It kept both men abreast of what Fouché’s truffle-dogs had dug up in Paris and the provinces and was shared with no one, not even Dubois—especially not him. The printing plates were broken apart while the ink was still wet, and the compositor sworn to secrecy or face a firing squad; that position changed hands on a regular basis, lest the lesson be lost through tedium, and the fellow transferred to some bailiwick far beyond communication with Paris. This particular number contained a summary of Carbon’s confession, along with other bits of business of no useful interest to the Prefecture. (The decision as to what was or was not of such interest lay, of course, with Fouché himself.)
The two policemen were riding in the Minister’s fine carriage to Malmaison, where the First Consul could be found most evenings and decadi, or days of rest at the end of each ten-day week in the Republican calendar. It was a ten-mile journey along the Seine. The conveyance was open, not a coach, but the evening was mild for the month of snow and they were not greatly chilled in their cloaks and scarves. Their breath curled slightly in the air sweeping over the windscreen. The ancient chestnut trees flanking the road resembled the buttresses of a cathedral, with the moon a chandelier.
Dubois knew nothing of the Bulletin beyond rumors of its existence; but he knew well enough what information the portfolio contained. He hoped he would be invited into this important meeting with Citizen Bonaparte. He should like to see how a truly gifted flatterer managed to convince his master that his humble servant had been right all along concerning the true identity of the conspirators, while creating the impression it was the master’s idea from the start.
The Prefect was an investigating machine. His talents were crude compared to those of a courtier, experienced in the delicate art of feathering one’s nest with platitudes. Oh, Dubois could cosset a reluctant witness until the truth flowed like the fountains in Citizeness Bonaparte’s fabled gardens. But stroking a civilian and currying a head of state were very different things in the eyes of one born to the lower classes.
If allowed, he would observe this curious creature Joseph Fouché at work, not hoping to learn anything of value but marveling at the spectacle. It would be like looking at a camel or some other strange beast on display: One could not resist straining closer for a better look, knowing all the time that at any moment the attraction might turn its misshapen head and spit something vile into one’s face.
“What of this fellow Brunet?” Dubois said. “Carbon would not go so far as to mention his true name.” Hidebound policeman that he was, he shuddered at the prisoner’s refusal to cooperate. Nose and jaw broken, bleeding from his ears, still he had declined to give up his accomplices beyond what was already known. The firing squad when it came would be anticlimactic.
“That one was easy, once we knew Carbon was involved. Pierre Robinault de Saint-Réjant. He did not scruple to make himself invisible during skirmishes with the heroes of the Republic, but his appearance was not sufficiently beyond the ordinary to point him out without a connection. He commanded a division under the cream puffs.” Broken to the traces though he was by fine living, the Minister remained a Revolutionary through and through, and liked to employ the derisive popular phrase whenever the subject of Royalists came up. His instincts aside (and he relied upon them far more than upon his personal predilections), he’d hoped for this outcome. His sympathies were Jacobin. His official responsibilities, and his personal well-being, lay elsewhere.
Certainly, his moral convictions had not prevented him from placing spies in the inns and taverns where the Revolutionaries gathered, snuffing out their plots as close to the source as possible. He profited from his job without shame, but he took his responsibilities seriously.
“What of the third man, Beaumont?”
This was the only name Carbon would give to the conspirator who gave the signal to light the fuse. Clearly it was as much an invention as Brunet’s.
Fouché smiled his grim pastor’s smile.
“You must allow a magician his little tricks. All will be revealed before the proper audience.”
Meaning his superior would snatch all the glory. Dubois crossed his arms under his cloak and sank back into the cushions, settling in for the ride.