He deliberately combed his thinning, graying hair towards his temples and forehead. It was easy to guess what was happening now: Bonaparte had gone on to the Opera, as Miquel wrote in his note, to quash any rumors of his death, but he would hardly be in the mood to enjoy The Creation of the World . He would promptly return to the Palace of the Tuileries.
Fouché saw no need to visit the crime scene. Miquel and Sobry were both competent policemen, and between themselves they would take all appropriate measures. The Minister’s presence, however, was urgently required at the Tuileries. Bonaparte’s generals, his other ministers, his courtiers, all the parasites whose lives and fortunes were closely tied to his, would hasten there to offer the great man their heartfelt congratulations on his miraculous escape, laced with much flattery and advice. Maybe Dubois, the Prefect of Police, was already there, drooling at the idea of being appointed Minister. But no, thought Fouché as he put the comb back into his pocket, Dubois was too much of a coward to face the brunt of Bonaparte’s wrath tonight.
The carriage was ready. It crossed the Seine River and stopped in front of the Tuileries. Fouché paused a moment to look up at the stately façade and the high central cupola. Once the Royal Palace, then the National Palace, now the official residence of the First Consul. What came next? Many things had happened in such short time. Barely over ten years ago, Fouché had been a monk, a teacher at the School of the Oratorian Friars in the seaport of Nantes. France had a King then, but soon it also elected an Assembly and in short order found itself in the midst of a Revolution. How fast Fouché had embraced the new ideas and discarded the habit!
He had married, very well. A rich, rational, fertile, thrifty, devoted woman. And his fortunes had risen. He had been elected a Representative, he had become a leading Jacobin. He had even voted for the King’s execution. There was still far more to Fouché’s revolutionary record, things he never mentioned anymore. There had been compelling reasons at the time, and anyway, why dwell on the past? He had atoned for any excesses by several years of retirement from politics, which he had put to good use. He had sold hogs to the Republic’s armies, and made millions. For whatever Fouché did, whether it was teaching, marrying, dealing in livestock, being the Minister of Police, he did very well.
When he entered the Throne Room, in what had been the King’s apartments, all he saw at first was a crowd of men in uniforms. The room was abuzz with whispers and indignant cries. All conversations stopped abruptly at his sight, and all faces, unfriendly faces, turned to Fouché.
The crowd parted in silence to make way for a sallow man with an angular face. His First Consul uniform, a red velvet coat and white breeches embroidered in gold, stuck to a thin body, all bones and sinews.
“Ah, here you are!” cried Bonaparte. His blue eyes had an icy glare. “Are you still going to tell me now the Royalists did it?”
“Oh, yes, Citizen First Consul, without a doubt the Royalists did it,” replied Fouché quietly. “Not only do I say so, but I shall prove it.”
The courtiers stared in astonishment, and Bonaparte’s lips only tightened more.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Can you not see the obvious? This atrocity is the work of the Jacobins. If they had only sought to kill me alone, I might have been inclined to show some leniency. But this is an attack on the people of Paris, on the Nation itself. The Jacobins will pay for this. They have been tolerated, even protected, too long. By you ! That vermin conspires night and day under your nose, and you do nothing!”
It took more than Bonaparte’s tirades or the stares of his entourage to intimidate Fouché. “As I said, Citizen First Consul, this is the work of the Royalists, the Chouans. All I need is a week, one single week, to prove
Fouché saw no need to visit the crime scene. Miquel and Sobry were both competent policemen, and between themselves they would take all appropriate measures. The Minister’s presence, however, was urgently required at the Tuileries. Bonaparte’s generals, his other ministers, his courtiers, all the parasites whose lives and fortunes were closely tied to his, would hasten there to offer the great man their heartfelt congratulations on his miraculous escape, laced with much flattery and advice. Maybe Dubois, the Prefect of Police, was already there, drooling at the idea of being appointed Minister. But no, thought Fouché as he put the comb back into his pocket, Dubois was too much of a coward to face the brunt of Bonaparte’s wrath tonight.
The carriage was ready. It crossed the Seine River and stopped in front of the Tuileries. Fouché paused a moment to look up at the stately façade and the high central cupola. Once the Royal Palace, then the National Palace, now the official residence of the First Consul. What came next? Many things had happened in such short time. Barely over ten years ago, Fouché had been a monk, a teacher at the School of the Oratorian Friars in the seaport of Nantes. France had a King then, but soon it also elected an Assembly and in short order found itself in the midst of a Revolution. How fast Fouché had embraced the new ideas and discarded the habit!
He had married, very well. A rich, rational, fertile, thrifty, devoted woman. And his fortunes had risen. He had been elected a Representative, he had become a leading Jacobin. He had even voted for the King’s execution. There was still far more to Fouché’s revolutionary record, things he never mentioned anymore. There had been compelling reasons at the time, and anyway, why dwell on the past? He had atoned for any excesses by several years of retirement from politics, which he had put to good use. He had sold hogs to the Republic’s armies, and made millions. For whatever Fouché did, whether it was teaching, marrying, dealing in livestock, being the Minister of Police, he did very well.
When he entered the Throne Room, in what had been the King’s apartments, all he saw at first was a crowd of men in uniforms. The room was abuzz with whispers and indignant cries. All conversations stopped abruptly at his sight, and all faces, unfriendly faces, turned to Fouché.
The crowd parted in silence to make way for a sallow man with an angular face. His First Consul uniform, a red velvet coat and white breeches embroidered in gold, stuck to a thin body, all bones and sinews.
“Ah, here you are!” cried Bonaparte. His blue eyes had an icy glare. “Are you still going to tell me now the Royalists did it?”
“Oh, yes, Citizen First Consul, without a doubt the Royalists did it,” replied Fouché quietly. “Not only do I say so, but I shall prove it.”
The courtiers stared in astonishment, and Bonaparte’s lips only tightened more.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Can you not see the obvious? This atrocity is the work of the Jacobins. If they had only sought to kill me alone, I might have been inclined to show some leniency. But this is an attack on the people of Paris, on the Nation itself. The Jacobins will pay for this. They have been tolerated, even protected, too long. By you ! That vermin conspires night and day under your nose, and you do nothing!”
It took more than Bonaparte’s tirades or the stares of his entourage to intimidate Fouché. “As I said, Citizen First Consul, this is the work of the Royalists, the Chouans. All I need is a week, one single week, to prove
Similar Books
In Bed with Beauty
Katherine Garbera
The Ted Dreams
Fay Weldon
I Will Fear No Evil
Robert Heinlein
Hermes (Frozen Origin #2)
Crystal Dawn
Marked for Marriage
Jackie Merritt
Hot Whisper
Luann McLane
Little Lamb Lost
Margaret Fenton
Level Five
Carla Cassidy
The Black Key
Amy Ewing
The Colony: Descent
Michaelbrent Collings