it.”
“A week! When your so-called police could not even prevent this!”
“I agree, Citizen First Consul: the police could be more efficient. It would certainly work better if it were united under one command, instead of being divided into several forces. We have the Gendarmerie here, the Military Police there, and now the latest, the Prefecture for Paris . . .” Fouché paused to look around. “Speaking of which, I do not see our good Citizen Prefect here tonight. Hard at work in his office, no doubt. An outstanding functionary, Dubois . . . In any event, of this grand patchwork of polices, my Ministry is but a modest part. Yet, in spite of the limitations imposed on it, you may remember, Citizen First Consul, that I recently pointed out in some detail the activities of certain Royalist agents. As much as some would like to blame the Jacobins for everything, this is simply not reasonable.”
Fouché paused to look around at the crowd of courtiers. “Too many resources have been wasted watching the men of the Revolution. Dangerous though they may have been in the past, they are now disarmed, powerless. In the meantime the émigrés, the Chouans, the agents of England have been allowed to roam Paris freely despite my warnings. If one had listened to me, this horror would never have happened.”
Bonaparte, still frowning, bit the nail of his little finger. He now seemed more preoccupied than furious.
General Lannes cleared his throat and said, “Well, Citizen First Consul, perhaps the Minister has a point. If there is even a remote possibility that the Royalists may be responsible for this atrocity, they cannot be allowed to escape.”
The only woman in the room, an elegant brunette in a white satin dress embroidered in silver thread, rose from a sofa. Madame Bonaparte moved with the quiet grace, the poise of a queen. In fact, she was already queen in all but in name, and she seemed to find herself quite at home in the late Marie Antoinette’s apartments at the Tuileries. The only thing poor Joséphine lacked to quite fit the part, reflected Fouché, was the ability to bear her husband an heir.
She gently put her hand on Bonaparte’s arm and whispered into his ear. He shook his head, frowning. Fouché waited without betraying any emotion or meeting her eye. Joséphine and he were better friends than most, including Bonaparte himself, imagined. The 1,000 francs a day Fouché paid her to keep him apprised of what went on within the Tuileries, within the First Consul’s bedroom itself, was not wasted, and at this very moment her help was more precious than ever. She was a spendthrift, always desperate for her next sol , and she gladly accepted the flow of the Minister’s gold without putting any malice in it.
The glare of Bonaparte’s eyes was once more fixed on Fouché. “All right, Citizen Minister, you have a week to bring me proof of the Royalists’ guilt.”
6
J oseph de Limoëlan was walking briskly towards Saint-Régent’s lodgings. He still wore his gold spectacles, but he had traded his stallholder jacket for an elegant blue coat. Blond curls fell loose on his shoulders.
It seemed that everyone in Paris was on the streets now, and Limoëlan had to elbow his way through the crowd. He was not a happy man. All the preparations, all the care and trouble, all the expense, all had been for naught. He had seen Bonaparte’s carriage drive away, intact. He had talked to people on the street. Everyone said the First Consul had gone on to the Opera as though nothing had happened. Now George would be waiting for an explanation.
And George was not famous for his patience. He was the only man in France known to his followers and enemies alike by his given name alone. He was Georges Cadoudal, the supreme commander of the insurgents in the West, the Catholic and Royal Army, the Chouans, as they called themselves, after the name of one of their early leaders. George was a peasant’s son, fair-skinned,
“A week! When your so-called police could not even prevent this!”
“I agree, Citizen First Consul: the police could be more efficient. It would certainly work better if it were united under one command, instead of being divided into several forces. We have the Gendarmerie here, the Military Police there, and now the latest, the Prefecture for Paris . . .” Fouché paused to look around. “Speaking of which, I do not see our good Citizen Prefect here tonight. Hard at work in his office, no doubt. An outstanding functionary, Dubois . . . In any event, of this grand patchwork of polices, my Ministry is but a modest part. Yet, in spite of the limitations imposed on it, you may remember, Citizen First Consul, that I recently pointed out in some detail the activities of certain Royalist agents. As much as some would like to blame the Jacobins for everything, this is simply not reasonable.”
Fouché paused to look around at the crowd of courtiers. “Too many resources have been wasted watching the men of the Revolution. Dangerous though they may have been in the past, they are now disarmed, powerless. In the meantime the émigrés, the Chouans, the agents of England have been allowed to roam Paris freely despite my warnings. If one had listened to me, this horror would never have happened.”
Bonaparte, still frowning, bit the nail of his little finger. He now seemed more preoccupied than furious.
General Lannes cleared his throat and said, “Well, Citizen First Consul, perhaps the Minister has a point. If there is even a remote possibility that the Royalists may be responsible for this atrocity, they cannot be allowed to escape.”
The only woman in the room, an elegant brunette in a white satin dress embroidered in silver thread, rose from a sofa. Madame Bonaparte moved with the quiet grace, the poise of a queen. In fact, she was already queen in all but in name, and she seemed to find herself quite at home in the late Marie Antoinette’s apartments at the Tuileries. The only thing poor Joséphine lacked to quite fit the part, reflected Fouché, was the ability to bear her husband an heir.
She gently put her hand on Bonaparte’s arm and whispered into his ear. He shook his head, frowning. Fouché waited without betraying any emotion or meeting her eye. Joséphine and he were better friends than most, including Bonaparte himself, imagined. The 1,000 francs a day Fouché paid her to keep him apprised of what went on within the Tuileries, within the First Consul’s bedroom itself, was not wasted, and at this very moment her help was more precious than ever. She was a spendthrift, always desperate for her next sol , and she gladly accepted the flow of the Minister’s gold without putting any malice in it.
The glare of Bonaparte’s eyes was once more fixed on Fouché. “All right, Citizen Minister, you have a week to bring me proof of the Royalists’ guilt.”
6
J oseph de Limoëlan was walking briskly towards Saint-Régent’s lodgings. He still wore his gold spectacles, but he had traded his stallholder jacket for an elegant blue coat. Blond curls fell loose on his shoulders.
It seemed that everyone in Paris was on the streets now, and Limoëlan had to elbow his way through the crowd. He was not a happy man. All the preparations, all the care and trouble, all the expense, all had been for naught. He had seen Bonaparte’s carriage drive away, intact. He had talked to people on the street. Everyone said the First Consul had gone on to the Opera as though nothing had happened. Now George would be waiting for an explanation.
And George was not famous for his patience. He was the only man in France known to his followers and enemies alike by his given name alone. He was Georges Cadoudal, the supreme commander of the insurgents in the West, the Catholic and Royal Army, the Chouans, as they called themselves, after the name of one of their early leaders. George was a peasant’s son, fair-skinned,
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