CHAPTER XXXI.
FOUCHE.
The First Consul was walking with hasty steps up and down his cabinet. His eyes flashed, and his face, which elsewhere was impenetrable, like that of the brazen statues of the Roman emperors, disclosed the fiery impatience and stormy passions which raged within him. His lips, which were pressed closely together, opened now and then to mutter a word of threatening or of anger, and that word he hurled like a poisoned arrow directly at the man who, in a respectful attitude and with pallid cheeks, stood not far from the door, near the table covered with papers.—This man was Fouche, formerly the chief of police in Paris, and now a mere member of the senate of the republic. He had gone to the Tuileries in order to request a secret audience of Bonaparte, who had now forgotten the little prefix of "First" to his consular title, and now reigned supreme and alone over France.
Bonaparte suddenly paused in his rapid walk, coming to a halt directly in front of Fouche, and looked at him with flaming eyes, as if they were two daggers with which he meant to pierce deep into his heart. But Fouche did not see this, for he stood with downcast eyes, and appeared not to be aware that Bonaparte was so near him.
"Fouche," cried the consul, violently, "I know you, and I am not to be deceived by your indifferent, affected air! You shall know that I do not fear you—you and all the ghosts that you can conjure up. You think that you frighten me; you wish that I should pay you dearly for your secret. But you shall know that I am not at all of a timorous nature, and that I shall pay no money for the solution of a riddle which I may perhaps be able to solve without your help. I warn you, sir, you secret-vender, be well on your guard! You have your spies, but I have my police, and they inform me about every thing out of the usual course. It is known, sir, that you are carrying on a correspondence with people out of the country— understand me, with people out of the country!"
"Consul," replied Fouche, calmly, "I have certainly not known that the republic forbids its faithful servants to send letters abroad."
"The republic will never allow one of its servants to correspond with its enemies," cried Bonaparte, in thundering tones. "Be silent, sir! no evasions, no circumlocutions! Let us speak plainly, and to the point. You are in correspondence with the Count de Lille."
"You know that, consul, for I have had the honor to give you a letter myself, which the pretender directed to you, and sent to me to be delivered."
"A ridiculous, nonsensical letter," replied Bonaparte, with a shrug; "a letter in which this fool demands of me to bring him back to France, and to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his government. By my word, an idiot could not write a more crazy document! I am to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his government! Well, I shall do that; but there will be no place left near me for the Bourbons, whom France has spewed out, as one spews out mortal poison. These hated and weak Bourbons shall never attain to power and prestige again. Prance has turned away from them. France abhors this degenerate race of kings; it will erect a new edifice of power and glory, but there will be no room in it for the Bourbons! Mark that, intriguer, and build no air-castles on it. I demand of you an open confession, for I shall accuse yon as a traitor and a royalist."
"Consul, I shall not avoid this charge," replied Fouche, calmly, "and I am persuaded that Prance will follow with interest the course of a trial which will unveil an important secret—which will inform it that the rightful King of France, according to the opinion of Consul Bonaparte, did not die in the Temple under the tender care of Simon the cobbler, but is still alive, and is, therefore, the true heir of the crown. That would occasion some joy to the royalists, surely!"
The consul stamped on the floor with rage, his eyes shot flames, and when he spoke again, his voice rang like peals of thunder, so angrily and so powerfully did it pour forth.
"I will change the paecans and the joy of these royalists to lamentations and wailings," he cried. "All the enemies of France shall know that I hold the sword in my hands, and mean to use it, not only against foes without, but foes within. France has given me this sword, and I shall not lay it down, even if all the kings of Europe, and all the Bourbons who lie in the vaults of St. Denis, leave their graves, to demand it from me! I am the living sword of France, and never shall this sword bow before the sceptre of a Bourbon. Fresh shoots might sooner spring from the dead stick which the wanderer carries through the desert, than a Bourbon sceptre could grow from the sword of Bonaparte; and all the same, whether this Bourbon calls himself Louis XVII. or Louis XVIII.! Mark that, Fouche, and mark also that when I once say 'I will,' I shall know how to make my will good, even if the whole world ventures to confront me."
"I know that, consul," said Fouche, with deference. "God gave you, for the weal of France, an iron will and a brain of fire, and destined you to wear not only laurels, but crowns."
A flame glared from the eyes of the consul and played over the face of Fouche, but the latter appeared not to notice it, for he cast down his eyes again, and his manner was easy and unconstrained.
"You now speak a word which is not becoming," said Bonaparte, calmly. "I am the first servant of the republic, and in a republic there are no crowns."
"Not citizens' crowns, general?" asked Fouche, with a faint smile. "I mean, that this noblest of crowns can everywhere be acceptable, and no head has merited such a crown more than the noble Consul Bonaparte, who has made the republic of France a worthy rival of its sister in North America."
Bonaparte threw his head proudly back. "I am not ambitious of the honor," he said, "of being Washington of France."
"Yet you are he, general," replied Fouche, with a smile. "Only the Washington of France does not live in the White House which a republic has built, but in the Tuileries, which he has received as the heir of the French kings. General, as the worthiest, the greatest, the most powerful, and the most signally called, you have come into the possession of the inheritance of the kings of France. For to this inheritance belongs also the crown of France. Why do you refuse this, while accepting all the rest?"
"And what if I show you that I do not want it?" asked Bonaparte. "And what if I should tell you that I do not feel myself worthy to assume the whole, undivided inheritance of the Bourbons? Would you be foolish and senseless enough to believe such an idle tale?"
"Consul, you have already done so many things that are wonderful, and have brought so many magic charms to reality, that I no longer hold any thing to be impossible, as soon as you have laid your hand upon it."
"And therefore you hold a concealed magician's wand, which you propose to draw forth at some decisive moment, and present to me, as the cross is presented to Beelzebub in the tale?"
"I do not understand you, consul," replied Fouche, with the most innocent air in the world.
"Well, then, I will make myself intelligible. The magician's wand, which you are keeping concealed, is called Louis XVII. Oh! do not shake your cunning head; do not deny with your smooth lips, which once uttered the death-sentence of Louis XVI., and which now are used to teach a fool and a pretender that he is the son of the murdered king. Truly, it is ridiculous. The regicide wants to atone for his offence by hatching a fable, and making a king out of a manikin."
"General, no fable, and no manikin," cried Fouche, with a threatening voice. "The son of the unfortunate king is alive, and—"
"Ah!" interrupted Bonaparte, triumphantly, "so you confess at last, you reveal your great secret at length! I have driven the sly fox out of his hole and the hunt can now begin. It will be a hot chase, I promise you, and I shall not rest till I have drawn the skin over the ears of the fox, or—"
"Until he says his pater peccavi?" asked Fouche, with a gentle smile.
"Until he delivers to me the changeling whom he wants to use as his Deus ex machina," replied Bonaparte. "My dear sir, it helps you not at all to begin again this system of lies. Your anger has betrayed you, and I have succeeded in outwitting the fox. The so-called 'son of the king is alive;' that has escaped you, and you cannot take it back."
"No, it cannot be taken back," replied Fouche, with a sigh. "I have disclosed myself, or rather I have been outwitted. You are in all things a hero and a master, in cunning as much as in bravery and discretion. I bow before you as before a genius whom God Himself has sent upon the earth, to bring the chaotic world into order again; I bow before you as before my lord and master; and instead of opposing you, I will henceforth be content with being your instrument, provided that you will accept me as such."
"That is, Fouche, provided that I will fulfil your conditions," cried Bonaparte, with a shrug. "Very well name your conditions! Without circumlocution! What do you demand?"
"Consul, in order that we may understand one another, we must both be open and unreserved. Will you permit me to be free with you?"
"Certainly," replied Bonaparte, with a condescending nod.
"Consul, you have thrust me aside, you have no longer confidence in me. You have taken from me the post of minister of police, and given it to my enemy Regnier. That has given me pain, it has injured me; for it has branded me before all the world as a useless man, whom Bonaparte suspects. Your enemies have believed that my alienation from you would conduce to their advantage, and that out of the dismissed police prefect they might gain an enemy to Bonaparte. Conspirators of all kinds have come to me—emissaries of Count de Lille, deputies from the royalists in Vendee, as well as from the red republicans, by whom you, Bonaparte, are as much hated as by the royalists, for they will never forgive you for putting yourself at the head of the republic, and making yourself their master. All of these parties have made propositions to me, all of them want me to join them. I have lent my ear to them all, I have been informed of all their plans, and am at this hour the sworn ally of both the republicans and the royalists. Oh! I beg you," continued Fouche, as Bonaparte started up, and opened his lips to speak—"I beg you, general, hear me to the end, and do not interrupt me till I have told you all.—Yes, I have allied myself to three separate conspiracies, and have become zealous in them all. There is, first, that of the republicans, who hate you as a tyrant of the republic; there is, in the second place, the conspiracy of the royalists, who want to put the Count de Lille on the throne; and third, there is that of the genuine Capetists, who want to make the 'orphan of the Temple' Louis XVII. These three conspiracies have it as their first object to remove and destroy Consul Bonaparte. Yes, to reach this end the three have united, and made a mutual compromise. Whichever party succeeds in murdering you, is to come into power, and the others are to relinquish the field to it: and so if Bonaparte is killed by a republican dagger, the republic is to remain at present the recognized form of government; and if the ball of a royalist removes you, the republicans strike their banner, and grant that France shall determine, by a general ballot, "whether it shall be a republic or a kingdom."
"Well," asked Bonaparte, calmly, as Fouche closed, and cast an inquiring glance at the consul's face, which was, notwithstanding, entirely cold and impenetrable—" well, why do you stop? I did not interrupt you with a question. Go on!"
"I will, consul. I have made myself a member of these three conspiracies; for, in order to contend with the heads of Cerberus, one must have them all joined; and in order to be the conqueror in a great affair, one must know who all his enemies are, and what are all their plans. I know all the plans of the allies, and because I know them, it is within my power to bring discontent and enmity among them, using for this end the third conspiracy—that of the dependants of Louis XVII., the orphan of the Temple. Through sympathy with him, I have divided the party of royalists; I have withdrawn from the Count de Lille many of his important dependants, and even some of the chief conspirators, who came to Paris to contend for Louis XVIII., have recently in secret bent the knee to Louis XVII., and sworn fidelity to him."
"That is not true," cried Bonaparte, vehemently. "You are telling me nurses' stories, with which children may be frightened, but men not. There are no secret meetings in Paris!"
"General, if your minister of police, Regnier, has told you so, he only shows that he is no man to be at the head of the police, and knows nothing of the detective service. I tell you, general, there are secret societies in Paris, and I ought to know, for I am a member of four separate ones."
"Ah! sir," sneered Bonaparte, "you are out of your head! Before, you spoke of three conspiracies, and now they have grown to be four."
"I am speaking now of secret societies, consul, for not every secret society can be called a conspiracy. Before, when I was giving account of conspiracies, I mentioned three; now, when we speak of secret societies, I have to mention a fourth. But this does not deserve the name of a conspiracy, for its object is not murder and revolution, nor does it arm itself with daggers and pistols."
"I should be curious to know the name of your fourth society," cried
Bonaparte, impatiently.
"I will satisfy your curiosity, general. This fourth secret society bears the name 'the Bonapartists,' or—allow me to approach you closer, that the walls of the old palace may not hear the word—or 'the Imperialists.' "
Bonaparte shrank back, and a glow of red passed for a moment over his cheeks. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean by that, general, what I have already said: your brow is made not to wear laurels alone, but a crown, and there is only one way to destroy the other three conspiracies—the way proposed by the fourth secret society. In order to make the efforts of the republicans and royalists ineffective, and to tread them under your feet, France needs an emperor."
"And do you want to make your manikin, Louis XVII., Emperor of
France?"
"No, general," answered Fouche, solemnly—"no; I want to make Consul
Bonaparte Emperor of the French!"
The consul trembled, and his eyes flashed through the apartment, the former cabinet of Louis XVI., as if he wanted to convince himself that no one had heard this dangerous word of the future. Then he slowly bent forward without meeting Fouche's looks, which were intently fixed upon him.
A pause ensued—a long, anxious pause. Then Bonaparte slowly raised his eye again, and now it was filled as with sunlight.
"Is your fourth secret society numerous?" he asked, with that magical smile which won all hearts.
"It comprises artists, poets, scholars, and above every thing else, officers and generals," replied Fouche. "It grows more numerous every day, and as fortunately I have only been deposed from my place of minister of police, but still remain a member of the senate of the republic, it has been my effort to gain over in the senate influential members for my secret society of imperialists. If my hopes are crowned with success, the secret society will soon become an open one, and the senate will apply to you with a public request to put an end to all these conspiracies and intrigues, to place yourself at the head of France, and accept the imperial crown which the senate offers you. But—"
"I comprehend your 'but,' Fouche," interrupted Bonaparte, eagerly. "You want to make your conditions. An imperial crown does not fall direct from heaven upon the head of a man; there must be hands there to take it, and it might happen that they would be crushed by the falling crown. They must be paid for their heroism, therefore. Let us suppose, then, that I give credence to all your stories, even that about the empire of the future—tell me, now, what you demand."
"General, if I show you and all France by facts that the country is rent by conspiracies, that the cancer of secret societies is eating into the very marrow of the land, and imperilling all its institutions, will you confess to me then that I am better adapted to be the head of the police than M. Regnier d'Angely, who insists and dares to say to you that there are no secret societies in France?"
"Prove to me by facts the existence of your conspiracies, and I will commission you to help me destroy this hydra's head. Give me the proofs, and you shall be head of police again."
Fouche bowed. "You shall have the proofs, general, to-day—at once, provided that we thoroughly understand each other. I am ambitious, general, and I have no wish to be driven back for a single day into nothingness, as I should be, if my enemies withdraw their confidence in me. Now I am, at least, a member of the senate; but if the senate is dissolved, and I should subsequently be deposed again from the head of the police, I should be nothing but Fouche—Fouche fallen out of favor. Voila tout!"
"No, not so," said Bonaparte, with a smile. "You will always be known as the murderer of the king; that is a fine title for a republican, is it not?"
"Ah, general, I see that you understand me," cried Fouche. "We are now talking about a name, a position, a title for me. Provided that here in the Tuileries a throne is reestablished, we must have a court again, men with orders, titles, and dignities."
"It is true," said Bonaparte, thoughtfully. "The world continues to revolve in the same circles of folly and vanity, and after making an effort to withdraw from them, it falls back again into the old ruts. Men are nothing but actors, and every one wants to adorn himself with glistening rags, in order to take the first part, and have his name go upon the poster of history. Well, how would you be called, Fouche, if the drama of an empire should really be brought forward upon the great stage of the world? "
"I should like the title of a prince or duke, sire." Bonaparte could scarcely suppress the smile of satisfaction that played over his face. It was the first time that he had ever been addressed as king or emperor, and this "sire" which Fouche dropped into the ear of Bonaparte like a sweet poison, flattered his senses and soothed him like delightful music. But the strength of his genius soon resumed its sway, and he broke out into a loud, merry laugh.
"Confess, Fouche," he cried, "that it is comical to hear the consul talking with a senator of the republic about an empire and ducal titles. Truly, if the strict republicans of your conspiracy number one should hear this, they would be justified in accusing us as traitors and conspirators."
"We must get the start of them—we must accuse them."
"If we possess secure means to do so."
"I possess them, and I will give them to you, Consul Bonaparte, as soon as the emperor of the future assures me of a princely title, in addition to the chieftaincy of police."
"Very well," said Bonaparte, laughing, "the emperor of the future promises you that as soon as he is able to bake a batch of these delicacies, he will put his chief of police in the oven and draw him out as a prince or a duke. The emperor of the future gives you his word of honor that he will do it. Are you satisfied now, my lord republican?"
"Sire, completely satisfied," said Fouche, bowing low.
"And now let us talk together seriously," said Bonaparte. "You have spoken of conspiracies; you assert that they exist, but do not forget that you have promised me tangible proofs—understand me well, tangible proofs; that is, it is not enough for me to see the papers and the lists of conspirators who have escaped into foreign lands—I want persons, men of flesh and blood—traitors whom I may hang, not in effigy, but in reality, and who may serve as a warning example to the whole herd of conspirators, and put an end forever to this nonsense. I am wearied of being perpetually threatened by traitors, poisoned daggers, air-guns, plots, and intrigues, of all kinds. It is time to hunt down the chief men of these bravoes who have been sent here from England, Germany, Russia, and Italy, and I have had enough of illustrating the old proverb, 'Hang the little thief and let the great one run.' I mean to have the great thief and to hang him, for that is the only way of intimidating these fellows and inspiring them with respect."
"Sire, you shall have your great thieves," said Fouche, with a smile.
"Give them into my hands, and I promise you they shall never escape," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is high time to make an example, and show these people at last that I claim the right of paying back. The Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien are always egging their conspirators upon me; they appear to have no other aim than to get rid of me, and are unwearied with their daggers, infernal machines, and counter-plots. But their own persons, and those of their highest helpers, always remain beyond reach. They arrange their plans always at a safe distance, and risk nothing by this; for, if we take some of their subordinate tools and punish them, they make an outcry about barbarity and cruelty, and appeal to their sacred right of using all means to regain their inheritance, and reestablish the throne in France. They do not deny that they would have no conscientious scruples about shedding my blood. Now, why should I have any about shedding theirs? Blood for blood, that is the natural and unavoidable law of retaliation, and woe to him who lays claim to it! These Bourbons do so. I have never injured one of them personally; a great nation has placed me at its head; my blood is worth as much as theirs, and it is time at last that I make it al pari with theirs. I will no longer serve as a target for all murderers, and then afterward only find the dagger, instead of seizing the hands that ply it. Let me once have hold of the hands, and all the daggers will disappear forever!"
"I will give these hands into your power, or, at least, some fingers of them."
"I want them all," cried Bonaparte, eagerly,—"all the fingers, all the hands. You have spoken of three different conspiracies. I want the leaders of them, and then all others may run. If the hydra loses its three heads, it must at last die. So give me the three heads, that of the republicans and of the two royalist parties. The head of conspiracy number two I know; it is the Count de Lille. He is the sly spider who always withdraws behind his nets, but I know the hand, too, that is set in motion by this head; it is the Duke d'Enghien. He is an untiring conspirator, wholly occupied with infernal machines and daggers for me. Ah! let him take care of himself, the little Duke d'Enghien. If I take him, I will exercise the right of retaliation upon him, for I am determined to have peace. "We now come to your conspiracy number three, to your Deus ex machina, the so-called Louis XVII. This Deus really exists?"
"Yes, general, he exists."
Bonaparte laughed aloud, but his laughter sounded like a threat. "I have heard of this story," he said. "The good-natured Kleber believed it, and, after his death, a paper was given to me, written by him, and directed to me, which stated that his so-called nephew Louis was the heir of the King of France, and implored me earnestly to take the orphan of the Temple under my protection. I instituted inquiries for him at once; it was after the battle of Marengo, and this Monsieur Louis was, till then, adjutant of General Desaix."
"Yes, general, adjutant of Desaix, down to the battle of Marengo— that is, to the death of Desaix."
"If I mistake not, his adjutant was wounded in the battle, and lay at the hospital in Alessandria."
"It is so, general. I wonder how closely you have been informed respecting the fortunes of this young man."
"From that time all trace of him has been lost, and all my inquiries have proved in vain. The adjutant of Desaix, who fought so bravely, and who bore my dying comrade in his arms, deserved advancement, and I wanted to give it to him, and therefore searched for him, but in vain. I believed him dead, and now you come and tell me about a conspiracy in favor of Louis XVII. This young pretender is still alive, then, and there are childlike souls who believe his story, are there?"
"General, he says little, for he is very silent and reticent, but he has testimonials which speak for him, and which show that his story is not an idle tale, but a fragment of history. His papers give clear and undeniable evidence cf his lineage and the course of his life."
"I should like to see these papers once," said the consul.
"He never lets them go out of his hands, for he knows very well that they are his security for a crown."
"Then bring me the man himself, and then I shall have him and his papers," said Bonaparte, with a growl like a lion's. "Is not he the head of the conspiracy?"
"Yes, general, the head of a conspiracy which I have conducted, because I meant to have all the threads in my hands, if I was to see clearly. In order to prove the royalists, I threw them this bait, and many of them have taken the hook and come over to the young king. In this way I have made a division in the ranks of the royalists, and the Count de Lille already sees the consequences. The so-called orphan of the Temple has at this hour no enemy who hates him more than the Count de Lille."
"But this enmity of the Count de Lille vanishes like a glow-worm in the darkness. I want tangible proofs by which I can arrest my enemies. Can you give them to me?"
"General, it will not be difficult to do this. We will speak of it hereafter. Allow me first a word about this dangerous adjutant of Desaix, Colonel Louis. You said, general, that you made futile efforts to gain information about this interesting and brave young man. Those efforts were made in the years when M. Regnier d'Angely was chief of police, in which my enemies succeeded in withdrawing the confidence of the First Consul from me. But had I been chief of police at that time, I should have been able to tell you that the young man whom you were seeking, and respecting whom you obtained no information, was living here in Paris."
"What!" cried Bonaparte, in amazement. "This so-called Louis XVII. in Paris, then?" "General, he is still here; he has been living in Paris for about four years—about as long as M. Regnier has been head of police."
"And Regnier has told me nothing about it! Has he not known that so dangerous a person was living in Paris?"
Fouche shrugged his shoulders. "Monsieur Regnier—who doubts the existence of secret societies in France, and tells you that the assassins who have so often of late imperilled your life have all been sent hither from foreign parts by the pretenders to the crown, and that there are no conspirators in France—Monsieur Regnier could not of course know the head of this secret society. He left them to follow their own pleasures unhindered here in Paris. But I know them, and I give you my word of honor, general, that the so-called nephew of Kleber is living here in Paris. Directly after his arrival he came to me, and I handed to him the papers and documents which Desaix intrusted to me, and which I had solemnly sworn to deliver to his adjutant Louis. The young man gave me his confidence, and when I spoke to him regretfully and with enthusiasm about his father and his mother, and addressed him as 'his majesty,' I won his love. He opened his heart to me, confessed that he was Louis XVII., and asked my counsel and help. I promised him both, and showed myself to him in a very compliant and devoted mood. My first counsel was, that he should live incognito under a borrowed name. In order that this might be possible, I gave him the name for his incognito, and had all the necessary documents prepared, the certificate of his birth, baptism, the marriage of his parents, and the will of his relatives."
"And all these documents were false and forged?" said Bonaparte, in amazement.
"There are everywhere pliable public officials in France," replied Fouche, with a smile. "I did not content myself with procuring for my protege the papers which insured him an honorable name, respectable family position, and a life without care; I did much more for him. I followed the efforts already related with others. I had a certificate of the death of M. Louis prepared, so as to give him a passport out of life. In order to protect himself from every injury, I told him that he, as the adjutant of Desaix, must pass as dead. He approved of it, and I took the pains to procure from the hospital at Alessandria a duly signed and sealed certificate that Colonel Louis, the adjutant of General Desaix, died of his wounds there."
"Good God!" cried Bonaparte, "is every thing in life to be bought and sold thus?"
"Yes, general, every thing—loyalty and love, life and death. I have caused the son of the King of France to die, and then rise again— and all with gold. But, when the certificate arrived, a change had occurred in my relations. I had been removed from office, and Regnier was my successor. I kept the certificate in my possession; but, in order to secure my protege against what might befall me in case of my death, I wrote to him that I had received the papers, and that he would live without danger in Paris, under his assumed name. This letter I signed with my whole name, and set my seal to it, that in case of need it might be of service to him."
"Fouche, you are a sly fox," said Bonaparte, with a laugh. "It is easier to get out of the way of a cannonball than out of your snares. One might say to you, in the words of the King of Prussia, 'God defend mo from my friends, from my enemies I can defend myself!' According to this you have caused Colonel Louis to die for friendship's sake, and rise again under another name."
"Yes, general, that is it! Colonel Louis—that is, the rightful king, Louis XVII.—is a tool in my hands, which I hold as a check to all parties, and which I can hold up or withdraw according as it pleases me. At present my game is not merely to bring disunion and hatred into the ranks of the royalists, but to bring over many republicans who have a soft heart, to be zealous partisans of the young and unfortunate king."
"And afterward," said Bonaparte, with a sterner tone, "you might make use of this instrument to intimidate that fourth party of which you spoke before—the Bonapartists. But you have been mistaken, Fouche; this reckoning does not do—your cunning has overreached itself. You do not terrify me; and if it could really happen that the French nation should offer me an imperial crown, at the same time that I should accept it, I should put my foot on the neck of all rebels and pretenders. With a single tread I would crush them all. I want no parties, no political factions; I want to bring all these risings and agitations to silence. There shall be no secret societies in France; and against each and every conspirator, whatever his rank may be, I will bring from this time forth the whole weight of the law. Mark this, Fouche! I mean to make an end of all parties, and only when you shall give their chiefs into my hand- -not for my personal vengeance, for I cherish no vengeance against those cowardly worms of conspirators, but for the righteous punishment and retaliatory laws of France—only when you are able, by one grand coup, and one well-founded charge, to destroy all conspiracies, and bring all secret coalitions to the light, only then shall you become chief of police—only then will the future emperor give you the title of duke."
"General, I build on your word, and I am sure of becoming chief of police and duke. We will put an end to all conspiracies."
"And to the Monsieur Louis, too," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is a disagreeable and troublesome figure. So long as he lives he would live in the ermine of the imperial cloak like a troublesome insect, which always stings and pricks. One must not allow such insects to find their way into his fur, and this Monsieur Louis must be put out of the way once for all. I hope he has entered deeply enough into the conspiracy, not to come out of it again with a whole skin!"
"General, I have told you already, that day before yesterday his dependants saluted him, in a secret gathering, as their king. It is true, indeed, that the poor little fellow strongly opposed it, and obstinately refused to accept all honors, but the fact remains unchanged."
"And on the ground of this fact shall he be apprehended," cried
Bonaparte, with a threatening voice.
"There must be an example made, and this Louis is a suitable person for it. He must be the bete de souffrance for all the rest. He is the head of a conspiracy; we will crush this head, and the limbs will fall of themselves. Besides the sensitive souls who love nurses' stories and believe in every thing, there will be no one who will weep for him. No one will lament his death, but he will be a warning to all. Direct yourself to this, Fouche, and set all the infernal machines of your intrigues in operation that we may put an end to conspiracy."
"General, only one thing is wanting; it is that I be at the head of the police, and have the power in my hands to make my infernal machines effectual."
"But I have told you that I will appoint you as minister only when you give me incontrovertible proofs that your conspiracies are not the fabric of your own phantasy."
"Very well, general, now that we are at one, I am prepared to give you these proofs. I have told you that the royalists and republicans have united for the purpose of taking your life. They have chosen fifty men by ballot, in foreign parts, who are to come to Paris and accomplish here the great work of your destruction. These fifty assassins have arrived in Paris, and their chief men had an interview yesterday with the chiefs of the conspiracies here."
"Fouche!" cried Bonaparte, with a threatening voice, "think well what you are saying. You are playing for the stake of your own head! If these fifty assassins are creatures of your own imagination, it is you who will have to pay for it."
"These fifty men have been in Paris since the day before yesterday," rejoined Fouche, quietly. "They came hither by different roads, and appearing like simple travellers, and yesterday they had their first interview with the chief of the republican party."
"Who is this chief? Name him, or I will call you a liar and impostor!"
"This chief," said Fouche, slowly, and measuring every word, "this chief is General Moreau."
Bonaparte uttered a low cry, an ashy paleness suffused his cheeks; he pressed his lips together, and his eyes flamed out such darts of rage that even Fouche trembled and lowered his gaze.
"Moreau," muttered Bonaparte, after a long pause, "Moreau a conspirator, a traitor! Moreau in an alliance with assassins whom the royalists are sending out against me! I knew very well that he was my enemy, but I did not think that his enmity would lead him to be a murderer!"
He walked up and down with quick steps, his hands folded behind his back, then stopped short before Fouche and looked him full in the face.
"Fouche, do you abide by your assertion, that Moreau is a conspirator?"
"I abide by it, general."
"And those fifty assassins, whom the royalists have sent, are in
Paris?"
"Yes, general, they are in Paris, and Georges and Pichegru are at their head."
"Fouche," cried Bonaparte, clinching his fist and raising it threateningly, "Fouche, so sure as God lives, I will have you hanged as a traitor if you have lied!"
"General, as surely as God lives, I have spoken the truth. I came here to show you what I am, and what Regnier is. I have waited here till the whole net of these conspiracies should be spread out and be fully complete. The time has come when I must speak; and now I say to you, general, take some steps, for there is danger on foot!"
Bonaparte, trembling with emotion, had thrown himself into an arm- chair, and took, as was his custom in moments of the greatest excitement, his penknife from the writing-desk, and began to whittle on the back of the chair.
Fouche stood leaning against the wall, and looked with complete calmness and an invisible smile at this singular occupation of the general, when the door of the cabinet was opened, and the Mameluke Roustan appeared at the entrance.
"Consul," he said, softly, "Councillor Real is again here, and pressingly desires an audience."
Bonaparte rose, and threw away the knife. "Real!" he cried in a loud tone.
The man who was summoned immediately appeared at the open door—a tall, grave personage, with a face so pale and distorted that Bonaparte noticed it, despite his great agitation.
"What is it, Real?" he asked, eagerly. "Have you spoken with the condemned man?"
"Yes, general, I have spoken with him," whispered Real, with pale lips.
"And it is as I said, is it not? This Doctor Querolle has only pretended to be able to make great disclosures, only to prolong his own life a few hours. He has poisoned his wife, in order to marry his mistress, and the poisoner is executed."
"General," cried Fouche, almost with an air of joy, "I knew Querolle, and I knew that his wife poisoned herself. Querolle is not a poisoner."
"What is he then, M. Omniscience?"
"General, he is a conspirator!"
"A conspirator!" repeated Bonaparte, and now his troubled face turned again to the councillor. "Real, what do you know? What did the condemned man say to you?"
"Consul, he swore that he was innocent of the death of his wife, but he acknowledged himself a member of a conspiracy, the object of which is to murder General Bonaparte. He asserts that the royalists and republicans have allied themselves; that fifty emissaries of the Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien, Pichegru and Georges at their head, have crept into Paris; that they had an interview yesterday with General Moreau, and with the so-called King Louis XVII., who is secreted in Paris, and that at this hour those fifty men are prowling around the streets of the city, and are watching the Tuileries, waiting for an opportunity to kill the First Consul."
The troubled eye of Bonaparte turned slowly from the pale face of Councillor Real to the calm, sagacious face of Fouche, which guarded itself well from expressing any token of triumph and satisfaction. The consul then walked slowly through the room, and with his foot pushed open the door leading into the great reception-room, in which, at this hour every day, all the dignitaries of the republic were assembled, to receive the orders of Bonaparte.
"Murat!" cried Bonaparte, loudly; and at once the person summoned, General Murat, at that time governor of Paris, appeared at the door of the cabinet.
"Murat," said Bonaparte, in the tones in which he issued his commands on the battle-field, "give orders at once that the gates of Paris be closed, and that no stranger be allowed to go out of the city till you have further orders. You will come to me in an hour, and receive a proclamation to your soldiers, which you will sign; have it printed and posted at the street-corners of Paris. Make all these preparations! Go!"
Murat withdrew from the room with a salutation of deference, and now the commanding voice of Bonaparte summoned his chief adjutant from the reception-room.
"Duroc," said the First Consul, with calm, almost solemn voice, "you will go with twelve soldiers in pursuit of General Moreau, and arrest him wherever you find him."
The noble, open face of Duroc grew pale, and put on an expression of horror and amazement. "General," he whispered, "I beg that-"
But this time Bonaparte would not listen to the soothing words of his favorite.
"No replies!" he thundered. "You have only to obey! Nothing more!"
Duroc, pale and agitated, withdrew, and Bonaparte closed the door of the cabinet. "Real," he said, "return to the prison of the condemned man; take him his pardon, and bring him to me, that I may hear him myself. Hasten!"
Real withdrew, and Bonaparte and Fouche remained alone.
"You have given your proofs, Fouche, and now I believe you. When wolves are to be hunted down you are a good bloodhound, and we will begin the chase. I make you from this moment chief of the secret police; your first duty will be to bring this matter to an end, and help me to tear to pieces the whole murderous web, your reward being that I will nominate you again minister of police. [Footnote: The appointment of Fouche as the chief of police took place in June of the year 1804.] I will fulfil my promise so soon as you shall have made good yours, and put me in possession of the chief conspirators."
"You have just arrested Moreau, general," replied Fouche, deferentially. "I give you my word that in a few hours Pichegru and Georges will be apprehended."
"You forget the chief person," cried Bonaparte, over whose brazen forehead a thunder-cloud seemed to pass. "You forget the caricature of buried royalty, the so-called King Louis XVII. Hush! I tell you I will have this man. I will draw out the fangs of this royal adder, so that he cannot bite any more! Bring the man before me. The republic is an angry goddess, and demands a royal offering. Give this impostor into my hands, or something worse will happen! Go, and I advise you to bring me, before the sun goes down, the tidings that this fabled King Louis is arrested, or the sun of your good fortune is set forever! Now away! Go out through the little corridor, and then through the secret gate-you know the way. Go!"
Fouche did not dare to contradict the imperative order, but softly and hastily moved toward the curtain which led to the gloomy anteroom, and thence through a door, which only those initiated knew how to open, and which led to the little corridor.
But scarcely had Fouche entered this little dismal room, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and a woman's voice whispered to him:
"I must speak to you—at once! Come! this way!"
The hand drew him forward to the wall, a door sprang open without sound, and the voice whispered: "Four stairs down. Be careful!"