Searchers in Winter, page 3
“You might well be the pope’s emissary,” the servant replied brusquely, “but if you’re not on our register I cannot allow you inside the palace grounds.”
The man was of average height, his black hair, speckled with hints of gray, pulled back in a ponytail. He bit his tongue, reminding himself that he had not traveled several hundred miles from home for this party, and he should not overestimate its importance. It had nothing to do with his mission. Still, he couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed: he had clearly come to the Palais-Royal unfashionably early. He took a breath and spoke slowly: “I am a guest of Monsieur Bergasse, mayor of Marseille. If you could perhaps search for his name, you might find mine among those of his party.”
Flipping slowly through his ledger the attendant ran a finger down the page, landing on a name that appeared to inconvenience him. He gave the visitor one last, thorough inspection, his features finally settling on an expression resembling disapproval.
“Very well, Monsieur St. Clair, it’s all in order.” He signed a ticket and handed it to Jean-Luc with a half-hearted smile. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Jean-Luc snatched the ticket and walked through the gates and into the courtyard. He ordered himself a glass of champagne to calm his frustration and took a look around. Though the soiree had not yet begun in earnest, he saw small groups gathering on either side of the numerous arcades of the grand palais. Men in fine suits and large hats; beautiful and excited women in fine dresses and shimmering jewelry. In one corner a group of well-dressed men played cards and puffed on cigars.
Standing behind their stalls, vendors peddled tastefully to their wealthy patrons; wine and cider, fabrics, hats, jewelry, perfumes, porcelain, and luxury goods of all kind were available in great quantities. Jean-Luc found himself struck by the degree of wealth and opulence, the likes of which he had never seen in the dark and starving days of the Revolution. As he passed a stall selling toys and dolls, his thoughts turned to his children, and he decided to purchase them a gift. Reaching into his pocket, he suddenly noticed two women standing behind him, one blonde and one brunette. They looked charming in dresses of blue and white, and both waved fans in front of their faces. The shorter woman in the blue dress caught Jean-Luc’s glance and smiled.
“Good evening, monsieur,” she said in a soft voice, offering her hand.
Jean-Luc took her delicate hand in his, smiling with all the charm he could muster. “Good evening, madame.”
“Oh, your accent is fine, just adorable!” she purred gaily through white teeth. “Are you Italian?”
Jean-Luc smiled. “Actually, I’m from Marse—”
“Oh, don’t look so embarrassed, my dear,” the other lady cut in. “There’s no shame in it; our Napoleon himself is a Corsican. Why, you might even be a distant relative of his; from his tribe, perhaps?”
“From his tribe? Ha, you really are too much, Elaine,” the shorter woman retorted with a cheeky smile. “What sort of barbarians do you think those people are?”
Jean-Luc smiled sheepishly. “Well I wouldn’t claim to—”
“All I’m saying,” the other woman exclaimed, “is that all of their crowd seem to be related; Bonapartes for every room in the palace. Perhaps the emperor will give this one a crown to wear and a kingdom to rule!”
“A kingdom to rule?” The other woman put a hand to her mouth, stifling a burst of laughter. “Ah! The duke of the washroom.”
“The grand duchy of the billiard hall!”
“Why, he looks like he could be a cook—the order of the Roast Chicken Legion of Honor!”
Jean-Luc’s face flashed red. “Yes, well, we all hope to make something of ourselves here, don’t we?” he offered, instantly regretting the slip of his true intentions.
“My dear fellow, we’re all here tonight for the very reason that we have made something of ourselves, otherwise we shouldn’t have been invited.”
“Oh, don’t be rude to the poor man, Mathilde,” the taller woman gently waved her fan while she surveyed Jean-Luc’s appearance. “You can see he’s only just arrived.”
“Oh, do be quiet, you impudent little grisette,” the woman called Mathilde playfully chided her friend. “Anyway, why are we standing here doing nothing when there are all these gorgeous soldiers about? Let’s go speak to them, Elaine.”
Grabbing her friend by the hand, Mathilde turned from Jean-Luc and directed their attention to a cluster of officers standing nearby. “Oh, look how tall that one is,” Elaine said, fanning herself as if overheated. “He wouldn’t fit under my roof.”
“He’ll fit under your duvet.”
With a flurry of laughter, the two women were gone, and Jean-Luc stood alone, holding a half-empty glass of champagne.
After purchasing a few small gifts for his children, he drank one more glass of champagne and dined on a few bites of mutton. He took a short walk around the courtyard before deciding he’d had enough and made an early departure.
Later that evening as he strolled along the Quai du Louvre, his spirits sank. He felt a swelling bitterness toward Mayor Bergasse for talking him into this foolish journey. This famed capital, Paris, the City of Light, had changed so much since he’d once lived here, when every day had been a struggle to carve out a life for Marie and baby Mathieu; a struggle he believed worth waging if he could play some small part in helping his fellow citizens gain a better life. Standing here now he felt insignificant and alone, a drop in a great sea that rolled on with or without him. Had this new world passed him by?
The moon’s light reflected off the Seine as it flowed gently beneath the Pont Notre-Dame. Like a whisper, something buried deep beneath the scaffold of his mind began to call out, faintly at first, but growing clearer with each passing second. He closed his eyes, and the memories returned with startling lucidity: primal screams of terror arising from prisons all over the city as priests and nobles were dragged from their cells and hacked to death by seething mobs. Wandering the streets the night after General Christophe Kellermann was condemned to the guillotine by the Revolutionary Tribunal; how the sting of a good and innocent man’s death had weighed on his conscience as if he himself had passed the sentence. He remembered the night he had seen a young General Bonaparte riding across the Pont Neuf to the eager cries and shouts of the people, only to hear later of the horrible toll in blood and death exacted on the royalists in that uprising.
But he could recall happiness from that time, too; Marie’s face when she told him of their second baby. The strength and resilience of Sophie de Vincennes even after her vengeful uncle had chased her into hiding. How happy she had been living under his roof, in the company of unexpected friends; her tears of joy upon hearing that her beloved André had survived a great battle in Egypt and was coming home.
Paris had seen so much pain and so much darkness, and yet, in this moment, that all seemed to be a world away. A young and powerful regime now held power in the Tuileries, and France’s enemies had been expelled from her borders.
Jean-Luc reflected on his own contributions to his nation—how he had stood firm in his principles even when it meant danger and possible death. He had faced down the wrath of his fanatical enemy, Guillaume Lazare and his pack of Jacobin underlings, and emerged victorious. He recalled the words Mayor Bergasse had spoken before he had left: “You are capable of achieving great things. Whatever happened in your past, let it remain there. Your future has yet to be written.”
Whether or not the new generation of “notables” had any room for him, he resolved that he would not slink away from Paris defeated. He had once plunged himself headlong into the maelstrom of revolution and war without flinching and had emerged from it stronger. No, he would not beg for the table scraps from a generation of rich latecomers eager to ride the nearest available coattail to power. He resolved that the following morning he would not play errand-boy and merely deliver his mayor’s message to Joseph Bonaparte, he would win the trust and confidence of Napoleon’s older brother.
Years ago, in times of terror and revolution, he had made a name for himself in this city. Now he would reclaim it.
Jean-Luc rose early the next morning as the sun’s first rays emerged over the eastern sky. Leaving a letter for his children with a clerk, he departed for the Tuileries before most of the city had awakened. He purchased a small piece of bread for breakfast and ate as he walked, making his way down Rue Richelieu with a renewed purpose in his step.
Although he had been in the palace before, the Tuileries seemed grander now than any other time Jean-Luc had traversed its corridors. Perhaps the awareness that a man of Napoleon’s stature held the nation in so firm a grip lent itself to the awesome power that seemed to permeate the cavernous building. Jean-Luc forced himself to suppress a feeling of astonishment as he followed a secretary over plush carpets and past elegant furniture until he opened two vast wooden doors and ushered him inside, closing the doors behind him.
He stood in a room of ornate beauty. Posted on small stands along the walls were baroque candelabras, while above him hung glittering chandeliers of glass and crystal. The ceiling was decorated with elaborate images of eagles, cherubim, and mythical figures like a scene from the Sistine Chapel. His heels clicked loudly on the wooden floor as he crossed the room; he did his best to affect an air of nonchalance, but he could not deny the thrill of finding himself in such a place again. His excitement morphed into apprehension, however, as the minutes ticked by and he had to remind himself that one who had boldly challenged the will of the Revolutionary Tribunal of the Reign of Terror should not be overwhelmed delivering a message from one man to another, even if the recipient was the brother of Emperor Napoleon. Eventually, an antechamber door opened and a young man, evidently another secretary, announced in a voice that echoed down several corridors, “Come in. Monsieur Bonaparte is waiting.”
Clearing his throat and reflexively straightening his coat, Jean-Luc entered the room. As he walked across the hardwood floor, he surveyed paintings adorning the walls that depicted famous personages from French history; conspicuously absent were any images of monarchs, however, and he wondered how long it would be until large portraits of the Bonaparte family filled the vacant spaces that had once displayed the scions of the Bourbon lineage.
He halted several paces in front of a desk where two men, one standing and speaking softly, the other seated, listening, pored over several parchments. Jean-Luc stood silently, unsure if either man realized a visitor stood before them. After a few more hushed words Jean-Luc heard the seated man say, “Yes, that is fine. Thank you, Meneval.”
The standing man took the pieces of paper and folded them under his arm. Bowing slightly, he turned and left the room without acknowledging Jean-Luc.
The seated man, who Jean-Luc could only presume to be Joseph Bonaparte, finished scribbling some notes and set down his quill. He arranged the papers into a neat pile and looked up at his visitor.
“How may I be of service to you, monsieur?” he asked in a distinct Italian accent. His words, though cordial, were expressed more as a statement of command than a question.
The man’s long nose, curly, dark hair, and round head reminded Jean-Luc of the paintings he’d seen of the Corsican’s famous younger brother, though his curved brow gave him a somewhat sad appearance. Nevertheless, sitting in his large oak chair, adorned in a high-collared blue coat with gold piping down its front, he cut an impressive figure. Jean-Luc noted the large badge coated in white glaze on his left breast; shaped like a star with five double-points, the center bore the head of a man—the emperor?—wreathed with a laurel branch. The emperor’s brother was apparently one of the first recipients of the Legion of Honor—though the award had not yet been publicly presented to the people.
Jean-Luc gathered his thoughts and answered in a sure voice, “Monsieur, my name is Jean-Luc St. Clair. I come on behalf of Pierre-Louis Bergasse, mayor of Marseille, to deliver an urgent message to the eldest brother of First Consul Bonaparte.”
Joseph Bonaparte examined Jean-Luc for a moment before replying, “Very well. What is the message, then?”
Jean-Luc produced a small roll of parchment from his briefcase and handed it to Monsieur Bonaparte. Taking the paper and cutting the seal, Bonaparte asked, “And what does Monsieur Bergasse want?”
“I was not briefed on the contents of the correspondence, monsieur,” Jean-Luc answered, “but I’ve been instructed to receive any questions or remarks upon your receipt of the dispatch.”
Joseph Bonaparte took his time reading the letter, betraying no discernible reaction. After several minutes he set the parchment down, smiling humorlessly. He rapped his knuckles on the table twice and spoke in a quiet tone. “You’ve come from Marseille yourself, monsieur?”
“I have, sir,” Jean-Luc replied.
“How was your journey?” Bonaparte asked.
“It was well enough as one could hope for, sir.”
“I’m not asking you how comfortable your carriage ride was, monsieur. How was the journey itself? Were there any troubles along the way?”
“Troubles, sir?”
“Yes—troubles. Were you imperiled in any way—bandits, highwaymen, royalist coach-robbers?”
“Oh no, no troubles of that sort at all, monsieur. The road was generally quiet.”
“Well, that is good. Poor Napoleon has had more than enough to deal with across our frontiers without having to fight off royalist bandits waylaying our own people on the highways. Now,” he leaned back, picking up a quill, “I will provide a written reply to your mayor, and I would like you to deliver it with these words from me personally: ‘When I have received my answer, Monsieur le Mayor, you shall receive yours.’”
“If I may be bold enough to ask, monsieur,” Jean-Luc replied, tempering his insistence with a subtle bow of the head. “In order to ensure a better understanding and subsequent briefing upon my return…what is it that he desires of you?”
Joseph Bonaparte’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is that your business, monsieur?”
“The mayor’s business is my business, sir.”
“Well, without divulging to an unsolicited third party the finer details of our administration’s policy,” Bonaparte began with a good-humored scowl, “I can tell you that your mayor has his sights set on acquiring certain favors from my brother on his city’s behalf regarding trade relations between itself and the kingdom of Naples. And he wishes for me to broach the matter with my brother.”
Jean-Luc nodded thoughtfully. “What does he want?”
Joseph Bonaparte sat in silence for several moments, eventually puffing out his cheeks in amusement. “Aren’t you an inquisitive little fellow? I see why that Bergasse sent you. Well, as it happens, he informs me that he has one or two carrots regarding his relations with the Neapolitans to offer my brother, should we wish to entertain his requests.”
“And I presume, sir,” Jean-Luc replied, “that his wishes of the emperor are to see the tariffs on sea-trade from Naples lowered so as to import larger quantities of certain desired goods—goods like, oh, say, timber from Dalmatia or Anatolia; which could then be purchased by the administration at a reduced price and put to good use in the growing production and development of our nation, our army, or, more specifically, our navy.”
Joseph Bonaparte smiled slightly, quickly adjusting to the swift and discerning conclusions of Monsieur St. Clair. “Perhaps it is something like that.” Though he did not say it, the elder Bonaparte felt a sudden desire to change the subject, aware of his obligation to keep valuable state secrets from this peculiar newcomer. “I’ll confess that I find you rather curious for a mere messenger, Monsieur St. Clair.”
Jean-Luc lowered his eyes for a moment. At length he cleared his throat. “Mayor Bergasse has entrusted me with a duty, Monsieur Bonaparte, one that I did not volunteer myself for. Nonetheless, when entrusted with a task, I see to it that I commit all my energies into its successful completion. At present, Mayor Bergasse is unsure of your intentions and simply wishes to gain every possible advantage in procuring your assistance. I have not spent much personal time with Monsieur le Mayor, but I believe his intentions are true, at least as true as a politician is capable of being. So, I find myself standing before you now, seeking only to turn an indifferent man into a potentially powerful ally; if that be your wish, sir.”
Joseph Bonaparte held up his hands in an exasperated gesture of defense. “All right, St. Clair, all right.” With a sigh he took a sip of water from a glass on his desk, looking down at his timepiece as he drank. When he had finished, he muttered to himself, “What hour is it? I feel like I’m back in Ajaccio being hounded by Paoli again.”
Jean-Luc started at the comment. “Forgive me, sir; did you say Paoli?”
“Eh? Oh, yes—Paoli. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Just remembering an old…friend from the days of the Revolution.” His smile betrayed a genuine bitterness that Jean-Luc understood instantly.
“I apologize, monsieur. I did not mean to pry. I know—well I knew a man once, from the south, who had been in the confidence of Monsieur Pasquale Paoli.”
Joseph Bonaparte had moved to stand; now he stopped short. “Is that so?”
Perhaps it was simple curiosity, or the catharsis that came when commiserating with another who’d endured the dark days of the Revolution, but Monsieur Bonaparte’s curiosity got the better of him and he sat back in his chair. “And who was this man?”
Jean-Luc shuddered; he could not have hidden his emotions even if he’d wished to. As he looked across the table at the brother of Napoleon Bonaparte, his mind traveled through a scene of dark visions. The Revolutionary Tribunal staring down at him with blank faces, willing him to speak the words that would send another man to his freedom, or to the scaffold and its blade of impartial mortal justice. A room of pale and wordless figures enthralled by the dark charisma of a cold and hateful man determined to seize Jean-Luc’s family from him, nearly tearing down his world before he fell—impaled on the sword of Saint Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of war, in a bloody twist of justice long overdue.
