Searchers in Winter, page 45
“Alas, yes, it is true,” Jean-Luc said with an embarrassed smile as they finished breakfast one morning. “That was my most recent, and likely final, meeting with the emperor.”
“So,” André said over a cup of coffee, “the Grand Armée marched into Paris, and after all the service you’ve given the empire—Napoleon said that?”
Lucille placed an arm around Jean-Luc’s shoulder, evidently amused at his misfortune. “That was his thanks for the ‘hero of Naples.’”
“It was just my luck,” Jean-Luc admitted, grinning sheepishly, “that Minister Fouché was riding alongside Napoleon. Thank God Joseph recognized me—otherwise I think I might have been arrested. But as they rode past on the Champs-Élysées, I saw the police minister whisper something into the emperor’s ear. The emperor turned and offered me a scornful look—oh, I’ll never forget it. He then leaned forward and said to Fouché in a voice loud enough for all nearby to hear, ‘Such men as that deserve no place in the presence of lions such as these’—pointing at the tall men of his Imperial Guard marching in glory behind him. A moment later he was gone—my final meeting with Napoleon.” He threw up his hands and bowed slightly.
“Good riddance,” Lucille scoffed.
Sophie nodded her agreement. “Any man who confides in Fouché and rejects our ‘hero of Naples’ cannot possibly be a true genius.” She stood and walked over to Jean-Luc, wrapping him in a consoling embrace that felt somehow congratulatory.
Moreau leaned forward. “But one last question, if you please, senator,” he said. “What of the woman who ran away with the fortune from your estates? Where did this Madame Maduro make off to?”
Jean-Luc smiled ruefully, his hand still holding Lucille’s. “Well,” he sighed, “Isabella never told me where she would go. But after she left Paris, my brave young friend Camille seemed to behave more—like himself—perhaps no longer feeling controlled by his mother…that was his true relation to Isabella.” A loud gasp emanated from the table, all except Lucille. “Camille, or should I say Camillo, had seized several letters before she made her departure. With Lucille’s professional assistance, we were able to confirm that the letters were intended for the police minister—the cardinal—and they revealed most of the boy’s history. Apparently from a young age he suffered bouts of dizziness; he would suddenly lose his vision and stumble. One day, when they still lived in Spain, Camille walked out into the street in front of a carriage; like there was no one else on the road. The horses were reined in, but not in time. The boy was struck—and in the aftermath, Isabella, who had been abandoned by her family for her outspoken republican views, had the carriage driver put behind bars, at an expensive price. The driver was a cousin or some such relation to the mayor, and this mayor demanded payment from Isabella for his relation to be locked away. It was in the aftermath of these events that she decided to make her move to Paris. Well, that is a hidden part of her story, but the worst part was the confession.”
“Confession?” Sophie asked.
Jean-Luc took a sip of tea. “In a letter sent after she’d arrived in Paris, this also addressed to Fouché, she admitted to something quite disturbing. The real reason the carriage driver’s prison term was bought at such a high price was that, according to his testimony, the woman escorting Camille, Isabella—she saw the boy walk out into the street and made no move to stop him. True, she reacted with horror upon seeing the incident, but if her word to Fouché is to be believed, she grew tired of fighting against the inevitable. Now, in her defense, I never saw her so much as raise her voice to the boy, and I do believe her affection was genuine; but part of me believes her guilt at allowing, or at least not preventing, such a terrible injury weighed on her so deeply that her love and devotion to him was the penance for her horrific negligence.”
Everyone at the table received this news with a look of shock. It was Lucille who finally broke the silence. “I knew the woman was a devil the first I laid eyes on her. A part of me wanted to warn you.” She looked at Jean-Luc. “But I was not sure about you either—at first. Arriving from your meeting with Fouché with an air of self-importance, as if your business with the canal superseded every other matter. You seemed genuinely happy with her, and I did not think it my place to interfere in a personal matter.”
André smirked at his friend. “You might have saved a lot of trouble if you had.”
Jean-Luc shrugged, no stranger to these ruminations himself. “What’s done is done. But to answer your question about Isabella’s whereabouts, major, I can say only this—while I may no longer hold the professional affections of Napoleon, and never quite had the affections of Fouché, at the very least I maintain rather good relations with Monsieur Joseph Bonaparte. We correspond from time to time, and on rare occasions he’ll admit me to the Tuileries for a conversation; not everyone in the administration is convinced my word is scandalous. Anyhow, he’s informed me that the affairs of Naples no longer carry much interest for him, and that he’s taken to learning Spanish. After considering this not-so-cryptic news, I petitioned him for a bit of personal assistance. Namely, seeking out a certain woman from Catalonia, known to be desirous of an estate in Minorca—this knowledge coming from Camillo, who showed me the books she purchased that describe the place. So, I have word that should Joseph find himself on the Iberian Peninsula in the near future, he might send agents to investigate.”
Everyone exchanged smiles, Sophie looking more astonished than the others. “Well, St. Clair,” she said, “you’ve come quite a long way since I visited in Paris; lost to the depths of despair, bottles and plates strewn about like some pirate ship.”
Jean-Luc pursed his lips. “Yes, many things have changed. For all of us. And for the better at last.”
As they cleared their plates, one of the farm boys entered, followed by a certain wine smuggler from Saint-Denis. Pierre-Yves Gagnon had accepted Jean-Luc’s offer to return to Carcourt; ostensibly to see the improvements made to the house and grounds, but Jean-Luc surmised that the old smuggler’s roguish instincts remained and he had come to snatch another look at Madame Sophie Valiere.
Gagnon bowed to the ladies present and handed André a note. After thanking Gagnon and the boy for delivering it, André cleared his throat and read it aloud:
Lieutenant-Colonel Valiere,
Some months ago, I told you the fortune of Hesse-Kassel was out of reach, and that you would be better served tending to your duty to your soldiers and your family. I am happy to learn that you have followed my advice. Now that the cares and toils of war have eased a little, I shall offer you one final bit of advice: Come tomorrow, wait until eventide, and then bring two or three able-bodied men to the inlet between Honfleur and Pennedepie. You will notice a skiff arriving. Do not worry about tricks; you will find no danger as long as the boatman finds none.
Once again, I offer my thanks for your sparing my life when the laws of warfare decreed mine was finished. I believe you made the right choice, however, and if you doubt it, then perhaps wait until tomorrow before drawing any conclusion. We would be honored to have you visit us here on our island, but we understand that to be difficult given the current circumstances; rest assured, we will do everything in our power to bring a swift and decisive end to it.
Profiter du cadeau, et au-revoir mon ami.
—Monsieur William Hackett
The following evening as the sun fell beyond the western shoreline, André halted his cart overlooking the inlet indicated in Hackett’s letter. Beside him sat Jean-Luc, and trailing behind on horseback were Marcel and Gagnon.
Moreau had said little on the ride out, and André eyed him as they looked out over the gentle dunes and rolling waves, understanding that the sea held a terrible beauty in the man’s memory. André felt that his former executive officer’s struggles and triumphs had somehow become his own. This moment was a triumph, and André smiled at his friend, hoping he had found a measure of peace after a lifetime of scars.
“Well,” Gagnon broke the silence, “will we have to get our boots wet, or will this English rascal come to us?”
André didn’t respond, as he had his own questions as to what they might expect. He did not believe, after all their trouble, that Hackett would be luring them into a trap, but the wily Englishman did have a cunning side. Even as a prisoner apparently bound for the scaffold, Hackett had maintained a level of composure and ease that André still found incredible, as if he were a player with the advantage of knowing which cards the others had been dealt.
“Perhaps,” André said, “he, or they, will come to us.”
As they waited, André and Jean-Luc exchanged the news they had not discussed at breakfast; chiefly, what occupation Jean-Luc would take up now that he was no longer a senator, nor a penniless outlaw.
Jean-Luc looked down at the sleepy coastal village of Honfleur in the distance. “I could return to the profession of law, but, truth be told, that no longer holds much interest for me.”
André nodded as he watched Marcel and Gagnon throw knives at a nearby tree. Gagnon was complaining that Marcel had cheated in his last throw.
“What holds your interest, then?” André asked.
“Since I was young, I thought that if I could attain some measure of influence then I might use it to help others, to serve others.” He threw a pebble down the hill and watched it disappear out of view. “But once I’d achieved that power it threw me into confusion. I began to fear losing that influence I’d worked so hard to attain. I grew more concerned with power than the things that had inspired me to begin with. So, I think I will do what I should have done a long time ago. I will serve others and not myself. Lucille supports my plans to open an orphanage, possibly in the marquis’s mansion. Or elsewhere, if it grows.”
“That one there,” André said quietly, nodding toward Moreau, “charged the enemies’ cannons six times, refusing to retreat. He charged the guns after being wounded, as if begging for death to take him. I guess death didn’t want him. He was taken by the enemy; wounded beyond saving, so they must have thought. They left him behind when they retreated back north. He wandered through the snow for almost a week until he regained our lines.” André shook his head.
“I’m slightly frightened by him,” Jean-Luc admitted, smiling at André. “But I can see the love you and your men have for him. He has earned the right to live a full life. When I return to my life in Paris, if I can find a way to raise the funds, I will also do what I can to open a house for wounded veterans. Provide them with some honest work; God knows we have enough of them.”
“And more still to come,” André said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Despite the many ups and downs the years have thrown your way, you’re still the stubborn, industrious, bothersome, do-good lawyer that I met in a Paris office many years ago.”
“I’ll take that over the ‘hero of Naples.’”
An hour after darkness had fallen, a gentle rolling could be heard along the road. André had pulled his cart to the side of the road, and the four men sat up, watching for who or what might be approaching. A wagon pulled by a stocky draft horse rolled into view. The animal labored as it made its way up from the inlet, rolling to a halt when it reached their cart. The driver, an old man with a large beard and wearing a felt cap, asked, “Monsieur Valiere?”
“I am he.” André climbed down from the wagon and approached the stranger. “With whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
The man removed his cap and dropped the reins. He lumbered his way off the wagon and bowed to the four men. “Messieurs, I am called Jacques. I am the caretaker of the lighthouse situated on the other side of those dunes you see. I also have a ferry to transfer folks across the Crique to Le Havre.”
“It is nice to meet you, Jaqcues,” André replied. “I am joined by my companions, all of whom share my curiosity as to what we’ve come out here to find.”
The old man rubbed his bald pate. He took a pipe out of his coat pocket, lit it, and said, “I share your curiosity, then.” He took several puffs. “All I know is, my employer delivered this wagon to me last night. He told me it came as a gift from one of his acquaintances; who that might be, I did not inquire. I was instructed to bring it to this place after nightfall, to be delivered to an André Valiere.”
André looked at the wagon, circling it once to determine if there was anything special about it. Moreau and Gagnon opened the back flap and rummaged through the contents within.
“Well, major,” Gagnon called out, his head popping through the canvas, “there’s three large wine barrels in here. Enough to get us all blinkered.”
“This was a gift from him?” Jean-Luc asked. “The English gentleman?”
André nodded, eyeing the driver carefully. But the old man just quietly smoked his pipe as they took turns examining it. At last André exhaled, motioning for Moreau and Gagnon to climb down.
“Well, monsieur, I thank you for taking the trouble to deposit this gift with us.” He handed the man several bills and shook his hand, still searching for any indication that he knew more than he let on. Satisfied that the man was simply performing his duties, André shook his hand and sent him on his way.
“It seems strange,” Jean-Luc said, echoing André’s thoughts, “to go through all that trouble just to bring you a gift of wine.”
Moreau, who had lit a pipe of his own, walked over. “Hackett was always an odd bird. He likely still feels grateful for not losing his head.”
André nodded. “I hope he’s still grateful. We let him return to his countrymen while we returned to war. They probably located the horde of riches days after we parted ways.”
Jean-Luc shook his head. “Better he than Carnassier.”
Inside the wagon, Gagnon tapped at one of the floorboards beneath the barrels. “Holy mother of Christ in heaven,” he shouted.
André exchanged a look with Jean-Luc. A moment later Gagnon’s face reappeared through the flap.
“Eh, Monsieur Valiere, Monsieur St. Clair, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”
“What is it?” Jean-Luc asked.
“St. Clair,” Gagnon sounded almost frantic, “just shut up and come look.”
With a collective shrug André, Jean-Luc, and Marcel assented, climbing into the carriage one by one. When they were all clustered under the canvas, Gagnon looked at each one as if he’d seen a ghost. “Well, what is it?” Moreau demanded. “What has gone wrong now?”
Gagnon had shoved one of the barrels into a corner, so a plank of wood lay visible. As if he were staring at a feast, he looked at the plank. “Gentlemen,” he began, “do you know what that is?’
“It looks like a piece of wood,” Moreau offered.
Gagnon looked up, eyes wide. “Monsieur St. Clair, you’re aware of my alternative occupations, are you not?”
“Apart from gaming houses, brothels, street thuggery, and smuggling? I hope I haven’t missed any.”
Gagnon waved his hand. “The last one—”
“What are you getting at monsieur?” André demanded.
Gagnon’s features loosened, and he leaned back slowly with a self-satisfied air. “You, gentlemen, are sitting on the contents of something you can hardly fathom. But,” he reached down and, after tapping the wooden plank several times at each corner, he said, “have a look at your gift, Monsieur Valiere.”
He grabbed the plank and tugged ever so slightly—it slid off with hardly any resistance. Beneath it was a small trunk—filled to the brim. The three men watching him let out a collective gasp, and for nearly a minute they stared in complete silence.
With that they turned back in the direction of André’s home, leading the cart and its unexpected contents along the quiet country road.
Author’s note
This is a fictional story set in the midst of a tumultuous and epic period of world history, the War of the Fourth Coalition (1806–1807). I sought to portray historical persons, places, and events as accurately as possible. The full effects this broader conflict, known as the Napoleonic Wars, had on the people of Europe was profound, and it would not conclude until Napoleon’s final downfall in 1815.
One of the many significant legacies of this era involves the illustrious Rothschild fortune. The underlying circumstances of this family and the beginning of its fortune described in the book are real, in that Prince Regent Wilhelm of Hesse-Cassel did entrust Mayer Amschel Rothschild with state finances and tax collection duties, as well as facilitating payments for the deployment of Hessian mercenaries to America during our revolution. The particulars of this fortune’s fate during Napoleon’s conquests are where the history begins to blend into myth.
Mayer Amschel was responsible for moving Prince Wilhelm’s fortune to safety in England. While in London, his son Nathan facilitated considerable loans from Wilhelm’s wealth, which he had access to through his father back in Frankfurt, to King George III for use against Revolutionary France and, later, Napoleon’s France. The majority of this fortune reached London; however, it was likely in the forms of bills of exchange and promissory notes, etc. So, although Prince Wilhelm likely smuggled a good amount of valuable goods and personal effects from his kingdom during Napoleon’s invasion, there is no proof that his vast fortune was ever secreted away in wine casks from Frankfurt to the North Sea. However, Mayer Rothschild would go on to smuggle goods past Napoleon’s blockades on behalf of Prince Wilhelm, so you were more likely to find a hidden fortune being snuck into Prussia rather than trying to escape it.
Another element of the plot inspired by actual history is the presence of the “outlanders” on Andre and Sophie’s fictional estate of Carcourt. In the book, these refugees and combatant “choauns” come from Brittany and the Vendée, which was the location of a brutal civil war that pitted royalists supporting King Louis XVI and who opposed mass conscription, against the republicans, who supported the revolutionary government. It continued intermittently from 1793 until Napoleon’s second abdication. Marcel Moreau tells Andre of Generals watching over his marching “infernal columns” after committing atrocities against men, women, and children. This is based in truth. The “drowning of Nantes” saw the mass executions of the families of Vendéean rebels, and some histories speak of over four hundred thousand dead in this region as a result. The outlanders are based on the refugees who fled this terrible conflict.
