The Sultan's Daughter Read online

  On February 23rd Roger, now resplendent in one of his new uniforms, again repaired to the house in the Rue de la Victoire. After sending in his name he was kept waiting for some time, then ushered into a small room which his master used as an office. Bonaparte was seated at a table strewn with papers, with Bourrienne beside him. Looking up he said:

  ‘I am glad you have come, Breuc, because we shall all be active again shortly. I have today sent in my report to the Directors. In it I have said that a descent on England is not practical for the present. Before that can be accomplished safely our Navy must be built up to a strength which would ensure its protecting my flotillas from the British Fleet, and hundreds of barges will have to be assembled in the estuaries along our north coast to carry our men across.

  ‘Such preparations would require many months. With the ending of spring there will be little fog in the Channel and a foggy night would best favour our chances of landing without interference on the English coast. All this I knew when I set out on my recent tour of inspection, and I undertook it only as a blind. It is of the first importance that the English should continue to believe that within a few months an invasion will be launched against them. They will then retain such troops as they have on their south coast and, perhaps, even augment them. In any case, they will not send them elsewhere to some place where they might be used against us.

  ‘It is important, too, that our own people continue to believe this. Your own arrival at Calais was most opportune, since it enabled me to launch my deception plan among General Réveillon’s officers in a most natural manner. And it is certain that they will talk. All that I am teling you now is, therefore, of the highest secrecy.

  ‘With regard to the future. I am determined to leave Paris shortly in order to win fresh glory for France. I have told the Directors that they must either give me the Army of the Rhine and consent to my invading the Germanic States with it, or allow me to take an Army to Egypt and so put an end to England’s invaluable trade with the Levant. The choice, theoretically, is theirs. But you are aware of my inclinations and you may count on my making these fellows let me have my way.

  ‘Such an expedition will need detailed planning and preparations of the greatest magnitude. For this I must rely exclusively on my Staff, since the strictest secrecy must be maintained. So get what sleep you may, while you can. From now on you will report to me each morning at eight o’clock. You may go.’

  Roger clicked to attention, wheeled about and left the room. His head was in a whirl. Bonaparte had fooled him as well as Réveillon’ss officers, and he had sent false information to his real master, Mr. Pitt. That must be rectified as soon as possible and news of the Corsican’s true intentions sent across. He was now also threatened with being carted off to Egypt and, perhaps, becoming involved in some wild adventure to conquer half Asia, which might prevent his returning to England for years. But, somehow, he would find a means of wriggling out of such a crazy business, even if it meant quarrelling with Bonaparte.

  As he walked down the passage to the street, his mind still working overtime on this new situation, he suddenly noticed a black-clad figure advancing towards him. It was that of a man in the prime of life, who adhered to the pre-Revolution fashion of wearing his hair powdered. He was carrying a malacca cane and walked with a slight limp. Next moment, Roger recognised his old friend the ex-Bishop M. de Talley-rand-Périgord.

  Halting, the Foreign Minister smiled at him and said, ‘Breuc, my dear fellow. How delightful to see you. I heard that you were back. Why have you not called upon me?’

  Roger had thought several times of doing so, but a subconscious nervousness about his ability to establish a satisfactory new relationship with de Talleyrand had caused him to postpone this delicate interview. With a smile, he said:

  ‘I had meant to call and offer my congratulations on your return to France, and your appointment as Foreign Minister. But, for the few days I have been in Paris, I have been prodigious busy, getting myself fitted with new clothes and a score of other tiresome matters.’

  ‘New clothes,’ de Talleyrand murmured, putting his quizzing glass to his eye and lazily surveying Roger from head to toe. ‘Your omission to look in on an old friend was not, perchance, on account of this gorgeous new plumage, I suppose. But I must say I find it passing strange to come upon an Englishman attired in the uniform of a French Colonel.’

  7

  When Greek Meets Greek

  Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord had just passed his forty-eighth birthday. His face was chubby, and inclined to be rosy; his mouth was beautifully modelled but had a slightly ironic twist; his nose was retroussé, and his eyes, under heavy lids fringed with thick lashes, were large and piercing. He was of medium height, had a slim figure and, despite his limp, moved with grace. His dress was always faultless, no man had more charming manners and he was an aristocrat to his fingertips.

  His limp was due to his nurse having dropped him at the age of four and the subsequent neglect of the injury to his foot, which could have been corrected with proper care. The resulting deformity had repercussions which altered his whole life. As he could not go into the Army his parents dispossessed him of his rights, although he was their eldest son, and, early in his ’teens, put him into the Church.

  He bitterly resented this and soon became the most irreligious priest in an age celebrated for its cynicism and immorality. He rarely wore clerical garments, even when created Bishop of Autun, but dressed in silks and satins with exquisite taste, and exercised his extraordinary charm in seducing a long series of beautiful young women at the Court of Versailles. At sixteen he had as his first mistress a charming little actress named Dorothy Dorinville. At seventy he was still to have a mistress and another Dorothy, who was his own niece—the Duchess de Dino.

  From the first calling together of the Three Estates in 1789, he had, as a representative of the Clergy, at once made his mark—but in another role. By his able brain and gifts as a speaker he had emerged as one of the leaders of the Liberal nobility. He was not an anti-Monarchist, but he saw the urgent necessity for sweeping reforms which had been long overdue.

  As the Revolution progressed he had held many important offices; and when the breakaway from Rome was formally executed he became the first Bishop in the new, reformed National Church of France. In January 1792 he had been sent on a diplomatic mission to London. Having always held the opinion that an alliance between France and Britain was essential to the lasting prosperity of both countries he had, while there, strongly pressed for it, but without success. Later in that year, after his return to Paris, the Commissioners of the Convention had gone through the King’s papers that had been seized during the sack of the Tuileries and had found two letters written by him, privately advising the King to adopt a policy contrary to the interests of the revolutionaries.

  In consequence he had been denounced as an ‘Enemy of the People’, and had escaped from Paris only just in time to save his life. In London, where he returned, he was ostracised by the majority of the French émigrés, and by a large section of the British aristocracy, because of the part he had played in the Liberal Revolution. So he had moved on to the more sympathetic atmosphere of the newly-created United States.

  However, he still had many powerful friends and acquaintances in France who respected his abilities and, after the fall of Robespierre, they began to work for his return. Among these friends was one of his many mistresses, the clever intriguer Madame de Staël. She had persuaded Barras to allow him to return, and in the previous July she had secured for him the post of Foreign Minister.

  Confronted by this shrewd and again-powerful man, who knew the truth about him, Roger did not lose his nerve. To have shown the least trace of apprehension would have given away the fact that he had something to hide. With a laugh, he gaily paraphrased Shakespeare:

  ‘The world is but a stage and men play many parts upon it. I am glad you find my uniform becoming. And, if I may say so, it suits me bet
ter than yours did you when you were a Bishop.’

  Talleyrand raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed! I had no idea you were a church-goer, and so ever saw me in it. May I suggest, though, that your presence here dressed as a French officer requires some explanation?’

  ‘It is quite simple,’ Roger shrugged. ‘As you must be aware, I have spent a great part of my manhood in France, and have become so enamoured of this country that I now regard myself as a Frenchman. I have been wounded more than once in the service of France and my title to this uniform is beyond dispute. When I was in Italy no less a person than the General Bonaparte did me the honour to make me one of his aides-de-camp.’

  ‘How prodigious interesting.’ Talleyrand gave a slight bow. ‘Allow me to congratulate you, my dear fellow, on this signal distinction. I cannot, alas, linger to converse longer with you now, as the General is expecting me. But we must foregather to discuss old times: over breakfast, perhaps, when our enjoyment of one another’s company will not be diverted by the presence of others. Let me see. Friday, I think, is the first day I have free. May I have the pleasure of receiving you at nine o’clock?’

  ‘You are most kind,’ Roger smiled. ‘There is nothing I should enjoy more.’

  Exchanging another bow, they parted and Roger went on his way. The brief conversation had gone as well as he could have expected. To all appearances Talleyrand had accepted his explanation, but all the same it was a most delicate situation and he knew that, on the coming Friday, he would have all his work cut out to convince the astute statesman that he had really abandoned for good all his ties with England.

  Yet it was the line he had already decided to take when they did meet, as it was inevitable that they would, and the only line possible.

  It was nearly twelve years since, when he had been assistant secretary to the Marquis de Rochambeau, he had first met Talleyrand. An occasion had arisen when the Marquis had an urgent need to have a long, confidential document copied overnight, and the work was to be done at Talleyrand’s house out at Passy. Talleyrand, Roger and the Marquis’s senior secretary, the Abbé d’Heury, had set off together in a coach for Passy, but when nearing their destination the coach had been held up by footpads. Talleyrand had defied the brigands and an affray had ensued. D’Heury had been shot dead—which had led to Roger’s promotion—and a second ball had wounded Roger in the head, rendering him unconscious. When he came to, in bed in Talleyrand’s house, he learned that during his delirium he had been raving in English. Since at that time he had been passing himself off as a Frenchman only as a matter of convenience, he had freely admitted his real nationality and had given Talleyrand full particulars of himself. Roger felt certain that he would not have forgotten them, so it would have been futile for him to deny now that he was the son of Admiral Sir Christopher Brook.

  However, a strong bond of friendship had long since developed between them. It was Roger who had tricked Danton into giving him the passport which had enabled Talleyrand to escape from Paris when to remain would have cost him his life; so Roger had no fear whatever that his old friend would regard him as an enemy, let alone have him arrested.

  After a few minutes his mind turned to the volte-face in plans that Bonaparte had sprung upon him that morning. The news that there was to be no invasion of England that year, but that instead the conqueror of Italy was pressing the Directory to let him follow in the path of Alexander the Great, must be sent without delay to Mr. Pitt.

  Returning to La Belle Etoile, he wrote a long despatch and put it into a double envelope. He then had his midday meal and afterwards went out to send off the letter. He was always reluctant to use secret post-offices because, although they were usually in back streets unlikely to be frequented by the sort of people he knew, some risk that he might be recognised or followed from the post-office by the man who ran it, should he have turned double traitor, was unavoidable. In the past he had had to use them rarely, as during the Revolution he had been able to send his despatches by members of Sir Percy Blakeney’s League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and on the last two occasions he had been in Paris he had been employed on special missions which did not call for him to send back regular reports. But in the present circumstances he had no option.

  In a mental index he carried three addresses. One was an old one that he had used before, and two were new ones that he had been given when last in London. But it proved his unlucky day, for the afternoon brought him only frustration. Calling first at the old address, he learned that the forwarding agent there had died shortly before Christmas. At the next address he was told that the man he wanted had left that morning to visit relatives in the country and was not expected back until the end of the week. At the third address a slatternly woman told him that her husband had been carried off by the police a fortnight before.

  Had his news been of great urgency and importance, he would seriously have considered sending a message to Bonaparte by Maître Blanchard saying that he had met with an accident which would keep him in bed for a few days. He would then have used the time to ride all-out to Dieppe and back, with the certainty that he would be able to get his despatch off by a smuggler there. But a few days’ delay could make no material difference to the value of his news; so he resigned himself to awaiting the return of the man who had gone to the country.

  Friday was three days away and, although he reported to Bonaparte each morning, the General-in-Chief still had no use for him. He filled in the time much as he had done during the previous week: riding in the mornings, putting in an hour or two in a fencing school or a pistol gallery in the afternoons and attending the salons in the evenings.

  The denizens of the latter were now largely young ‘Incroyables’, with sickle-moon hats, enormous cravats on either side of which their hair dangled in ‘dog-ears’ and trousers so tight that they could not sit down without risk of splitting them. Their female opposite numbers had their hair piled high and banded, à la Grecque, or cut short à la Romaine and, having given up both corsets and underclothes, wore skin-tight dresses so revealing as to be near indecent.

  Among these bizarre creatures, with their affected voices and languid manner, Roger sought out the older, more serious people. From them he built up the store of knowledge he was acquiring about trends in Government policy and learned the latest rumours. Among those current was one to the effect that the Swiss had risen en masse against a body of French troops under General Ménard, whom Republicans in Lausanne had asked should be sent to protect them from oppression. Another rumour was that a French Army had entered Rome.

  This last news filled everyone with delight, as the French had a score to settle with the Papacy. Bonaparte had overrun a great part of the Papal States and incorporated them in his Cisalpine Republic, but he had refrained from sending his troops into the Eternal City. His orders from the atheist Directory had been to dethrone the Pope and abolish the Papacy. However, he was well aware that the greater part of the French people were still Christian at heart and had been far too shrewd to make himself responsible for a sacrilege which they would have held against him for as long as he lived. Instead he had menaced the Pope into paying a huge indemnity, blackmailed him into handing over the finest art treasures in the Vatican and had his own eldest brother, Joseph, appointed Ambassador to the Holy See.

  Joseph Bonaparte was a mild man, an able administrator and one who believed in conciliation. As the representative of the new France that had arisen from the ashes of an ancient absolute Monarchy, it was natural that the Republican Party in Rome should urge him to approve of and support them in violent measures against what they termed ‘their tyrants’. But he steadfastly refused to do so.

  The malcontents had, therefore, decided to provoke a collision with the object of its resulting in French intervention. On December 27th they staged a great demonstration in the Via Medici and were dispersed by the cavalry of the Papal Guard. Next day a similar scene took place outside the French Embassy. General Duphot, a young officer who had served wit
h great distinction under Bonaparte in the north, ran out into the courtyard of the Embassy waving a drawn sword. It was said that he ran out to make peace; but more probably it was to lead the insurgents, and he was shot dead by the Papalini. Joseph Bonaparte had seen no alternative but to demand his passports, after what was regarded as the assassination of his military adviser, and the arrogance of the French had by then reached such a pitch that nothing short of the occupation of Rome would satisfy them for Duphot’s untimely death.

  On leaving Italy, Bonaparte had nominated his Chief-of-Staff, General Berthier, as Commander of the French Army occupying the Cisalpine Republic, and Berthier had been ordered to march his Army south for the chastisement of the Eternal City. His progress had been rapid and the news was circulating that he had entered Rome on February 13th without meeting opposition.

  On the Friday morning, after reporting to his General, Roger arrived promptly at nine o’clock at the fine mansion in the Rue du Bac, now occupied by the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Talleyrand received him like a long-lost brother and ushered him into a small, private dining room, where a breakfast in keeping with wealthy households in that age was served. There was a wide choice of hot dishes, with cold game, Westphalian ham and hothouse fruit to follow. While they ate, a sommelier, wearing his silver chain of office, kept their glasses filled with a Château Latour that had lain for twenty years in bin.

  As soon as they were seated Talleyrand asked for an account of Roger’s narrow escape from execution. When it had been given him he murmured, ‘I find this exceedingly diverting, in view of the fact that the magistrates in Boulogne were entirely right in supposing you to be—well, you will understand what I mean.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Roger replied quickly, ‘they were grossly wrong in their assumption of both my nationality and my intent.’