The Price of Glory (24 page)

“Perhaps a little less.” Nathan was beginning to get the hang of this. “At present.”

“Not to say worthless.”

“On the contrary. It is worth a great deal—to someone with, shall we say, the antennae of a man finely tuned to the political situation. In fact, Imlay feels that now is the time to buy.”

Ouvrard raised a quizzical brow. “And may I ask what has led him to such a remarkable conclusion?”

Nathan glanced out of the window. He could no longer see the man at the end of the street but his view was partly obstructed by Ouvrard's coach and four. He leaned forward and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Because Imlay has learned that an agreement is in prospect between Madrid and Paris. An agreement that would not only bring peace between the two nations but cede the entire region west of the Mississippi to France.”

The smile was still on Ouvrard's face but the humour no longer reached to his eyes.

“If that were to happen,” Nathan continued, “and the French authorities were to open the region to settlement—as Imlay is persuaded they must, given their close alliance with the United States—then any land purchased now, at the present low price, will increase enormously in value.”

“And how confident is Mr. Imlay that this situation will arise?”

“He appeared confident enough,” Nathan replied, “when I met him in London.”

“Imlay, I am told, invariably appears confident. But how reliable is his information, do you suppose?”

“Well, he may not be privy to state secrets, but he is prepared to stake his reputation upon it.”

“His reputation.” Ouvrard's tone implied this was worth pretty much the same as the discredited paper currency of France. Or the land west of the Appalachians. “And other people's money.”

“He has invested a great deal of his own, I believe,” Nathan declared with slight, if affected, umbrage, “and is anxious that his friends in Paris should not think he has taken an unfair advantage.”

Ouvrard appeared genuinely amused. “So he wishes Madame Tallien to invest more of her money in this venture.”

“Frankly, as much as she can raise.”

“Though her previous speculation has failed to return a profit. And is now running, I suspect, at a considerable loss.”

“But the potential …”

Ouvrard raised his hands. “Please. I think we have heard quite enough about the potential from Imlay. He even wrote a book about it, I recall.”

“A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North America
.
”
Nathan pronounced the title as grandly as if he were Imlay. “Published by Debrett.”

“He also writes fiction, I believe.”

“I understand he has turned his hand to fiction on at least one occasion, but to the same purpose—to encourage emigration to the American frontier and beyond. Mr. Imlay believes, as I do, that this is a great country with the potential …” He ignored Ouvrard's expression, “to become a new Empire of the West. All it requires is people to farm the land and expand the trade of the region by way of the Mississippi. And whoever owns the land …” He leaned back spreading his hands and leaving the banker to imagine the riches that would accrue to them.

“Will very likely dispute the ownership with the Indians for many years to come,” Ouvrard concluded dryly. “While the Spaniards control the entire trade of the region from their base in New Orleans.”

“That is the point,” Nathan insisted. “The Spaniards may no longer control New Orleans. Nor be in a position to encourage the Indians in their resistance.”

“And pigs may fly to the moon but I would not advise an investment in lunar husbandry.”

Nathan regarded him coldly. “Then you would advise Madame Tallien not to extend her investment in the western territories.”

“With respect, sir, you have given me no good reason why I should—apart from some half-baked notion of Imlay's that as the price for peace in Europe, Spain will be willing to hand over the bulk of her possessions in North America.”

“Imlay pointed out that Madame Tallien is in a position to make her own informed judgement on that subject.”

“Did he indeed?” Ouvrard's voice was soft but his eyes were danger ous. “An informed judgement based upon what?”

Now Nathan smiled, though he felt he had laid his head upon the block. “Based, I imagine, upon the advice she receives from her friends.”

“Well, I will pass on your observations to Madame Tallien.” Ouvrard took up his hat and prepared to leave. “And her friends in high places.”

Was there an implied threat in that? It rather depended on who he meant. In his role on the Committee of Public Safety Tallien probably issued instructions to the
Sûreté
.

They walked to the door together.

“How long do you intend to stay in Paris?” Ouvrard enquired politely.

“Not more than a few days. I have business in other parts of Europe.”

“I see. How enviable to be an American,” the banker murmured, “and move freely through the warring nations of the continent. So advantageous to business. Among other things.” Nathan made no reply. Ouvrard preceded him through the door. The sun had risen high above the rooftops.

“The summer continues,” Ouvrard declared, putting on his hat. He glanced at Nathan. “What is the expression you use in America? For when the summer continues into autumn?”

Nathan was unable to enlighten him.

“I am sure Imlay told me. I have it. “
An Indian summer
,'” he said in English. “Because it extends the season of attacks by Indian war parties. An expression much used on the American frontier. I am surprised you have not heard of it.”

“Perhaps that is because I am from New York,” said Nathan.

Ouvrard laughed. “Of course. Well, we must try to become better acquainted during your stay in Paris. Perhaps you would care to dine with me one evening. I will invite some people along whom you might find entertaining.”

“I would be delighted.”

The footman held open the door of the carriage. Ouvrard offered his hand.

“Very good. Until then.”

Nathan stood watching as the coachman expertly turned the carriage in the narrow courtyard. He had made as much progress as he dared hope, and although Ouvrard had made some sly remarks concerning his business credentials, on the whole he felt he had reason to feel pleased with himself.

Then the carriage swept away and he found himself staring into the face of a young man in a long greatcoat and a battered beaver hat. The man who had been waiting at the end of the street.

“Captain Turner?” he enquired.

Nathan inclined his head in what might have been assent or puzzled consideration.

“My name is Junot,” continued his new acquaintance, “and I have the honour of acting for General Buonaparte.”

“Acting?” Nathan's sharp response cut across the name which was, in any case, unfamiliar to him. “General who?”

“He considers that you have greatly maligned him, sir, with a lady whose good opinion he very much values and he invites you to name your second.”

Nathan stared at him in disbelief. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am confused. You are telling me that some man I have never met wishes to fight with me?” Buonaparte. The name meant nothing to him. It sounded Italian. Then he knew. My God! Captain Cannon!

“He will fight you with swords or pistols at any place and time you care to name.”

“But this is absurd.”

The voice was cold with dislike. “You made several disparaging remarks about the general before a number of witnesses, sir. And he will have satisfaction.”

Nathan almost laughed. First Imlay. Now Captain Cannon. He would get himself a reputation. But then he looked into the man's eyes and saw that they were quite serious, or quite mad, and he did not feel like laughing at all.

M
OST
UNFORTUNATE
,” agreed Gabriel Ouvrard, when Nathan came to his office with news of the general's challenge. His face was grave but his eyes betrayed a lively curiosity. “What exactly did you say ?”

“I cannot remember the exact words,” Nathan confessed, “but something along the lines of, ‘Who is that man over there who looks as if he has been shot from a cannon?'” Ouvrard's lips twitched a little. “And I believe I may have asked if he was an entertainer.”

“You said that about General Buonaparte?”

“Is that his name? I did not quite catch it. He is Italian, I believe.”

“He is from the island of Corsica, which became French about a year before he was born. He is quite sensitive about his nationality. Indeed, about most things. Fired out of a cannon. Oh dear. You could not have done worse had you tripped him up and kicked him. Ridicule is a powerful weapon in Paris. And a grievous insult.”

“But I did not mean to give offence,” Nathan protested. “I did not know he was a general. And besides, I am sure I was not overheard. Apart from Madame de Beauharnais, of course, to whom I was talking at the time.”

“And who is possibly the most indiscreet woman in Paris.”

“Oh God.”

“Well, we will have to see what we can do.”

“I am sorry to be so importunate, but I know so very few people in Paris—will you act as my second?”

Ouvrard shook his head firmly. “You cannot fight him,” he said.

“I would not wish to be thought shy,” Nathan insisted warily. “I would gladly apologise but would he accept it?”

“Probably not, but there are other pressures that can be brought to bear. Leave it with me.”

Nathan returned to his hotel and spent a restless afternoon cursing his folly. He could not begin to think how he could explain the situation to the First Lord of the Admiralty, if he lived to enjoy that privilege. He was sitting in the lobby nursing a glass of wine when Ouvrard returned, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.

“General Buonaparte begs your pardon,” he said, throwing down his hat, “and hopes there are no hard feelings.”

“My God, what did you tell him?”

“Well, in the first place I pointed out that you are an American—which of course, answers for a multitude of sins. And then I said that in the United States the expression ‘looking as if he has been shot from a cannon' means a bold fellow, a damn-your-eyes fire-eater, a man of great daring and audacity.”

Nathan stared at him, torn between admiration for his inventiveness and an uncomfortable feeling that he was being made game of. “Really ?”

“No, I did not.” Ouvrard laughed. “Though the temptation was strong. I told him that Rose had made it all up—to make him jealous. He liked that. He thinks she is beginning to care for him. I also indicated that your life—and good will—is of extreme importance to the Committee of Public Safety, and if he persisted in this foolishness he would find himself serving in the ranks. He did not like that at all.”

“Well, I must thank you, sir. You have saved me a great deal of embarrassment. And I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. As a matter of fact, I enjoyed it very much. It will make an excellent story for the dinner table. Provided Buonaparte is not there, of course. Oh, and speaking of dinner, he wishes you to join him at the Café Procope in the Cour du Commerce, which is a particular haunt of his, so that he can express his regrets to you personally and in an appropriate manner.”

Nathan was startled. What did he mean by appropriate?

“He wants to buy you dinner,” Ouvrard explained. “I may have given him a greater sense of your importance than I intended. He probably wants you to put in a good word for him with the Committee.”

“But is this wise?”

“It would be less wise to refuse. He would take it extremely amiss and we would be back where we started from. Don't worry. Ask him to tell you how he drove the British out of Toulon and flatter him outrageously. He'll like that.”

“What else should I know about him,” asked Nathan, “in case I say the wrong thing?”

“What else should you know? I am not sure that I can tell you very much. He is a nobody. However, nobodies have a way of becoming somebodies in France, since the Revolution. Like myself. Let me see … His parents were shopkeepers, I think, in Ajaccio. Something like that, anyway. Very Italian. Corsica belonged to Genoa, you know, until the year he was born. Napoleone—that was his name then. I think he has dropped the ‘e' since, to sound more French, though if you heard him speak you would never mistake him for a Frenchman. He joined the French Army, I don't know in what capacity, but it was in the artillery, which was easier if you were not a gentleman. Then came the Revolution and he turned up at the Siege of Toulon. The city had gone over to the allies, handed the entire French Mediterranean fleet to the British. Barras was sent down there by the Convention—as
représentative en mission
—to help take it back. The way he tells it, he found Buonaparte in charge of a munitions convoy and put him in charge of the artillery. I don't know if it's true; it might just be one of Barras's stories—but he came up with a plan—Buonaparte that is—to take some strongpoint and bombard the British fleet in the harbour. And it worked. Toulon fell to the Republic—it was the turn of the tide.

“Barras was very generous in his praise, though naturally he took most of the credit for himself. Buonaparte was made a general—a
chef de brigade,
which in the French Army is a little above the rank of colonel—but then came Thermidor and he was accused of being a Jacobin. He was a friend of Robespierre's younger brother, Augustine, I believe. So poor Napoleone was arrested, thrown in prison—the usual story. The Republic has lost more generals to the guillotine than it ever lost to the enemy. But … people spoke up for him, Barras included, I think, and instead of giving him the chop they sent him to the Vendée, to command an infantry brigade. He is supposed to be there now but he keeps making excuses. In the meantime he hangs around trying to persuade people to let him invade Italy. Sucking up to whoever he thinks will help him, including me. Oh, and asking women to marry him. I believe it's three at the last count.” He counted them off on his fingers … “Thérésa, Rose—Oh, and his landlady. Probably because he owes her rent. He lives in some cheap hotel in Montmartre now, I think, with the man he calls his aide de camp, who used to be his sergeant: the one who waylaid you outside White's. Somehow he manages to get himself invited to the right parties. Thérésa takes pity on him, and I think Barras throws him the occasional scrap. He sees him as a kind of pet. It is unfashionable to have a monkey these days. Also, he says he might be useful some day—though I think they've just struck him off the army list for refusing to go to the Vendée. So there you are. You know as much as I do now. The things to steer clear of are Corsica, the Vendée, and the Jacobins. And be careful what you say about Rose. He fancies himself in love with her. And Thérésa.” Nathan had covered his face. “Best let him do most of the talking,” Ouvrard added sympathetically. “It won't be hard. Oh, and no matter how much he insists, don't let him pick up the check. He would have to put it on the tab and there could be an unpleasant scene. They know he hasn't got any money.”