“Yet you do not want Lavalette to escape.”

  “On the contrary, I would be delighted if he escaped, as would Fouché. The king’s ministers and the prosecution have portrayed him as the master plotter of the emperor’s return. If he were able to flee justice, there would be panic in the court at more imagined intrigues. Yet for that reason I fear escape would be impossible; the royalists would be determined to recapture their prisoner. The city would be sealed, cavalry would patrol the approaches and the National Guard would search house to house until he was found.” Dubois paused again as an idea occurred to him. “Mr Flashman, I did not come here tonight to help with the Lavalette escape as I still think it highly unlikely. But if by some miracle it does succeed, I will give you the address of one of the few safe places in Paris that will not be searched. I will speak to the family living there so that they are prepared. Do you have a pen and paper?” He scrawled down an address and then passed it across to me. It was an apartment on the third floor of a building on the Rue de Grenelle. “You will find a green door just inside the courtyard entrance. Use it and climb to the top of the stairs. Consider this a Christmas present from my master. I do sincerely hope that you are able to use it.”

  I was glad when Dubois left. The encounter had unsettled me; it had reminded me far too much of our earlier meeting including Fouché, which had left me shaking in fear. I hurriedly changed into civilian clothes and then made my way to the Bonapartist gathering.

  The sentries guarding the approach nodded in recognition. Even thoughts of escapes and conspiracies could not distract me from the prospect of once again getting my lustful hands on the very willing Pauline. I pushed into the hall and saw almost immediately that I was to be thwarted again. The delectable Miss Leclerc was not surrounded by admirers this time – they would not have dared. Instead, she was hemmed in and given unwanted protection by several matronly women. At the mere sight of me, one of them stepped in front of my prey as though she expected me to ravish her niece on the spot. Then she gave her husband a piercing glare. He must have sensed it from long years of marriage and looked up to see the cause. The man did not have a military bearing. His bald head and spectacles made him look more like a clerk, yet he was the most feared soldier in the room. I knew from experience that his resolve was implacable. To his wife’s obvious approval, he stepped forward and grabbed me by the arm, steering us to a corner of the room, so that we could talk in private.

  “Colonel Moreau,” he growled, “if indeed you are still using that name here, instead of your English one.”

  “Marshal Davout, it is a pleasure to see you again.” I tried to smile, but charm was not going to work here. This was the only marshal who had not pledged loyalty to the king at the emperor’s first abdication. He had worked me tirelessly on his staff for nearly three months and, impressed with my efforts, had hung the Legion of Honour around my neck.

  “I would have had you shot if I had known you were an English spy,” he announced without preamble. “Did you betray our plans to the enemy?”

  “I had no chance, sir. If you recall, you only told me of them when you despatched me to escort Ney.” I knew he would despise traitors and added, “The marshal knew I had English connections.”

  “Yes, he told me when I visited him in prison. I am grateful to you for coming back to defend him in court. It is more than many French officers did. You showed Bourmont’s testimony to be a pack of lies and I gather from de Briqueville that you were with my friend at his end.” After a moment’s pause, he held out his hand and I shook it. The last time he had done that was when he had given me that small white enamel cross of the Legion. I doubted many Englishmen had earned the respect of this extraordinary man and it was something I valued.

  “In the spirit of comradeship, I should warn you,” he added quietly, “that my wife is now aware that Major Flashman has a wife in England. You will recall that she was not an admirer of Colonel Moreau. She now dislikes the major even more. If you persist in pursuing my niece, you may end up wishing I had shot you after all.”

  It took only another glance at his beloved to confirm the veracity of his words. Indeed she looked furious that her husband had not executed me on sight. She was still standing between me and her niece, beating her folded fan into the palm of her hand as though it were a cudgel that she would dearly like to use on my skull.

  Reluctantly, I concluded that I was not destined to enjoy the delights of Pauline, at least that evening. I turned my attention to the rest of the room. Like a crow surrounded by lesser birds, the princess sat in her widow’s black as a flock of sympathisers approached to console her and decry the injustice she had suffered. It reminded me that I had some questions of my own to ask.

  Chapter 5

  Fouché had given Ney a passport in a false name, the princess conceded tearfully on the journey back to her sister’s home. “I begged Michel to use it,” she declared. “He swore he would, but I don’t think he could bear the thought of leaving France.” I did not admit that I had met Fouché’s man as she still blamed the former minister for her husband’s death. Instead, I claimed that I had been left an anonymous note warning that Madame Lavalette risked arrest for bribing guards and suggesting that the princess had only just escaped the same fate.

  “I was desperate,” she admitted. “The jailer was kind, but he refused to take my money and insisted that any escape would fail even if he did.” She gave a heavy sigh and added, “I will speak to poor Emilie. Antoine would be distraught to have his wife in prison with him and they have their daughter to consider.”

  For the next few days Madame Lavalette placed her faith in the Duke of Ragusa, another of Napoleon’s old generals, who was also known as Marshal Marmont. He had stayed loyal to the king during his emperor’s return and had access to the court. He had promised to bring Madame Lavalette before her monarch so that she could appeal for his mercy on her husband’s behalf. The lawyers felt sure that an act of clemency after Ney’s execution would be granted. Ragusa was good to his word and delivered the tearful woman at the king’s feet, but to everyone’s surprise, the corpulent monarch treated her with disdain. It looked certain then that the wheels of justice would grind to their grim conclusion.

  I confess that I thought the postmaster doomed when de Briqueville came to see me early one morning. “Madame de Lavalette has come up with a plan to break her husband out of prison,” he whispered having checked we were alone.

  I was surprised that my friend was giving the scheme any credence at all. “What on earth would she know about organising a jail break? Anyway, she has left it too late. I hear he is due to be guillotined tomorrow.” I shook my head in dismay, “Some jailer will have accepted a bribe, but I promise you that nothing will come of it.”

  “You are wrong, Flashman. Just a trusted few are involved and it is something that only she can carry off.” I have been involved in a few hairbrained enterprises in my time – virtually anything involving Cochrane for a start – the Alamo, stopping the Ashanti at Nsamankow or the bridge defence at Alcantara. Yet for ventures that put blind faith in success above every practical consideration, the escape of Lavalette was the maddest of the lot.

  The whole plot was absurd. At first, I thought they were only discussing it to ease the strained wits of its creator. Emilie Lavalette was close to hysteria as she refused to accept any objection. She was due to visit her husband that evening so that they could share a final meal together before he went under the ‘national razor’ in the morning. Her plan was simply for her husband to leave the infamous Conciergerie prison disguised in her clothes.

  Those that knew the couple tried to point out that she was taller than her husband. She had barely eaten for weeks and had lost any pregnancy weight. Her slim waist was one I doubted any man could match. She had long dark hair and her husband was bald. Their only hope would be for her husband to wear a very thick veil, but she dismissed that idea as she had not been in the habit of using such an item.

  “It would raise suspicion,” she announced as though a shrunken, stouter and bald version of herself would not. The deception would not fool a child, never mind a score of jailers, guards and sentries who would be on heightened alert.

  “I will wear a cloak to hide my figure and a straw bonnet to cover my hair,” she insisted. “Antoine can wear my gloves and hold a handkerchief to his face as though weeping.”

  We were at Ney’s sister-in-law’s house where Emilie was revealing this so-called masterpiece of cunning. The princess was looking appalled at the risk, but others, including de Briqueville were all for it. “If it fails,” he whispered to me privately, “even the royalists would not punish a woman severely for trying to save her husband. But if it succeeds,” he stifled a laugh, “what a victory it would be over those who persecuted the marshal.”

  Only one of Lavalette’s old friends, a man called Baudus, tried to inject a note of reason. “Antoine would never want you to be left at the mercy of angry jailers when they discover the escape.” Then he added more quietly, “How could he maintain any dignity or peace of mind at his end if you were both caught?”

  I wondered if the poor devil would be dragged to the scaffold still wearing his wife’s dress, for the vindictive royalists would delight in so humiliating one of their enemies. I think most of us were thinking the same, for a silence fell over the gathering as we imagined such a wretched end, but our instigator was not to be deterred.

  “I discussed it with Antoine yesterday and made him promise that he will obey this final request. He will take this last chance as he knows that if he dies, I die. I will hear no more objections. I know it will succeed. I feel that God supports me.”

  No one could sway her after that and so discussion turned to the details. Emilie would arrive at the prison, as she usually did, in a sedan chair. Her daughter and an old maid would come with her and help shield her husband from prying eyes. If by some miracle Lavalette did get out, he would leave in the chair until he was out of sight on the street, where he would take a waiting carriage. The nurse would then take the daughter to a safe house.

  The next question was where to take Lavalette. To everyone’s surprise I announced I had an address. I had picked up the piece of paper that Dubois had written on when de Briqueville called at my rooms with news of the plan. “The person at this address will look after him,” I announced, “and I am told that it is one of the few addresses in Paris that is not likely to be searched.”

  Baudus took the paper from my hand and I noticed his eyebrows rise as he read it. He was a canny devil, for he did not say the address aloud. He just tucked the note in his pocket. “Are you sure this person can be trusted?” he asked quietly.

  I hesitated only a moment before categorically stating that they could. I felt confident largely because I did not think for a moment that this hare-brained caper would ever proceed far enough for the address to be used. But even if it did, strangely, I did trust Dubois on this. Yes, I know that Fouché’s name is a byword for treachery and betrayal – and by association that goes for those who work for him too. Yet having met the former minister, I thought I had an idea of what motivated him. He was loyal only to himself and was a vindictive man with no scruples. He had been humiliated by the duke de Richelieu and now he would want his revenge. The man who had started the prosecution of Lavalette would now use his escape to punish another enemy. There was a certain symmetry to the scheme that I thought would bring a smile of satisfaction to Fouché’s rat-like features.

  What I did not immediately appreciate as I handed over that slip of parchment, was that I was now inexorably drawn into this group of plotters. Men called Bonneville and Rouchard were deputed to carry the sedan chair. Another old family friend called Chassenon volunteered to obtain and drive the carriage that would speed Lavalette to safety, while Baudus and I would ride alongside. As provider of the safe house, it was apparent that I was expected to be there to ensure that Lavalette could gain entry. De Briqueville insisted on a role too, despite his injuries. He would enter the prison as a visitor to see Lavalette half an hour before they were to depart to check all was well. Emilie was worried that other friends might try to comfort her husband in his final hours and my friend was to ensure that they left with him, to give them time to effect the switch.

  I’ll admit that it was better thought out than I first imagined, but I was still not concerned that I would be in any danger. There was no way the guards would let a man masquerading as some pantomime dame escape their clutches. Even if the alarm was raised and a search for other conspirators made, I had a fast horse to hand; I would be away before the guards were out of the prison yard. As a last resort, I had the protection of the British embassy behind me. The French king and his officials could not afford to offend the allies that kept him safe on his throne.

  So it was that a surprisingly relaxed Thomas Flashman gathered with the others that evening. Madame Lavalette, her daughter and the maid were due to visit the prison at five in the afternoon and leave at seven. She travelled most of the way in the carriage, switching to the sedan chair near the prison. We dutifully gathered around to wish her well as Bonneville and Rouchard lifted their burden and staggered off down the street. As we watched them turn into the Conciergerie yard, Baudus beside me muttered a prayer.

  “A brave woman,” I whispered to him, “but I doubt we will see her or her husband again tonight.” He did not disagree. I looked around and added, “Well we have two hours to wait before they try to come out. I could do with a brandy to keep warm.”

  Along with the rest of our intrepid band, we found a small inn nearby and sat in the corner where we could not be overheard. We watched as evening light turned to a dark night and a light rain gave a sheen to the cobbles. At a quarter past six de Briqueville left us to begin his own visit to the condemned cell, while the rest of us counted down the minutes to seven. De Briqueville returned half an hour later to report that everything was set to proceed. At five to seven we rose and stepped outside. It was still raining, and the weather matched my mood. I had hoped that common sense would eventually prevail, but instead it looked as though this farce would be run to its inevitable conclusion. I imagined the scene inside the cell as Lavalette tried to fit inside his wife’s dress. Would Emilie finally accept that the scheme would not work, or would they press on regardless?

  I was just checking the girth on my saddle now the leather was wet when I heard de Briqueville urgently calling my name. “Moreau, come quickly.” He was standing with one of the sedan chair men on the corner. I ran over to him, wondering what had gone wrong. “They are there,” he whispered urgently.

  I turned to Bonneville, “So go and get them,” I hissed back. It was then that I realised that the other chair man was missing.

  “Rouchard’s nerve has failed him,” explained de Briqueville. “I would go myself but my hand…” he held up his wounded arm. “You will have to go in his place.”

  “What?” I was aghast at the idea. “If they have been caught, this will be a trap to catch the other conspirators.”

  “Come on,” yelled Bonneville. Grabbing my arm, he dragged me from the corner so that the courtyard of the Conciergerie was in view. I looked up to see the sentry by the door look curiously in my direction. He must have heard my companion’s shout. In front of the guard was the chair. I could make out a dark figure within and beside it, illuminated by two burning torches on either side of the door, was young Josephine Lavalette, holding on to her maid’s hand. “Quickly,” urged Bonneville and I had no choice but to comply. To back away now would only raise suspicion. “I will take the front, you take the back,” my companion whispered as we splashed our way over the cobbles.

  I tried to see who was inside the chair as I walked past it, but all I could make out was a dark cloak, a straw bonnet and handkerchief. Yet as I hauled up the poles, the weight of the occupant felt heavier than I would have expected from the slender Emilie. I nearly dropped one of the poles again in surprise as I realised that the condemned man might be just a yard in front of my face. I glanced at the sentry as we moved off, half expecting him to be poised to call out the guard to close off the courtyard and trap us. Instead he appeared wet and miserable, rather than tense and about to spring an ambush. If the switch had been made, I knew we only had minutes before the deception was discovered, but fortunately Bonneville was of the same mind. We set off at a brisk pace, young Josephine almost running to keep up. I still could not quite believe it had worked as we rounded the corner and almost broke into a jog towards the carriage waiting further along the boulevard. At any second I expected to hear shouts of alarm, but only the sound of our footsteps broke the silence.

  As soon as the base of the chair hit the ground, its occupant was out and running for the next vehicle. From the way the figure moved it was undoubtedly a man. As soon as he was inside, the coachman whipped the horses into a trot. I was running then for my own mount held by Baudus. Swinging myself up into the saddle, we heard the first urgent clanging of bells from the prison. Steel-shod hooves and wheel rims rang out over the rough cobbles as we galloped down the road. The Conciergerie prison is on an island in the River Seine in the heart of Paris, so we had to get over one of the bridges quickly to disappear into the city. The coachman took the corner too fast and damn nearly turned the coach over as he steered it over the water. I heard its occupant yell in alarm but, then all four wheels were back on the bridge and we were on our way.

  “Slow down!” called Baudus, who had ridden alongside the driver, for he was going so fast through the evening traffic that he was attracting attention. Passers-by were staring and they would no doubt remember us when the authorities came looking for witnesses. We turned into a side street and slowed to a more sedate trot. We had already decided to take a circuitous route to our destination to throw off any pursuit and search.

 

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