Duval at Waterloo Read online

  Duval at Waterloo

  Michèle McGrath

  In memory of my beloved great-aunt

  Nora McGrath (Big Non)

  For her laughter, her scones and her toffee roast potatoes!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About Michèle McGrath

  Duval at Waterloo

  Chapter 1

  “You want to leave the Police?” Laurent didn’t bother to keep the glee out of his voice as he read my resignation letter. His stubby fingers clutched the paper, as if it were his dearest possession.

  I stared at him, noting the yellowish skin and the lines of strain that were newly carved into his forehead. Even Laurent had found it hard to move with the times. The new white rosette, tied tightly to his coat, filled me with disgust. Laurent had openly transferred his allegiance to our new rulers as quickly as possible. Perhaps he hoped his fervency would make them overlook his shortcomings and previous loyalties, but I thought that even they could not be so blind.

  My own lapel was deliberately bare. Threads dangled from my coat to mark the place where, until some months ago, I had worn the tricolour rosette of the Empire. There were many like me in Paris. The old order changed, but we had not embraced the new. I realised now I never would. My life had become more and more difficult, ever since Napoleon was exiled to Elba and the King’s men had taken over. Months of infighting and incompetent leadership had eaten away at the Police and the other divisions of government. Royal favourites, with no experience of administration, issued conflicting orders and caused chaos, almost on a daily basis. Witch-hunts for old Jacobins and Napoleon’s supporters left a sour taste. Witch-hunts were nothing new, of course; they happened during both the Republic and the Empire and truth had often been perverted before. What was new, however, was the fervour with which they were carried out and an open contempt for justice which set my teeth on edge. The King’s men wanted to set the clock back and forget everything that had happened since 1789. If they succeeded, they would wipe out the better part of my life and work.

  Resignation seemed the simplest and safest course.

  I was by no means an ardent supporter of the Emperor, but Napoleon understood how to govern a large and rambling country. His successors did not. I would no longer be an instrument of their folly and their desire to return France to a different age. Saying so, however, would undoubtedly put me in gaol for treason. Laurent would jump at the chance to condemn me; he has hated me for years. I was sick of the sight of him too and I hoped passionately I would never see him again after today.

  Laurent stared at me and started to tap his fingers on the table, as he waited for me to answer.

  “Yes,” I replied, looking over his head at the grimy window which no one ever cleaned. Dust motes floated in the hazy sunshine that fought its way through the dirt. I watched them idly, while I waited for the next question; anything to stop my thoughts appearing on my face.

  “What will you do instead?” Laurent asked, putting the letter down and looking at me hard.

  “I’m going back to Grenoble. My father has sent for me.” I’d brought my sister’s letter with me, in case Laurent did not believe my reasons. Not that I expected him to question me thoroughly. He wanted me out of his life and no threat to him any longer.

  In that tawdry office I saw a sudden vision of the snow-capped Belledonne Mountains in the evening sun. I had not seen them for a very long time, ever since I ran away from home as a boy.

  My face must have changed inadvertently, because Laurent snapped, “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, I was just thinking of my home.”

  He made a noise that sounded like “Pshaw!” Laurent is a Parisian and despises people from the provinces. This attitude is common enough in the Ministry of Police and made working there harder for outsiders like me. I did not expect him to refuse my resignation and he didn’t. The man looked smug, as if one of his dearest wishes had just been granted.

  “Go then and keep out of trouble, if you can. If you don’t, I’ll hear about it soon enough and you needn’t expect me to come running to your aid. Remember that, after today, you have no further authority in Paris, so don’t stick your nose into matters that don’t concern you. Clear your desk and give me your pass.”

  He held out his hand and I gave him the paper that identified me as a police agent. I’d carried it for almost fourteen years, a sad moment; the end of part of my life. Laurent didn’t offer to shake hands with me and I would not have taken his hand if he had. Neither of us are that kind of hypocrite. I walked out of his office with a great weight lifted from my shoulders. The familiar corridor led to the room I worked in since I started at the Ministry. Most of my working life had been spent here, ever since I was invalided out of the army. I never thought I’d leave it this way.

  Only Fournier was working in the room and he already knew all about my decision. He stood up when I came in and embraced me.

  “It went well?” he asked.

  “As you might imagine, but it could have been much worse. At least he didn’t try to have me arrested on some trumped up charge.”

  “Did you really expect him to?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Nor I, but such a thing is dangerous — you know too many secrets. If the stories came out, they would ruin his reputation with our new masters. Better to let you creep away unnoticed. I said he wouldn’t stand in your way, if you remember.”

  I nodded. Fournier and I discussed it last night. I suppose I’d been more pessimistic, since I was the one who needed to face him.

  “What about you? When are you quitting?” I asked. Fournier shares my opinions about the changes in the Ministry and the political situation in France. But, although he grumbles, he has never said he would resign.

  “When I’ve paid my debts and have a little over for a few months’ rent.”

  “Years then.” I grinned. Fournier has always been in debt. He blames his money problems on his poor wife, but he’s too fond of wine and playing cards. He rarely wins.

  He laughed. “I might surprise you. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “A terrible time to travel anywhere. Why didn’t you wait until later in the year when the roads are better?”

  “I want to be home for Christmas and my sister said it was urgent. She wrote that Father is ailing and needs me to return immediately. She gave me an excuse to leave but I have to get out. You know I nearly thumped Petit last week, when he started to list the virtues of the King and all his cronies. If I stay much longer I might murder someone and then I’ll kiss the ‘widow maker’ for no good cause. I’m going to scarper now before I do something silly. Are you coming to see us off?”

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Got to make sure you’re really out of my hair at last.” The sound of his laughter rang out. As I shut the door behind me, I thought I would never see my workroom again or the people who worked there. I was wrong.

  Fate still had some tricks in store for me. I thought my worse problem at home would be confronting my father. Little did I know that far away on the small island of Elba, plans were being made that would catapult me into the centre of Napoleon’s last and greatest adventure.

  My wife, Eugénie, was at home when I returned.
Our belongings were piled in boxes and trunks, waiting for the carrier. The children were playing hide-and-seek among them and Eugénie was trying to cook a meal with one pot and a kettle. Her hair was hanging out of its usual tidy bun and her face was red. In spite of her troubles, she took one glace at my face and ran up to me to give me a hug.

  “Was it awful?”

  “No worse than I expected.”

  “Did he accept your resignation?” I nodded. “Then why are you looking so pale?”

  “Fournier was there. We’ve been together ever since the affair of the ‘Infernal Machine’. I’ll miss the old rogue.”

  “I’ll miss him too. He’s been a real friend to both of us. I must call on him to say goodbye.”

  “No need. He’s coming to see us off tomorrow.”

  “Good. But, speaking of friends, Lefebvre was just here.”

  “Was he?”

  “He couldn’t wait for you, so I invited him to have supper with us this evening instead.”

  “Ironic. Lefebvre’s the first person I dined with, the day I arrived in Paris, and now he’ll be the last.”

  “That’s the day he saved your life, wasn’t it?” Eugénie asked and I nodded.

  Memories flooded back. I’d been stupid and walked down a back alley to the river. Three men jumped me and I was losing the fight when Lefebvre arrived and fought on my side. Without him, my life would have ended at twenty and I would never have known Eugénie or the joy of holding my children. That first evening with Lefebvre passed in storytelling and laughter. We sat sipping the wine I had bought to pay a small part of my debt to him.

  This last evening together was the same as the first, fourteen years earlier. The difference was that the stories, this time, were not about our past lives, but rather the cases we had solved together. Lefebvre had once been a famous burglar, by the name of Maître Chagrin or Master of Grief. I’d helped him escape the guillotine and he became my informer and latterly my most trusted assistant. We had plenty to talk about and the air was full of ‘do you remembers’. We talked about finding the ‘Missing Englishman’ and the child of the ‘Italian Countess’. Once we had only a few hours to steal back the Empress’s crown before her coronation. This was our most important case and the one which had brought us both to the attention of the Emperor. It was late when Lefebvre left. He said that he would not see us off on the diligence, the huge stagecoach that travelled to the far corners of France.

  “I don’t want to burst into tears,” he told us as Eugénie kissed him. “I’ll miss you both. Life won’t be nearly as exciting without you. I never knew what trouble Alain would get me into next.”

  I laughed and Eugénie said, “Why don’t you come to Grenoble, Jean? You know Lucienne wants to.”

  Lucienne is Lefebvre’s daughter. She’s at a boarding school and is longing to be grown up. The last time we saw her, she begged her father to take her with us. She had never been away from Paris and she wanted to see other parts of the country for herself. As she said,

  “It would be such an adventure!” Lefebvre had put her off at the time, but I hoped he would change his mind. He had not.

  “What would I do in the sticks, mon brave? I’m a city rat. I don’t feel comfortable outside Paris.”

  “We could work together like we’ve always done. You’d be very useful to a locksmith. You’ve picked enough locks in your time.” Eugénie giggled and Lefebvre grinned. My father owned a locksmith’s workshop in Grenoble, to which I had once been apprenticed. I wasn’t very skilful and I’d always believed my father breathed a huge sigh of relief when I ran away. I was still amazed and a little suspicious that he wanted to see me again. I had a feeling the summons was my sister’s idea, but it suited my purposes so I wasn’t going to question it too closely.

  “Take over your father’s business first,” Lefebvre said. “The old man might have something to say about you employing a villain like me if he’s still in charge. Get settled and then write to me and I’ll consider it.”

  I walked down the stairs with him and he turned to go, then suddenly came back and caught me in a bear-hug.

  “I’ll miss you, Soldier.”

  “I’ll miss you too. Give our love to Lucienne.”

  He nodded and hurried away. I watched him until he was out of sight, with a horrible sick feeling at the bottom of my stomach.

  Chapter 2

  Fournier was right about the state of the roads. At times the horses struggled hock deep in mud and the diligence swayed alarmingly. I’d made such journeys before but Eugénie had not. She remarked to me, when we were alone, that she wondered whether we would arrive at our destination uninjured. Certainly the journey took far longer than it would have in summer, but I wanted to leave Paris, with all its troubles, far behind me.

  As a family, we had only taken short carriage drives around the city and never before travelled on a diligence. So it was an unpleasant shock to find that our eldest child, Marie-Aimée, suffered from travel sickness. We were unprepared the first time it happened and she made a mess. Several of the other travellers grumbled at us mightily. The coach did not stop for such trifling incidents, so we did the best we could. We cleaned Aimée and the floor; a difficult task with only a few rags and our drinking water.

  The other children, Jean-Pierre and the baby, Marie-Françoise, stared avidly at their sister, who was usually such an adventurous child but now wept and looked green. I swept the whole family off the diligence at the next stop and we put up at an inn for the night. Even though the coach was cleaned, the smell lingered. Clean or not, it had to keep to its schedule and it lumbered off with most of its passengers braving the foetid atmosphere and continuing their journey.

  Only a man and two women chose to stay at the inn with us. I knew that if we remained in that vehicle, Aimée would certainly be sick again and she might make the other children ill as well. I don’t think we could have coped if all of them were unwell.

  When we got into another diligence the following day, we’d made our preparations. Aimée ate very little, only some bread and water. Eugénie carried a bowl with her and we made Aimée sit next to a window with the curtains drawn back. She did better, but she was still suffering. I felt like a torturer forcing her to travel again but I had no choice. On the money I possessed, I could not afford to hire either a better carriage or horses for all of us. Aimée was very good, although she looked like a victim going to the guillotine. She managed to avoid being sick again, until the day before our journey ended. This time we prevented an accident, but the whole journey seemed interminable. One of us constantly watched Aimée, while the other tried to amuse the two little ones. We were bruised and battered from all the bouncing. When we climbed out, we could not walk properly; our legs were so cramped. I have no memory of the people who shared our travels. None of them talked to us much. I think they were as miserable as we were. I would have sworn that weeks passed rather than days and vowed I would wait until the children were grown before we attempted such a journey again.

  We spent a cold and uncomfortable night in Lyon and then we boarded our last coach, which would bring us to Grenoble. It was dark when we came out of the valley of the Isère. The plateau of the Vercors loomed black on our right side and the massif of the Grande Chartreuse on our left. Then the Vercors drew back, or so it seemed, and the lights of the city twinkled before us.

  It was cold and raining, with a thin mist clinging to the tops of the hills. Everything looked dank. A peculiar odour enveloped us as we passed the glove factories, a scent I remembered from childhood. As I smelled it, I realised unmistakably that I was home. We took a hack from the stage halt to my sister’s house, leaving our luggage to be brought on by the carrier.

  “Not another carriage!” Aimée said weakly, as we helped her into it.

  “The last one for a very long time, Chérie,” I told her, hoping fervently that it was true.

  My sister lived with her husband in a big old house on the south side of the
city. It was near to the villa where we grew up. Lights shone in the windows and the sound of a piano came to us when the door opened.

  Sophie herself stood on the threshold. No longer the girl I left but a woman and beautiful, to me at least. I would have recognised her anywhere. Her eyes were the same and so was her smile.

  “Good grief!” she cried out when she saw me. “Are you really Alain, my baby brother?”

  I laughed, for she did not even reach my shoulder now and I needed to bend down for her kiss. “I’m not such a baby any more!”

  “Indeed you’re not. I would have walked past you, if I’d met you in the street.” She ran her finger gently down the lines on my face, a legacy of both my days in the Army and in the Police. “We are both getting older,” she said with a sigh.

  “Not you. You’re as lovely as ever.” Even though a few silver strands marred her dark hair, her face was as sweet as I remembered. Surprisingly though, she looked far more like our mother now than she did as a girl.

  “Flatterer!” Sophie laughed and then she turned to greet Eugénie and the children with hugs and more kisses.

  That evening was one of quiet celebration. Sophie and I had always been close, fellow victims of our horrible father. He would use words to reduce Sophie to tears, but he used his fists on me. No wonder we both hated him. Maman acted as a buffer between us for as long as she was able. I only made contact with Sophie again when Lefebvre and I investigated the case of the New Messiah, but that is another story. By then, we had become almost strangers to each other but those few days renewed our bond. Most of our lives had been spent apart and with different people, yet we still loved each other.

  That first evening in Sophie’s home, I came to know more of my sister as an adult while her family and mine became acquainted. Her husband, Emile, had been born nearby in Vienne and worked as a lawyer in Grenoble. He had been young and brash when he met Papa, who instantly disliked him. Sophie had to wait until the day she came of age to marry him. Her only child was her daughter, Laure, a girl of twelve. Sadly they weren’t able to have any more children. Sophie nearly died at Laure’s birth and Emile would not let her take the risk again.