Dennis Wheatley - The Dark Secret of Josephine

For a moment Roger was silent, then he said: "But really, I cannot see what you have to fear. Since the Court gave a verdict in your favour, you are already proved innocent Should this old scandal be dug up you can afford to laugh at it"

The laugh that Josephine gave was a bitter one. "Monsieur, I have not yet acquainted you with the crux of the matter. This person has in his possession a diary that I wrote during my love affair with William. That he actually has it I know, for I have been sent some of the more harmless leaves from it. In it I referred to William as my husband, and wrote many things the memory of which now causes me to blush."

Roger drew in a sharp breath. "You are right, Madame. This is serious."

"Serious!" she echoed, her voice rising hysterically. "Should my diary be published, for me it would be the end! The end, I tell you! The ultimate degradation! For all their lives my poor children would bear the stigma of bastards. As for myself, should I marry Buonaparte and this were disclosed, for having consciously made him a party to bigamy and the laughing stock of Paris I believe he would strangle me with his own hands."

In a swift succession of flashes, like those given off by an exploding Chinese cracker, Roger saw the sequence of situations which threatened to arise from this new development. Unless the diary could be recovered Josephine would not dare to marry Buonaparte. If she would not marry him, Barras would not risk entrusting him with the Army of Italy. Unless Buonaparte was given the Army of Italy he would insist upon being allowed to carry out his plan for the invasion of England.

Once more Roger had a mental picture of the old High Street of Lymington, his home town, in flames; and he knew that it would be only one of many; for, although the invasion might be repulsed later, nothing short of a tempest could stop the initial landings. Somehow, if it was the last thing he ever did, he had to get hold of and destroy that diary.

chapter XXVI

BLACKMAIL

That evening, after Roger had supped, he went to Fouché's little house. The ill-favoured Madame Fouché answered the door and showed him into the poorly furnished sitting-room. Fouché was there working upon some papers. As soon as the two men had greeted one another, she discreetly withdrew and went upstairs.

Without looking at Roger, Fouché motioned him to a chair and said: "I heard you were back in Paris; but the state of things here has altered little since you left, so I felt that it would be pointless to seek you out."

"It would have been," Roger agreed. "The time has not yet come to make a move in the matter that we talked of when last we met."

Fouché sighed. "I feared as much; although your corning here momentarily raised my hopes that I might be wrong. To what, then, do I owe this visit?"

"I wished to inform myself if your circumstances had improved during my absence."

"That was considerate of you. The answer, alas, is no." Fouché made a gesture of disgust towards the papers on the table. "Here is fine work for one whose words were once hung upon in the Chamber. These are calculations showing how much it will cost to feed young pigs until they reach a certain weight and can be sold at a few francs profit."

"Indeed! I had no idea that you had any experience of farming or raising animals."

"Nor have I. But the ex-Deputy Gerard offered to finance me if I would buy a few litters and fatten them swiftly by forcible feeding, then share the profits with him. So now I spend my days on a farm in the suburbs cleaning out pigsties."

"You would, then, be glad if I could put you in the way of earning a considerable sum?"

Fouché gave a quick snuffle. "There are few things you could ask of me that I would not do in order to improve my present wretched situation."

"The matter depends only on your willingness to do a deal with me. This afternoon Madame de Beauharnais confided to me the gist of some recent conversations she has had with you."

"Ah!" Fouché's bloodless lips twitched in a faint smile. "So you know about the diary, and have come to try to buy it for her?"

"Yes. How much do you want for it?"

"I have not got it."

"No matter. You know who has, and could get hold of it"

"Even if I could, I would not sell it"

"Why not? I am prepared to pay you handsomely."

Fouché shook his head. "It is worth more to me than money. That diary should prove the means of obtaining for me a new chance in life."

"In that, I fear you wrong."

"Why so? Madame de Beauharnais has great influence with Barras. He could easily procure for me an appointment in the Administration, and that would bring me in a regular income. Once back, too, I should soon find opportunities of furthering my fortunes. Such a prospect is much more valuable than a sum of money down."

"It would be if Barras were agreeable to do as you wish, but he is not."

"I see no reason why he should refuse. Everyone knows my capa­bilities, and there are plenty of men with far worse records than mine holding office. My enemies in the two Chambers might make some outcry, but they have no power in such matters now. Within twenty-four hours people would be talking of something else; Barras would have done himself no material harm, and I should have the means of supporting my unfortunate family."

Roger shrugged. "Your reasoning is sound enough; but the fact remains that Barras has refused Madame de Beauharnais's appeal on your behalf."

"Then she will not get back her diary. The person who has it is no fool, and would not part with it even if I offered the half of as big a sum as I might hope to get from you. The intention is to retain it and keep her bled white through monthly payments of as much as she can afford. That, my own interests apart, is why she should give Barras no peace until he does something for me. I have always wanted a post in the Police. If she could get me one, I could deal with the blackmailer for her in such a way that she would have no more to worry about."

"Again your reasoning is sound enough, but is made impracticable of application owing to the ill-will that Barras bears you. Therefore some other means must be employed."

"What have you to suggest?"

"That you should sell me the blackmailer's name and leave me to handle the matter of getting back the diary."

Fouché gave an angry snort. "I have already told you that in this lies my only hope of re-establishing myself in the career for which I am best fitted. Is it likely that I would sacrifice such a chance for a hatful of ready money?"

"You would be well advised to; otherwise you may get nothing."

"There, you are quite wrong. Even if Barras proves adamant, a steady income can be made out of Madame de Beauharnais; and as the go-between I'll get my share of it."

"Do not delude yourself. She is far from rich, and you will be lucky if you receive even a first small payment."

"On the contrary, the prospects of La Belle Creole becoming a good milch cow were never better. A reliable little bird told me that General Buonaparte is pressing her hard to marry him. In her situation she would be mad to refuse such an offer. Once she is Madame Buonaparte, not only will she feel it more necessary than ever to buy our silence, but she will have ample means to do so."

"You have yourself alluded to the factor which will prove the nigger in your woodpile," Roger announced with a grim little smile. "Madame de Beauharnais opened her heart to me this afternoon. She is shrewd enough to guess that you are banking on General Buonaparte's proposal to her, and knows that should she not give you satisfaction you may attempt to bring about her ruin. But she is a courageous woman, and so prepared to face up to this crisis you have forced upon her. She is also an honest one. She declared to me that nothing would induce her to marry the General with this sword of Damocles hanging over her head. And she went further. Rather than suffer a perpetual drain upon her very limited resources as the only alternative to having her children proclaimed bastards here in Paris she will take them to Martinique. There, her youthful indiscretion is known to most people and already condoned; so the most you can hope to gain is as much as you can screw out of her to buy your silence while she makes her preparations for leaving France."