The Last Cavalier: Being the Adventures of Count Sainte-Hermine in the Age of Napoleon. Alexandre Dumas

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      “Yes, I remember him well. Ah, Monsieur Fouché, that is the kind of man I need.”

      “It is not devotion to an earlier regime, Citizen First Consul, that drives men like him; it’s really just a matter of self-interest.”

      “How right you are, Fouché. Well, how about the third one?”

      “The third son will be your friend if you want.”

      “How’s that?”

      “Obviously, it is with his agreement that Madame de Sourdis, skilled in flattery, is asking for your blessing of her daughter’s marriage as if you were a king. Give your blessing, sire, and instead of being your enemy, Monsieur Hector de Sainte-Hermine will have no choice but to become your friend.”

      “Fine,” said Bonaparte. “I shall give it some thought.” Rubbing his hands in satisfaction at the thought that someone had just fulfilled a formality that used to be associated with French kings, he then proceeded: “Well, Fouché. Any news?”

      “Just one piece of news, but it’s quite important, especially for me.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Yesterday, in the green room at Mortefontaine, with Lucien, the Minister of the Interior, holding the pen, you dictated and signed my dismissal and my admission to the Senate.”

      In a gesture familiar to Corsicans, Bonaparte ran his thumb twice over his chest in the sign of the cross, and said: “Who told you such a story, Fouché?”

      “One of my agents, of course.”

      “He was mistaken.”

      “He was so far from mistaken that my dismissal is right there, on that chair, in the side pocket of your gray frock coat.”

      “Fouché,” said Bonaparte, “if you limped like Talleyrand, I would say that you were the devil himself.”

      “You no longer deny it, am I right?”

      “Of course not. Besides, your dismissal has been arranged with the most honorable terms.”

      “I understand. It is surely to my credit, during all the time I have been in your service, that you have never noticed any of your silver missing.”

      “Now that France is at peace and the Ministry of Police is unnecessary, I can send its minister to the Senate so that I know where to find him if ever the ministry needs to be reestablished. I am aware that in the Senate, my dear Fouché, you will have to give up your administration of gambling, which provides you a source to streams of gold, but you already have so much money you cannot possibly enjoy it all. And your domain in Pontcarré, which I knew you would like to keep expanding, is really already quite large enough for you.”

      “Do I have your word,” said Fouché, “that if the Ministry of Police is reestablished it will be for no one other than for me?”

      “You have my word,” said Bonaparte.

      “Thank you. And now, may I announce to Cabanis that Mademoiselle de Sourdis, his goddaughter, has your blessing to marry the Comte de Sainte-Hermine?”

      “You may.”

      Bonaparte nodded slightly, Fouché answered with a deep bow, and departed.

      The First Consul, his hands behind his back, paced up and down silently for a few moments. Then, stopping behind his secretary’s chair, he said, “Did you hear that, Bourrienne?”

      “What, General?”

      “What that devil Fouché just said to me.”

      “I never hear anything unless you order me to listen.”

      “He knew that I had retired his minitry, that I had done so at Mortefontaine, and that the dismissal order was in the pocket of my gray frock coat.”

      “Ah,” said Bourrienne. “That is not so surprising. All he needed to do was to give your brother’s personal valet a pension.”

      Bonaparte shook his head. “All the same, that man Fouché is dangerous.”

      “Yes,” said Bourrienne, “but you have to admit that a man whose subtlety can surprise you can be a useful man in times like these.”

      Silent for a moment, the First Consul then said, “I’ve promised him that at the first signs of trouble I will call him back. I shall probably keep my word.”

      He rang for the office boy. “Landoire,” Bonaparte said, “look out the window and see if a carriage is ready.”

      Landoire leaned out the window. “Yes, General,” he said.

      The First Consul pulled on his frock coat and picked up his hat. “I’m going to the Conseil d’Etat.”

      He started toward the door, then stopped. “Bourrienne,” he said, “go down to Josephine and tell her that not only does Mademoiselle de Sourdis’s marriage have my blessing but also that Madame Bonaparte and I shall sign her marriage contract.”

       XXI In Which Fouché Works to Return to the Ministry of Police, Which He Has Not Yet Left

      FOUCHÉ WENT BACK to his office furious. He still had a role to play, but the role was limited. Outside of the police, Fouché had only secondary power, which to him was of no real value. For nature had endowed him with crossed eyes so that he could look in two directions at once and with big ears that could hear things from all directions. Add to that his subtle intelligence and his temperament—nervous, irritable, worrying—all of which went wanting without his ministry.

      And Bonaparte had hit upon the truly sensitive point. In losing the police, he was losing his control over gambling, so he was also losing more than two hundred thousand francs a year. Although Fouché was already extremely rich, he was always trying to increase his wealth even if he could never really enjoy it. His ambition to extend the boundaries of his domain in Pontcarré was no less great than Bonaparte’s to move back the borders of France.

      Fouché threw himself into his armchair without a word to anyone. His facial muscles were quivering like the surface of the ocean in a storm. After a few minutes, however, they stopped twitching, because Fouché had found what he was looking for. The pale smile that lit up his face indicated, if not the return of good weather, at least a temporary calm. He grabbed the bell cord that hung above his desk and pulled it vigorously.

      The office boy hurried in. “Monsieur Dubois!” Fouché shouted.

      A moment later the door opened and Monsieur Dubois entered. Dubois had a calm, gentle face, with a kindly, unaffected smile, and he was scrupulously neat. Wearing a white tie and a shirt with cuffs, he pranced more than he walked lightly in, and the soles of his shoes slid over the carpet as if they were a dancing master’s.

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