Louisbourg

A novella by Thomas Hurtt

Part Three

Tell me who you need me to kill. The words hung in the air between them, an
invitation to mayhem. And the cloaked man had to admit that he was tempted. But his
natural caution steered him away from this quick fix.
“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “it’s not that simple.” He withdrew a letter from the
folds of his cloak and passed across the table to Morjuet. “Read this.”
The broad grin melted from the ruffian’s face, pooling into a non-committal
scowl. He emitted a low snarl from the back of his throat as he flicked the paper back to
its owner.
“Perhaps you should read it to me, eh? The light is not so good on this side of the
table.”
The visitor retrieved his letter, folding it carefully and returning it to his pocket.
“It comes from our friend in Rocheport,” he began. “Most regrettably, the
message only came to my attention this afternoon. It was mixed in with some of the
dispatches from the Belle Fleur.” He fixed his eyes on the heavy silver head of his cane,
studying the way the candle light glinted off its polished surface. “The Ministry has
begun asking questions again.”
“What sort of questions?” Morjuet growled warily.
“Uncomfortable ones. Something has reawakened their suspicions, I fear.”
“Are Raymond and Séguin still polluting Versailles with their incessant whining?”
“No, I don’t think so. This is something new, something different. You know that
our friend keeps a Ministry scribe on his payroll. This clerk reports that we are soon to
receive a visitor here at Louisbourg. A gentleman who will put his nose where it doesn’t
belong.”
“I see. And you would like me to break that nose and neck that’s attached to it.
Fine, that works. Who is he?”
“It seems our informant was not as scrupulous as he could have been. I have a
suspicion, but it is not enough. That’s were you come in.”
“I’m listening. You want it to appear accidental.”
“You are not listening. I don’t want him touched. Not yet, at least.”
“But – why?”
“I think we need to know more before we act. You simple can’t knock every new
arrival on the head. It won’t do.”
Morjuet didn’t look convinced. He looked disappointed.
“You do remember what trouble Boularderie was, don’t you?”
“Enough!” Morjuet didn’t like being reminded of that particular piece of work. It
had been badly fumbled, and only some very intricate maneuvering had keep him from
paying for it. “Just tell me what you have in mind.”
 And so, the cloaked gentleman began to rough out his strategy. It was a cautious
one, yet designed to yield definitive results.
“That is a terrible idea!” Morjuet injected. “You have to know that you are
making a mistake.”
“Look here, my friend,” his visitor counseled. “I am not alone in coming to this
decision. There are…others…who have an stake in how this situation unfolds. There are
a lot of interests that need to be protected.”
Morjuet looked glum. He was uncomfortable with what was being asked of him.
It wasn’t how he usually operated and he didn’t like it.
“If you feel as if you cannot cooperated in this,” his guest continued, “I will be
forced to bring my business elsewhere.”
The threat was hollow – so hollow that it was laughable.
And they both knew it.
There was no way to cut Morjuet out of the dirty end of this business, not short of
having him killed. He didn’t know beyond a fraction of the dealings, but what he did
know was far too much to allow him to live. Only, who would take on the task of
silencing him? It was a problem.
Morjuet threw his head back and laughed, the laughter ringing off the walls was
vibrant and genuine. He tried to speak, but it was sputtered and broken as he wiped at the
tears in his eyes, practically falling backwards out of his chair.
“You would do…what, exactly? Oh by the Sainted Virgin! You would bring your
business…elsewhere?”
He tried, really tried, to collect himself.
“But my dear friend,” he explained, as if to a simple child, “There is no where
else!”
Even his guest was smiling by this time, the humor of the thing was so infectious,
the idea so absurd.
“Oh Mon Dieu, who are you people! Oh, sit down, Monsieur, you really must sit
down and take a drink with me. I insist, you must!”
And the visitor did sit down, and even took a cup of wine. He did not mind that
the cup was not a clean one. He did not even notice that the wine was not particularly
good. He had accomplished what he had come here to do. He began to layout in detail
how he wanted Lt. Bouchard to be secretly watched, his activities monitored and in what
ways Morjuet was to report back on them.
And if the good lieutenant did turn out to be who they suspected he was, why then
Morjuet could indeed kill him.
In any way that he pleased.

***
Lise Guyon was forcibly pulled from her dream, awakening at the first tentative
sounds of her baby’s cry. Though mostly still asleep, she was quick to find her footing
and scampered across the small chamber to the low wooden cradle. The stone floor felt
glacial beneath her bare feet as she scooped the infant up in her arms. She nestling her
child to her warm bosom, staunching the distress before the cries roused her other
daughter, the not-quite-two Nicolette-Hélène.
 Back under the bedcovers, she cradled the babe, her hand stoking the downy hair
while she drowsed and the baby nursed. Her bed was colder for the absence of her
husband and she was not yet used to it. Jean-Martin had left with a detachment from his
regiment the month before, and though Port Toulouse was not so far distant, it was in
doubt if she would see him again before high summer. She nestled close to her baby
daughter and tried to return to her wispy dream of sunshine and summer warmth.
It evaded her.
The baby’s greedy nursing kept her conscious, and her thoughts turned to
something her friend, Mariette Achard had said to her earlier. This occurred at the close
of the day, when they were alone together, banking the hearth fires in the kitchens. It was
something that she had pushed to one side, had avoided thinking about afterwards. Once
home, she had lost herself in the domestic pleasures of giving Nicolette-Hélène her
dinner, and working on a bit of knitting while she sang to her a few nighttime songs.
But now, in the darkened room, Mariette’s voice came back to her, and would not
be so easily banished.
“I think you should know, Lise, that you are being talked about again.”
Lise, who had been sweeping ash from the hearth, looked up. She wiped her
forehead with back of a hand, a patent sign of vexation. A trailing of soot marked her
brow.
“Let me guess. Fantine Chabert.”
“Yes, her…among others.”
“These cackling old geese. Don’t they have anything better to do then rake up
gossip where there isn’t any?”
“No,” Mariette said simply. She knelt beside her friend and wiped the sooty mark
with bottom of her apron. “No, that’s the problem – they don’t.”
Lise blew a breath of exasperation. “And what are they saying now? My hair is
not properly covered? Did I show a glimpse of my elbow when I was in the market?”
“No, it’s not that,” Though they were quite alone, Mariette drop her voice lower
and told her with some reluctance, “They are saying that you were…coquettish…with
that new officer. The one that came with the supply ship. They say it was very brazen,
and in full public view.”
“My God. Is that what they are saying?”
“And that it is shocking, with your husband away on the King’s duty. They say
that your behavior was truly scandalous.”
“Those backbiting cows!” Lise exclaimed, in a shocked condition of her own.
She sprang angrily to her feet, knocking the ash pile asunder, striding recklessly towards
the door.
“Where are you going?” Mariette called after her.
Lise spun around on her heels.
“I am going to tell them exactly what I think of them.”
Mariette rushed forward and took hold of her shoulders tightly, while a cloud of
cinder dust roiled about their feet.
“Oh Mon Dieu! I knew you’d be like this! I really debated if I should tell you.
“Well I am glad you did. Now, let me go!”
“I will not! You have got to think about…”
 Lise twisted from her grip and ducked past. She was halfway to the door when
Mariette cried out, “Please! You are just going to make it worse! This is just what they
want!”
It wasn’t the words that stopped her, but rather something in the voice, a mixture
of urgency and helplessness and regret. Lise did stop though, and turned to face her
friend. They looked at each other and the expression Lise saw prompted her to demand,
“What! Why are you looking at me that way?”
Mariette hesitated before answering, but then took the plunge.
“Do they know what they’re talking about?” she asked quietly. “Is any of it
true?”
“How can you even ask that?”
“I don’t know…but I’m asking…as your friend.”
“No. Of course it’s not true. At least, not the damnable part.”
Mariette spoke nothing, but her eyes begged Lise to continue.
“I did have words with the lieutenant. And it was in public. My God, would it
have been better if it was in private? I had Marie-Josette with me! Tell me, does a
woman flirt while she is cradling an infant? It’s ridiculous!”
“But what business did you have with him?”
“He’s just arrived with the latest news from France. I had to ask what he knew of
the war. Whether it was coming here. Whether we would be able to stop it.”
“Lise! You can’t do that! Military matters are not the proper sphere for us
women. You can’t…”
“Why not? Tell me why it’s not my concern as well. Aren’t we also the ones who
will suffer if an invasion comes? Will the shot from the cannon fall only upon the
soldiers? Mariette, I have lived this before. It is because my husband is absent that it
falls solely to me. I swear to you that I will protect my babies. By any means necessary.”
“I can see your intentions. But you must know that this is way too dangerous for
your reputation. What if he didn’t behave as a gentleman should? Officer or no, he is
still a soldier. A soldier! I hardly need tell you how easily a woman’s honor can be
compromised.”
Lise made no reply, but only gave her a hard look. Mariette had trouble
discerning if she was reaching her friend.
“You have had a lucky escape, in my opinion.”
“I can take care of my own honor.”
“But if he tried to seduce you…”
“I would never allow that to happen. Never.”

Later that night, when most honest people in Louisbourg were already fast asleep,
Lise Guyon lay dozy in her little room, a broody mother nestling her downy chick.
“Never,” Lise whispered, but just to herself. “Never, never.” And she held her
babe close, allowing sleep take them both.

***

Arsène Morjuet waited silently in the shadows, more sober than earlier in La
Mouette Noire. It was unfortunate that sobriety did not engender in him a stable
temperament. It only made him irritable. Evening had brought on an indecisive,
faltering rain, a misty blanket that draped everything in clammy darkness. The wet chill
invaded the very marrow of his bones.
As soon as he had accepted this project, he had begun to lament the decision. It
rankled him to be confined in his methods. He had developed his own pallet of
techniques and had great success with them. He didn’t subscribe to this new, subtle
method of information gathering. It had been foisted upon him. He preferred a more
straightforward approach. The ruffian had yet to meet anyone who wouldn’t tell him
anything he wanted to know. It was really just a question of how many bones needed
mangling.
Morjuet kept himself awake and vigilant by caustically chewing this over. He had
been successfully in finding the lieutenant’s lodgings. That had been relatively easy, in a
town of only four thousand souls. A newcomer stood out like a beacon. And he had
quietly picked up Bouchard at the quayside.
He managed to stay on the trail until it lead inside Les Trois Fleches. This was a
salon where military officers and colonial officials gathered to gamble. It was an
effective obstacle to Arsène Morjuet, however, because he was neither.
He watched the front entrance from across the road, rubbing his arms for some
sensation of warmth. It really was damned cold tonight. He was beginning to think that
if it was the gambling the lieutenant had come for, this would be a long night of watching
to no purpose whatsoever.
But after an interval of less than half an hour, Bouchard reappeared on the street.
Morjuet roused himself, making ready to follow. But Bouchard didn’t move on, like
expected. Instead, he loitered about the street before the salon. It was obvious he was
waiting for someone. Growing intrigued, Morjuet wondered who it could be.
And then, he almost missed it. The lieutenant disappeared into the misty alley on
his own side of the street.
The watcher hesitated to break cover. There was a lot to consider. The street was
not empty, for one. Though he usually kept a low profile, there were those in Louisbourg
that knew him and knew what he did. He might be noticed and remembered. Also, his
place of concealment was a good one, but by no means perfect. Had Bouchard observed
him? If so, then venturing into the fog-enveloped alley could be a trap.
Down the street there was a bit of commotion, a drunk was being pitched out of a
tavern. Morjuet decided he would risk it, and seized the opportunity to make his move.
Across the street, he darted between the two buildings. He took care to tread silently on
the slick cobbles, and peered cautiously around the corner.
“Were you thinking of going somewhere, lieutenant?” Bouchard’s harsh voice cut
the night.
He was roughly handling a naval officer, flinging him hard against the back of the
building. Morjuet went rigid with shock. This was not how officers behaved. The
lieutenant gripped his man hard against the pitiful struggling, ignoring cries of
indignation.
What was this?
Arsène Morjuet didn’t know yet, but he watched intently, fascinated to find out.
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