Moreau let out a breath. “Terrible things. He was, as you English say, a villain. To understand, you must know something of Lyon’s history after those in Paris overthrew the monarch. Our city remained loyal to Louis and his queen and did not agree with the new National Convention. But it was more complicated than that. Some here sided with the radicals and others did not. We were a city divided. Our governments shifted back and forth for some time, but none of those regimes lasted. The Parisians did not like our choices and our loyalties, and so we were besieged.”
“By an army sent in to subdue you, yes.” I had read of these things. “In the end, Lyon had to surrender.”
“It was a chaotic time. As I say, I had gone by then, but my family was here and my friends, and they suffered.”
“I am sorry.” I found myself sympathizing for past events for the second time that day.
“Our city’s very name was taken from us. Lyon was henceforth to be known as Ville-Affranchie. In English that would be something like the freed city. Our conquerors planned to raze it to the ground, beginning with the villas on the hill and working their way down. Fortunately, that did not altogether happen.”
I recalled Donata telling me that Comtesse Lejeune had worked to spare the many homes that were to be destroyed. This, while her husband had fled into the countryside to save his own skin.
“Then came the executions,” Moreau continued bleakly. “Men rounded up into the plaza, soldiers shooting them with cannons. Thousands died. Apparently Potier had advised the city’s commander to do these things, as the executions would be quicker and more efficient. But Potier did not stop there. He went himself to individual homes, threatening those within and telling them that they’d be spared if they handed over all their money, jewels, or whatever they had. And then, of course, after he walked off with the plunder, the family would be arrested and executed, anyway. My friend said that he sometimes asked the women of the house to make a sacrifice as well,” Moreau finished in profound anger and disgust.
“Please tell me that your friend does not know this from personal experience,” I said, my voice deceptively calm.
“No.” Moreau shook his head. “Thankfully. Her father was taken, because he refused to comply, but he’d hidden his wife and daughters beforehand, having been forewarned. Potier had him killed, and the rest of the family fled. They lived in exile until Bonaparte restored the city and gave it back its name.”
“Perhaps I should hunt this Potier down, wherever he is now,” I suggested in the same mild tone. “Explain to him why he was mistaken to do what he did.”
Moreau eyed me in grim agreement. “I would like to as well. But none know what became of him. One day, he departed Lyon, and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. The mass executions ceased soon after that.”
“Recalled to Paris, Beaumont speculated,” I said.
“That is most likely, but no one wanted to inquire too closely. They were all simply glad to see him gone.”
“No doubt.” I gazed at the soaring cathedral, with its square towers and arched windows, an edifice that had stood watch over wars, brutality, many a winter, and many a spring. “What I wonder is why Gallo had Potier’s name on a slip of paper, which he hid so well only Brewster could find it.”
Moreau shrugged. “Anyone in Lyon would be upset by that name.”
“Or enraged enough by it to kill,” I said. “Perhaps Gallo stirred up the wrong memories in the wrong person.”
“Signor Gallo must not have understood what it meant,” Moreau said. “My friend has cautioned me against speaking of it, though she agreed I should warn you.”
I regarded him with curiosity. “She knows who I am?”
Moreau gave me a nod. “I told her how I knew you. All of it.”
We studied each other for a few moments.
“And she still advised you to warn me?” I asked. “I believe I admire this lady.”
“Oui, she is admirable.”
Moreau’s answer told me he was not whiling away his nights in bachelor loneliness.
I realized how little I knew about this man—whether he’d been married in the past or widowed or had children or had devoted his life to the army instead of having a family.
He must have been as young as I was when I’d followed Colonel Brandon into the army, perhaps a few years older, at most. Moreau had risen all the way to colonel in Bonaparte’s army, which meant he’d been a commander of some note. He also must have been canny enough to keep his head down after Waterloo, so he could return home to quiet retirement.
Other of Bonaparte’s talented leaders had been exiled or condemned by the Bourbons once Louis the Eighteenth had been restored. Field Marshal Ney, whom I’d admired for his audacity in Portugal and then for his rearguard actions in the retreat from Russia, had been arrested and executed by the monarchists soon after the war. Moreau had been fortunate to escape retribution.
“We must continue the hunt for your lady’s letter,” I said. “I’ve been speculating that if Signora Ruggeri was in league with Gallo, he might have entrusted her with his papers and letters. I intend to find out.”
Moreau peered at me in surprise. “You will continue the search? Why?”
“Because Gallo’s actions should not endanger others. The secrets people keep from one another should remain hidden, not exposed for all to see. That is dangerous.” I brushed my thumb over the brass head of my walking stick, which Donata had given me after another dangerous episode in my life. “Besides, the person who murdered Gallo might do so again, if they think their secret will be revealed by another.”
“You believe Signora Ruggeri might herself be in danger?” Moreau asked. “If indeed she’d been assisting Gallo.”
