Hello!
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
Thank you Galan_05, Mium, AlexZero12, Elios_Kari, Shingle_Top, paffnytij, Ponnu_Samy2279, Microraptor, Porthos10, Ic2096, and Ky_Gressman for your support!
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François's mission was progressing slowly, but surely, on Arthur Morton's side.
There was nothing spectacular in the way he went about it. No decisive moves, no unnecessary risks, even as he began to feel time slipping away. His strategy relied on consistency.
Every other evening, he met Morton in the same tavern, a worn old building whose walls still bore the scars of a past, violent riotn set slightly apart from the main streets. Sometimes, he would let several days pass without giving any sign of life, just long enough for anticipation and unease to settle in.
More often than not, the French spy simply let him talk. The unhappy man had a great deal to say.
François, who had the strange feeling of having become his psychiatrist, or his confessor, listened patiently as he spoke of his many troubles, his shattered hopes, his fears, the humiliations he had endured, and how he had begun living on credit.
Very quickly, François realized that he hardly needed to do anything with this man. It was enough to be there, to nod at the right moments, to prompt him with a simple question or a brief remark.
And little by little, without even realizing it, Morton had begun to depend on those conversations.
Each time they parted late in the evening, he seemed a little lighter, as if part of the invisible burden he had carried on his shoulders for years had not been lifted, but at least shared.
Regularly, he asked his new friend whether he was bothering him with his stories, but François's answer was always the same. He assured him that he never bothered him, and that he would always find a listening ear in him.
It was a support as rare as it was precious—especially for someone who had struggled alone for so long, like a man fallen into the sea, finding nothing at the surface to help him keep his head above water.
A few meetings had been enough.
Everything was going well.
Until one Friday evening.
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François understood that something had changed even before reaching the table.
It was in Morton's posture. In the way he held himself, his quick gestures, the brightness in his eyes—and above all, that radiant smile.
The moment François saw it, his stomach tightened. Arthur Morton looked almost like a new man.
There was no mistaking this smile for the forced, ironic ones François had seen in previous days. This one was far too bright to be feigned.
François did his best to betray nothing and approached. From where he stood, he could feel Morton's impatience, almost like a surrounding warmth—like the comforting heat of a fireplace in the middle of winter. But it did not reach him; he remained frozen to the bone.
"My friend, you're here! Ha!" Morton exclaimed enthusiastically, jumping to his feet.
His chair nearly tipped backward.
"Always, Arthur," François replied with a faint, practiced smile. "You seem… in good spirits tonight."
Arthur Morton invited François, who had introduced himself as James Bond, to sit. Without waiting, he poured him a generous glass of wine.
"Yes, I have good news to share!"
He raised his glass above the table, inviting his "friend" to toast with him.
"I've finally found a job!"
François's hand tightened imperceptibly around his glass. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before settling back into place.
"That's… wonderful news!" he said, doing his best to conceal his true feelings. "I'm so happy for you. You deserve it."
Their glasses clinked, and a few crimson drops fell onto the unsteady table like raindrops.
"Ha! And it's thanks to you!"
The words caught him off guard. François blinked rapidly.
"Thanks to me…?"
His palms grew damp, and a cold drop of sweat slid down his spine.
The man who had once been defeated and despondent now called for another bottle of wine in a booming voice, as if he had just inherited a fortune from some unknown relative.
Morton turned toward the only person who had not abandoned him at his lowest point and nodded eagerly, his cheeks flushed red.
"Of course! I had given up, but you pushed me to keep going, to get back up and persist! Without you… yes, without you, I don't think I would have found the strength to knock on new doors. And I wouldn't have had the chance to meet Mr. Livingston!"
What… what the fuck is this… he thought, before correcting himself inwardly. I mean—damn it! This wasn't supposed to happen!
His fingers tightened further around the glass he was holding. Fortunately, Morton noticed nothing.
A job… This isn't good for my mission…
The words echoed in his mind with unpleasant clarity.
It meant a steady income, stability, and therefore independence. Of course, Arthur Morton did not need to be unemployed to become a spy in the service of France, but for François's plan, it seemed preferable.
Hmm… Then again, having a job doesn't necessarily mean abundance. There are plenty of thankless, poorly paid positions.
François let out a long breath, set his glass down on the table, and leaned slightly forward.
"Livingston? I've heard of that family."
"That would be surprising if you hadn't! It's one of the most powerful families in New York," Morton explained with undisguised pride. "Philip Livingston is certainly one of the most important members of that family. He has numerous businesses in the city. Can you imagine?"
François nodded slowly.
In truth, the spy knew far more about the family than he let on. He had drawn up a list of the most influential families and men in New York, and the Livingstons—originally from Albany—were naturally on it. They now stood on equal footing with the DeLauneys.
Philip Livingston had celebrated his sixtieth birthday in January of that year and was the fourth (though not the last) son of Philip Livingston, the second lord of Livingston Manor—a vast estate just south of Albany that had been spared by the war. He owned a fine stone house in Manhattan, as well as a large residence in Brookland, surrounded by fields that still brought him considerable income each year despite the crisis.
As Arthur Morton had said, he owned many businesses in the city. His wealth also came from his investments in the slave trade.
According to the intelligence François had gathered, the family had many members, all holding prestigious positions. That was hardly surprising, given their wealth.
Morton then began recounting in detail what had happened, and François listened attentively, sorting each piece of information by its importance.
It had taken place that very morning.
Arthur had gone to one of Livingston's warehouses near Beckman's Slip. It was not the first time he had offered his services, but several weeks had passed. The man he spoke to did not even recognize him.
The conversation had not been going well, and he was about to be turned away once again when Mr. Livingston happened to pass by. He overheard Morton's arguments and was struck by his determination.
"He's such a remarkable man," Arthur Morton said with admiration, stars in his eyes. "Ah, he had such presence! Even if I had passed him in the street, I think I would have known at once that he was no ordinary man!"
"So… you're going to work for him?" François asked.
Something began to take shape in his mind—a thought.
If he works for him… perhaps he could pass on useful information?
But immediately, he saw the flaw in his reasoning.
No. That won't work. Why would he betray him? Especially if he's well paid.
"No," Arthur replied, refilling his glass. "During our conversation, he told me he might recommend me to his brother—William Livingston. A brilliant lawyer, apparently."
"Hmm? Is he in New York?" François asked at once, with a hint of concern that Arthur misread.
"Unfortunately, no. He lives and works in New Jersey. Apparently, he needs someone capable to assist him in his daily work. Mr. Livingston said he had to handle several cases at once, and one of his clerks died in a tragic accident. I won't have any choice but to leave New York."
François's face tightened.
A clerk… As I thought, this isn't good for my mission.
He clenched his teeth. François felt as though someone was trying to take something precious away from him.
"In New Jersey…" he repeated softly.
He raised his glass to his lips to conceal the brief hardening of his gaze.
"It's not ideal, but… I can't pass up such an opportunity," Morton went on, laughing, his cheeks growing redder. "It's an unexpected chance! I'll start over, and this time… it'll work!"
Having drunk his wine too quickly, Arthur Morton suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. François did not move a muscle and continued thinking.
As soon as the coughing subsided, Arthur resumed in a warmer tone.
"You know, you're the first person I'm telling this to. I haven't even shared the good news with my son yet, hehe. He'll be surprised."
A brief silence followed. Then François inclined his head.
"I'm honored," he said softly, "but… are you sure it's definite? I mean, these are only promises, aren't they?"
The man shrugged, still just as confident.
"Maybe, but it's better than anything I've had so far. And besides, he's a man of his word, from what people say."
Arthur took a large gulp of wine, letting several thick drops run down his chin and fall onto his coat.
François did the same, a cold glint in his eyes. From that moment on, he knew what he still had to do to ensure that the man he had begun to shape would not slip away.
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In a narrow room, steeped in odors that nothing seemed able to dispel, a candle burned on a small table. With each flicker of its fragile flame, the long shadows stretched across the walls began to dance—restless and distorted, as though they were coming to life, preparing to leap upon the room's sole occupant.
François sat motionless.
Before him lay a blank sheet of paper.
The flickering light illuminated his face in fits and starts, emphasizing the tension in his features. He looked like a man about to sign the irrevocable order of a death sentence.
His eyes were fixed on the page. He had been sitting like that for several minutes already. He had not written a single word.
He was thinking of Arthur Morton.
He felt a slight unease at the thought of what was to come, but that was not what held him back. If the situation had demanded it for the success of his mission, he would have acted without the slightest hesitation, whether the target had been old Seamus or Liam.
No. What restrained him was not moral, but strategic.
For, as a proverb he had heard among the Iroquois went—though it did not necessarily originate from them—there was no use unstringing one's bow once the arrow had been loosed.
After a long, silent moment of reflection, he pulled the sheet closer, took up his quill, and dipped its tip into the ink. He exhaled slowly and began to write.
"To the attention of Mr. Livingston,
I take the liberty of writing to you without revealing my identity, not out of cowardice, but out of prudence."
He narrowed his eyes and paused on the last word. Prudence. A word that generally inspired both trust and curiosity. He nodded to himself and continued.
"The affairs under your charge expose you, more than most, to men of ill repute concealed beneath respectable appearances."
He paused again, searching for the exact phrasing he had in mind only moments before.
"I have been informed that you are considering placing your trust in a certain Arthur Morton, originally from Boston, who has been seeking employment for some time following several unfortunate experiences."
Now that Morton's name was written, it felt too late to turn back. He continued.
"I cannot recommend strongly enough that you exercise the utmost caution in your dealings with him. This man, beneath a modest and agreeable exterior, has left behind more than one compromised situation."
François suddenly stopped and turned around, seized by the unpleasant sensation that someone was standing behind him, watching what he wrote and judging him.
But the room was empty.
There was only the wind brushing against the walls of the building, whistling through the gaps of the small window. And through the thin partition came the muffled sounds of his neighbors in the midst of their intimacy.
When he turned back to the table, his hesitation had vanished, and his writing grew firmer.
"In Boston, where he worked as a clerk at Michaels & Forbes between 1755 and 1757, irregularities were noted in the management of certain funds. Similar occurrences were observed during his employment under Master Henry Collins between 1761 and 1767. Nothing was ever formally established; nevertheless, suspicions remain. Today, both establishments have fallen into ruin."
A cold smile slowly formed on his lips.
It was not even a lie. Not entirely. Rather, a carefully shaped truth designed to present Arthur Morton as solely responsible for the downfall of Michaels & Forbes and Henry Collins's practice.
Morton had spoken at length, and within that stream of confidences, François had found everything he needed to write this letter.
The fall of Boston had erased many traces. As for the Collins affair, there had indeed been suspicions of embezzlement in inheritance cases, but nothing had ever been proven. The rumors that spread among the population had been like poison, and within just a few months, he had been forced to close his doors. Collins had left for the south to start anew.
Three years later, no one could prove anything. Nor could anyone clear him—and that was all that mattered.
Livingston would read this letter and doubt. A man in his position could not afford uncertainty.
"These are not facts I can substantiate, but rather a sequence of circumstances which, taken together, form a troubling picture.
I leave it to your judgment to determine the importance you wish to assign to this warning. Yet it seemed my duty to bring these elements to your attention before an irreversible decision is made."
He held his quill above the paper for a moment, then signed:
"A man concerned with safeguarding your interests."
François set the quill down and reread each line, wondering whether he should adopt a less accusatory, more nuanced tone—suggest rather than assert.
In the end, he decided to leave the letter as it was.
Once the ink had dried, he carefully folded the sheet into three equal parts and slipped it among his belongings.
All that remained was to have it delivered to Philip Livingston.
To do so directly would be unwise, but a city of such importance was full of discreet intermediaries. A messenger boy, for instance. A single coin would be enough, and he would deliver the anonymous letter on his behalf.
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The next morning, as he made his way to old Seamus's shop earlier than usual, François noticed a boy with messy hair and worn clothes, visibly patched in several places. He slowed down, then called out to him.
"Hey, kid, want to earn a shilling?"
The boy stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening. It was no small sum.
He looked up at François with large brown eyes and held out a hand that seemed tiny to him. His palm was not very clean and was covered with small cuts that had not quite healed.
But François did not give him the coin. Instead, he handed him a carefully folded paper.
"All you have to do is take this to that address," he said calmly, pointing to a fine stone house at the end of the street. "Knock, and tell whoever answers that this letter is for Mr. Livingston. Nothing more. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded eagerly, his hand still outstretched.
"Good. Who are you to give this letter to?"
"To Mr. Livingston," the boy repeated at once, still waiting for his shilling.
François then slipped the small coin into the boy's palm, and the child quickly tucked it away, as if afraid it might vanish. Then he ran off.
François watched him without moving.
Fortunately, the boy did not choose to abandon the letter and keep the coin.
When he saw the boy knock on the door, François stepped back into the shadow of a red-brick building. The door opened, and a tall, well-dressed man appeared. He exchanged only a few words with the street urchin, took the document handed to him, and closed the door.
François nodded slowly and turned away.
Now, all that remained was to wait—and hope.
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That evening, François went to the tavern, which seemed noisier than usual.
A group of sailors occupied almost the entire main room, their coarse laughter drowning out the surrounding chatter. The air was thick, heavy with alcohol and tobacco.
He paused for a moment at the threshold, letting his gaze sweep across the room.
He found Arthur Morton at their usual table.
His shoulders were slumped, as though an invisible giant were pressing down on him. He sat motionless before a half-empty bottle and a mug barely touched.
François approached slowly.
"Arthur?"
Morton did not react immediately. Then, as if pulled from a deep sleep, he raised his head.
His eyes were red, his face marked by a fatigue and disappointment he no longer even tried to hide.
"You're here…" he murmured, barely audible.
The spy pulled out a chair and sat across from him, unhurried.
"Did something happen?"
It did not really sound like a question. The answer was too obvious.
Morton could not even manage a hollow smile.
"Something… yes."
He ran a trembling hand over his face. He wanted to cry, but forbade himself, for a man should not show such emotions—especially in public. He had to remain strong.
"He withdrew his offer," he said in a low, hoarse voice.
François did not move.
"Livingston," Morton added, though it was unnecessary. "He no longer wishes to proceed."
His fingers slowly tightened around his mug.
"I'm sorry, Arthur," François said, wearing an expression that seemed sincere.
"I… I don't understand…" Morton went on. "Yesterday, everything seemed settled. He had given me his word."
His voice broke at the end.
"Why the sudden change of heart?" François asked after a brief silence.
"I don't know. I truly don't know… Did I say something wrong? And yet, during our meeting, he seemed satisfied…"
François tilted his head slightly, as though genuinely considering the question.
"Did you tell him about your… past misfortunes?"
Morton flinched slightly.
"Y-yes. I—I thought it wouldn't be honest to hide it. But I didn't do anything wrong, James! I'm not responsible!"
His voice rose despite himself, though it drew no attention.
"Maybe…" he went on more quietly, "maybe I said too much… Maybe, after thinking it over, he decided my past was too… chaotic…"
He drained his mug in one go.
"Maybe, in the end, all of this was just an illusion. That I believed in promises that never even existed…"
He let out a bitter laugh, then ran both hands over his face, as if that alone might drive away his dark thoughts.
"I believed in it, you know? I really believed in it."
His voice was now barely a whisper.
"Ah… In the end, I should have waited before telling my son… He's going to hate me…"
A small tear rolled down his cheek. Arthur hurriedly wiped it away, almost violently, and straightened in his chair.
"How am I going to tell him…"
François watched him calmly, as one observes a situation unfolding exactly as expected. He had the impression that the fruit he coveted was ripening before his very eyes.
The risk now was that it might rot before it could be picked.
"I may have a solution," he finally said, fixing his gaze on Morton's. "I can't guarantee anything, but there may be a possibility."
Morton let his arms fall heavily and stared at his "friend." The silence seemed to tighten around them.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice trembling.
His eyes seemed to beg him to continue—and at the same time, not to give him false hope.
François hesitated deliberately.
"It's not something I can speak about freely, I'm afraid."
Arthur's lips began to tremble.
"Please…"
"Give me a little time. A few days. A week at most. I'll make inquiries. If I receive a favorable answer, I'll come find you. I'll tell you more then."
He leaned slightly forward.
"Your son still thinks you're going to work for the Livingston family? Then for now, don't tell him anything."
Morton remained still for a moment, then slowly nodded.
François gave him a warm, reassuring smile.
Fresh tears—this time of relief—welled up in Morton's eyes.
"Thank you, my friend. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart."