Napoleon Must Die (9 page)

“Yes, Madame, you are,” said Murat. “For I fear that without us, you won’t live to see France again.”

BERTHIER’S FACE WAS
pink
and his frizzy hair in disarray, but the stem set of his mouth made his appearance sinister instead of ridiculous. For the last quarter hour he had catalogued Victoire’ s offenses to her and had at last run out of vitriol. He glowered at Victoire as he drummed his blunt fingers on his writing table. “I will say I expected a more convincing explanation than that, Madame Vernet. How can you claim that you are defending your husband by spying on me?”

She had not turned a hair while he upbraided her; now she did not quail at his accusation, nor wilt under his scathing gaze. “I’ve a duty to my husband, and to Napoleon. My husband is no thief, and Napoleon has lost a marine and part of his treasure. Since no one else seems to be taking steps to find the guilty man or to recover the scepter, I’ve taken it as my task.”

“Women!” Berthier exclaimed. “Fine words, Madame Vernet. But you have shamed me and Madame Foures and you have dragged Murat into a fruitless venture. I will have no more of it.”

Victoire met his eyes directly. “I will not keep watch for Madame Foures again. She is not ... culpable.”

“Generous of you to say so,” Berthier responded with heavy sarcasm. The slight jowls that had begun to form on the officer shook as his jaw clenched between words. “Will you permit me to inform her that she need not fear you?”

“If you wish,” said Victoire, pretending she was not insulted. “But you cannot ask me to keep from trying to exonerate my husband. I’d be a poor excuse for a wife if I did.” She curtsied. “If that is all?”

“Not quite,” said Berthier. “I have already spoken to Murat about you. He has given me his word that he will not be taken from his duties by your importunities again. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Victoire quietly.

“And Roustam-Raza has orders to report to me about all your activities. If you attempt anything unauthorized, I will know about it before midnight and I will take whatever steps are necessary to stop you. Do you understand me?”

“I understand you very well.” Her sapphire-blue eyes were dry and her fair skin was paler than usual. “Now may I go?”

Berthier shook his head. “All right,” he said. “But remember what I’ve said, and for God’s Nails, woman, use what little sense you’ve been given before you go off on another such start.”

For once she quivered, stung. “If I had no good sense, General Berthier, I would never have questioned your persecution of my husband.” She curtsied again, nothing more than a perfunctory bob, then she turned without any leave-taking. As she walked out of the tent, she heard Berthier swear.

* * *

The young lancer’s arm had mortified and Larrey shook his head as he examined it. “There’s nothing for it. We must have it off or the rot will spread and kill him.” He frowned at Victoire as she prepared fresh bandages for the infected wound. “Mix brandy and opium for him. You know how to do it. Give it to him in an hour. I’ll get two of my surgeons to assist me then.” He rubbed his bloody smock. “It’s the heat. The animalcules breed in the heat.”

Victoire was appalled at the stench of the putrescent wound but managed to keep her voice level. “What’s to prevent the infection from occurring again, where it cannot be stopped?”

Larrey looked at her and nodded slowly. “I can’t answer that. You’re right, the rot might come again, and if it does the lad will die.” He pulled at his moustache. “But if we do not amputate, then he is dead already. If we take the arm, then the rest of the body has a chance.” He bent over the cot again, touching the young lancer’s face. “His fever is rising. If we don’t act quickly, he will generate enough heat within himself to breed more animalcules.”

“Poor boy,” said Victoire, though the trooper was less than five years younger than she. As she finished tying the bandages, she said, “I’II see he gets his opium and brandy. Do you want me to notify you when he has drunk it?”

“Yes, if you will. I’ll be with Madame Chargerres. She miscarried yesterday and she is ... heavily in blood. I don’t know what I can do but give her a composer, but perhaps that will be sufficient.” He frowned. “She tells me that this is the third time she has miscarried.”

“How unfortunate,” said Victoire with feeling.

“Captain Chargerres is very troubled. There are no heirs alive and they have been married eight years.” Larrey started away from the cot. “Perhaps you will be good enough to speak to Madame Tounorrai. She has ability as a midwife, I’m told. She will know more how to deal with Madame Chargerres.”

“If that’s what you wish,” said Victoire. “I’ll attend to it as soon as I have given this soldier the medication you wish him to have.” She was aware how much she wanted a distraction. She could not let herself dwell on the young trooper’s fate and she was exhausted with worry for her husband. She made herself be more attentive. “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. Undoubtedly later there will be,” warned Larrey, wiping his brow. “This is a damned horrible place. I don’t know why I came here.” With that he went off, looking from one wounded soldier to another as he marched down the aisle of cots.

* * *

By the time sunset came, Victoire was haggard. The screams and whimpers of the young lancer still rang in her ears, though he had sunk into deep sleep more than two hours ago. She wandered to the entrance of the medical tents where Roustam-Raza was waiting for her; as she approached him, she asked, “What is for supper tonight?” as she realized that she did not want anything at all.

“Roast goat with onions,” said Roustam-Raza with obvious satisfaction. “You can smell it if—”

“No,” said Victoire, waving him away. “Not after everything I’ve smelled today.” She stared up at the sky, doing her best not to feel queasy. “Find me some cheese and bread. That will suffice me.”

“If you insist.” Roustam-Raza hesitated. “Would you prefer I have bread and cheese as well?”

“Oh, no, of course not; have anything you want,” she said quickly, trying to steady her thoughts. “I’m not really hungry, but I ought to have something.” She looked down at her hands. “And I need a bath. Arrange for that, will you?”

“I will,” said Roustam-Raza with an Egyptian bow. There was a slight smile on the brightly dressed Mameluke’s face. It had been weeks since he had taken any offense at assisting the Frenchwoman. “When I have eaten.”

Victoire stretched. “When it’s possible,” she said, and fell into step beside the Mameluke. “I’ll stay within sight while you eat, so Berthier won’t have cause to be angry.” This evening she was dispirited and downcast, and her mood was reflected in the way she moved and spoke.

“It’s an unreasonable imposition,” said Roustam-Raza as he watched her. “You have complied with his wishes.”

“I’ve had no reason not to,” she said wistfully. “If only I could discover something, anything, that would point me in the right direction.”

“It is in the hands of Allah,” said Roustam-Raza as they reached the place where four goats turned on spits over fires. “We must resign ourselves.”

“Perhaps you must,” said Victoire, then shook her head. “If I had your faith ... but, alas—” She broke off as Roustam-Raza hurried toward the spits where cooks were starting to cut off strips of meat.

Waiting at the edge of the troopers’ mess Victoire was surprised to see Gaspard Monge, the mathematician, deep in conversation with Napoleon’s currently favorite artist, Dominique Denon. The two men did not mingle with the soldiers but kept to themselves, and there was something about their attitude that struck Victoire as being furtive.

Out of her habitual curiosity, Victoire moved a little closer, wondering what could demand such concentrated attention from two such distinguished men.

“—according to the report, it’s worth a fortune to anyone who can pay the price the jeweler is asking.” Denon was saying, his face alight with the ruddy sunset and fascination.

“But the thing is in Alexandria,” Monge said. “And what you’ve reported is only a rumor. That’s a long way to go for a rumor.”

“But it’s more than a rumor,” said Denon with heat. “I had it from someone who is always abreast of the world’s secrets. It’s one of those things that is sold covertly. I know it’ll be nowhere near the price it could command because of how it is being disposed.” He slapped one hand into the other. “Think of it. For an investment of only a fraction of the worth of the piece, we could lay our hands on a real treasure.”

“Perhaps. But what if the report is faulty, or the treasure is nothing more than gold-plated brass? Or worse—if it is something that could bring disgrace with it.” Monge shook his head. “If that jeweler in Alexandria has something. so important that it must be sold in this irregular way, then we had better find out before we do anything—” He broke off as he noticed that Victoire was standing nearby. He gestured for silence, moving away with Denon.

Victoire felt her pulse strengthen and purpose flow back into her veins. She looked around for Roustam-Raza, and saw that he was eating with a few of the lancer officers. At last she had stumbled upon a clue. Or, she admitted, a possible clue.

Someone had a valuable treasure to sell covertly. “The scepter,” she whispered, adding dutifully to herself, “It’s a possibility.” For days she had languished, fearing that there would be nothing more she could do to save Vernet. Now she had information that hinted on—what? She would have to go to Alexandria to find out. Alexandria! The difficulties of such a journey could not turn her from her purpose. It was all she could do to remain where she stood. She wanted to hurry over to him and demand his full attention at once. There must be some way for her to find this item offered for sale. If it was the scepter, she could trace who supplied it, and surely Vernet would emerge vindicated ...

“Something troubling you, Madame Vernet?” asked a familiar voice from behind her.

She turned around. “General Murat!” she cried out. “How good it is to see you.” She held out her hand as he approached, smiling as he bent to kiss her fingers. “And what good luck that you should come at the time I have need of your help. You are the very man I want most to—”

He stood up with alacrity. “Oh, no. You’re up to something and you’re going to try to drag me into it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Victoire roundly. “I want only to seek your advice.”

“About what, Madame?” he inquired politely, and spoiled his gallantry by adding, “And don’t seek to disguise your purpose from me.”

“About Alexandria,” said Victoire, holding back the urge to request more. “Tell me about Alexandria.”

“Why?” asked Murat, watching her closely. “What about Alexandria has caught your attention?”

“Something I have heard very recently ... from a French source.” She looked over to where Roustam-Raza was eating and saw that he was nearly finished. “I believe that there is information that would be beneficial to my husband’s case in Alexandria.”

“Beneficial? How beneficial?” He did not allow her time to answer. “And this information came from a French source, you say?” He stared at her. “I should not listen to you. But damn me! I don’t know—” He rocked back on his heels. “It happens that I am going to Alexandria in a few days. Of course you did not know this. That would be ridiculous.” He watched her with a skeptical eye. “Very well. If you’ll tell me what you want, I’ll endeavor to do what I can to find it or garner the information, or whatever else you might require of me.”

She beamed at him. “How good you are!” Her face brightened. “I knew that you’d offer your assistance. And I’m certain you would do a superior job for me.”

Murat was suddenly cautious. “I would do? What are your reservations, then? And don’t tell me you don’t have them.”

“Not reservations,” she said quickly, “no. Not that. But it would not be reasonable of me to demand you spend time on my behalf when you are doubtless going there on Napoleon’s orders, as his officer.”

He took a step back. “Oh, no. You don’t catch me in that trap twice,” he warned her. “I will not consent to any scheme of yours if you present your case this way.”

“What way?” she asked, the image of innocence. “I’m only concerned on your behalf. I’ve already dragged you into embarrassment; I won’t be so unthinking again. I do not want your work compromised by my claims upon you. Which, of course, I don’t have in any case.” She looked away, not trusting herself to watch Murat any longer.

“You are as ruthless as an Austrian dragoon, and that’s the truth,” said Murat with feeling. “What are you proposing? For you are proposing something, aren’t you?”

She turned back to him. “I was about to suggest that you permit Roustam-Raza and me to accompany you to Alexandria. We could be about our business there and you would not have to interrupt your duty to Napoleon.” Her blue eyes were candid as a child’s at First Communion.

“No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

She shook her head. “Then I will not impose upon you. You’ve already done so much for me.”

He was more wary than ever. “You are giving in much too readily, Madame Vernet.” He made no apology for the tone of his remark.

Victoire paid no heed. “I’d prefer to travel in your company, to have your protection, but I am sure that Roustam-Raza is a worthy companion, if I should require one.” She motioned to the Mameluke as she saw him stand up.