Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She nodded and slipped out of her saddle, keeping hold of the reins as her gelding sidled. “I think it might be best.”

  “Very well.” Roustam-Raza dismounted and took charge of both horses. “We had better get behind that tent,” he added, gesturing toward the nearest of them. “We will not be observed.”

  They had just taken up their self-appointed post when they saw someone arrive at Berthier’s tent.

  “Who is that? Can you make out?” asked Victoire, not daring to peek around the tent another time.

  “No; that cloak conceals everything,” said Roustam-Raza, watching the stranger dismount. “All I am certain of is that the hair is light brown—fair, but not so light as yours.”

  Victoire frowned. “I wonder—”

  The stranger entered Berthier’s tent, and Roustam-Raza pulled at his moustache in disapproval. “Napoleon should know of this.”

  “Napoleon is climbing the Pyramids today; unless you’re of a mind to chase him up them to tell him he will have to be informed later,” said Victoire, and added, “and how busy Berthier is while Napoleon is occupied.”

  “To be sure,” Roustam-Raza concurred, and held up a warning hand to quiet her. “They may have someone else with them.”

  “Yes,” said Victoire, not liking that possibility at all. She was content to remain hidden, seeing only a slice of the door to Berthier’s tent.

  Within ten minutes the cloaked person hurried out of the tent once more, and was followed immediately by Berthier, who grabbed the reins of his horse and clambered into the saddle as the stranger mounted.

  “I can see—long, fair hair,” Victoire agreed, although by now the first molten glow of sunset turned even the tents to Roman gold; the stranger might have been white-haired or auburn for all she could tell.

  Berthier said something to the stranger that neither Victoire nor Roustam-Raza could hear, and at the next instant both he and the stranger were trotting away from his tent.

  “Where do you suppose they are going?” asked Victoire very quietly.

  “Do you want to follow them?” asked Roustam-Raza, a bit reluctantly.

  She shook her head. “Not now. It will be dark soon. It gets dark so quickly in the desert.” She patted her horse’s neck. “He needs a grooming and a handful of oats.” With a shake of her head she put aside the idea of going after Berthier.

  “It would be sensible, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza, a trace of approval in his manner now.

  “Yes.” She started away from their hiding place, then stopped. “But we can keep watch tomorrow. Perhaps the cloaked figure will come again.”

  “And we will try to discover who it is,” said Roustam-Raza in foreboding.

  She smiled over her shoulder at him. “Why, certainly,” she said.

  “CONVALESCENT LEAVE OR no, I really don’t know why I let you persuade me to watch with you, madame; Berthier hasn’t done a thing in days,” said Murat to Victoire as the two of them crouched in the lee of the tent nearest Berthier’s.

  She kept her voice low, motioning for him to do the same. “You said it wasn’t proper for a woman to be about in the camp at night by herself, and with Roustam-Raza watching the other side of the tent, you—”

  “I know what I said,” he cut her off. “I must have been mad. That’s the only explanation. Madness.” He rocked back on his heels. “If this cloaked person ever comes back, it could well tum out to be someone who has every proper reason to be here. It might not be wise of us to know about his presence. We aren’t Napoleon’s spies,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, we are, if we catch a traitor,” she declared in a crisp undervoice.

  “You can’t be sure it’s treason. The fellow might be an Egyptian supplying necessary information to Berthier. Or possibly an Englishman, not adverse to earning a coin or two from our side.” He was challenging her and both of them knew it.

  “We’ve discussed the possibilities before, Murat,” she said, not rising to the bait. She wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders, for the air was growing chilly now that night had settled over the desert.

  Murat threw up his hands in mock despair. The gesture caused the dozens of silver bangles adorning the finely made waistcoat he was wearing to jangle. “But how long are we to keep at this? It’s been almost three weeks since we began. It may be that the man in the cloak will not come again.” He yawned deliberately. “I miss my sleep, Madame. The trumpet sounds early for cavalry, and when I—”

  This time she interrupted him. “You would not be asleep now, Murat; you would be gambling or drinking or wenching or something equally disreputable.”

  “I might be,” he conceded. “But not every night.” He rubbed his eyes. “Besides, Madame, I like gambling and drinking and wenching. I don’t like standing about in the dark keeping watch on Berthier’s tent. That’s a task for sentries, not officers.”

  “I’ve said it isn’t necessary for you to stay with me. You can leave whenever it suits your purpose,” she said in her most reasonable tone, which only served to annoy him.

  “You know my answer to that, Madame,” he said, coming back to her side. “Very well. I’ll keep our bargain. One more week, and then that’s the end of it. Do you agree?”

  She bit her lip to keep from pleading with him; Joachim Murat was not a man to be swayed by wifely supplication. “I will accept that. I told you when we began that the terms were—”

  “You’re splitting hairs again, Madame Vernet.” He looked down at her, amusement making his features more handsome. “For such a little dab of a thing you have the courage of a tiger.”

  “And the tenacity of a mule,” she added, taking the flirtation out of his compliment. “You’ve remarked on this before.”

  He recognized her tactics for what they were and chuckled. “By God, Madame, if you were not a married woman, I swear that I—”

  “If I were not a married women, I wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” she said staunchly.

  He shook his head, willing to be put off. “Shall we have a truce for the rest of this dismal watch?”

  “I would certainly prefer it,” she said.

  He lifted his hands in acquiescence. “I pray I never have to meet you as an enemy, Madame, and that is the truth before God.”

  “That’s a rare compliment,” she approved. “I thank you sincerely.” She peered around the flank of the tent. “Eugene has been gone for half an hour. Berthier ought to have dressed for bed by now. He has been so for the last two weeks.”

  “But he hasn’t tonight,” said Murat, taking up their task once more. “And his horse hasn’t been stabled; Roustam-Raza said that it is on the far side of the tent, saddled.” He waited several seconds. “You know, if we’re caught doing this, we’ll have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  “I suspect you will know how best to pull our boots out of the fire,” she said calmly, continuing her surveillance.

  At that he gave up. “Another hour, then, and if he is still not in bed, we will continue a while after if that’s—”

  She grabbed his wrist to warn him. “A horse,” she whispered.

  He was all attention. “A courier, perhaps.”

  “At this hour, and to Berthier’s tent first?” she asked. “It might be urgent,” he said without conviction; they both knew that such messengers went directly to Napoleon himself.

  “Look!” she hissed. “That horse.”

  The figure riding was concealed by a long cloak, and when the horse stopped near Berthier’ s tent flap, the rider dismounted quickly.

  A moment later Berthier himself bustled out of his tent, his hands moving nervously over his coat. “Good evening, though it is late,” he said to the figure. “I was afraid you would not be here.”

  Whatever the answer was neither Victoire nor Murat could hear.


  “We’d better hurry. We’re waited on,” he said. “My horse is ready. I’ve only to bring him around.” He started around the tent only to find his way blocked by Roustam-Raza. “What the devil—”

  Victoire rushed from her hiding place with Murat on her heels. “We have you now!” she cried out, wishing she had a charged pistol with her.

  Berthier backed up, his face darkening with anger. “By what right do you do this?” He spun around to face Victoire. “I might have known it would be you,” he bellowed at her, and then dropped his voice. The aide’s face was red with anger; only the pronounced dimple on his chin wasn’t visibly darker even in the moonlight.

  “She’s not alone,” said Murat, sauntering up behind her and favoring Berthier with a sketchy salute. “You have to excuse us, but we’re curious about your friend. Do you think he would be kind enough to ... unwrap a trifle? Enough to show your face?”

  Berthier at once became flustered. “It ... it w-would not be a ... very wise ...” He glanced at the cloaked stranger. “Truly, Murat, it would be best if you went your way and paid no attention to ... anything you might see here.” He sniffed nervously. “And if you could c-convince Madame Vernet to ... to be discreet?”

  “What is there to be discreet about?” demanded Victoire. “Or don’t you want it known that you are receiving foreigners?” With that she reached out and tugged at the cloak, pulling it back from the unknown’s face.

  “Don’t!” Berthier protested.

  But it was too late. There was a squeal as the cloak fell, leaving Pauline Foures exposed. She was dressed in a fine rose silk ballgown and wearing a necklace of pearls. Her perfume was a heady combination of roses, jasmine, and violets.

  There was a stunned silence, and then Murat laughed. “Good God,” he said, going down on one knee to retrieve the cloak. “So that’s the game.” He held the cloak up to the lovely Madame Foures. “Best put it back on before anyone else sees.”

  She took the cloak and flung it around her shoulders with a swift, elegant gesture. Her expression had no trace of embarrassment. “Thank you, General Murat.”

  “Oh, the pleasure’s mine,” said Murat, his brown eyes alight with humor. He stepped back to Victoire’s side.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “A tryst in the making,” said Murat. “By the look of it.”

  Berthier had now had recovered enough from the shock of their discovery to work himself into a proper rage. “How dare you! Murat, I am offended! And you!” He rounded on Victoire. “What possessed you, Madame Vernet, to take it upon yourself to disgrace this woman?”

  “This woman?” echoed Victoire, uncertain what she had interrupted. “I meant no harm to her. You are the one I watched.”

  “I?” He was aghast. “By what authority?”

  “As a loyal wife,” she began, determined not to be put off by Berthier again. “You want to discredit my husband, and I will not have it.”

  Murat came nearer to her side, touching her arm gently before closing his hand around her wrist. “Madame,” he said, not quite laughing, “I think it would be best if we leave Berthier to tend to Madame Foures.” He bowed to Pauline, and then to Berthier, all the while keeping a firm hold on Victoire. “Forgive the intrusion. And forgive our suspicions. It was merely a misunderstanding.” Before Victoire could protest, he turned and muttered, “Not one word, Madame,” as he made her step back into the shadows.

  It took two good wrenches to break free of his grip and by then they were four tents away, Roustam-Raza trailing after them. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked indignantly. “You see a woman and you cannot contain yourself, is that it?”

  “No, you foolish woman, that’s most unfortunately not it,” he said, motioning for her to keep her voice down.

  “You didn’t ask them any questions!” she burst out, unwilling to be silenced.

  “Because I didn’t have to,” he said, and signalled Roustam-Raza to approach. “That woman is Pauline Foures.”

  “I know who she is,” said Victoire. “What has that to do with anything? You saw the way she came to Berthier’s tent. Her husband is an important officer—”

  “And that is the issue, her husband,” said Murat with less merriment. “He’s always at the front. He claims he likes to be there.” He looked down at his feet then back at Victoire. “You have to give me your word that what I tell you now you will keep in utter confidence.”

  “Of course,” she said, standing straighter. “Only my husband will be informed, if it’s—”

  “Not even your husband, Madame,” Murat said sternly, and looked over at the Mameluke. “You have sworn loyalty to Napoleon. Therefore you must remain silent about what I tell you.”

  “If it is necessary, then I will,” said Roustam-Raza purposefully.

  Victoire was tom between impatience and a growing sense of dismay. “Why can’t I tell Vernet?”

  “Because it would be unwise. There is enough against your husband, madame, without adding this to his burden of demerits.” Murat coughed delicately. “You see, we are very far from Paris. And the rumors about Josephine are quite specific, disturbingly consistent, and cruel. Madame Foures provides ... needed companionship for Napoleon.”

  Victoire cocked her head to the side. “You mean she is his mistress?”

  Her bluntness brought a single chuckle from Murat. “It is precisely what I am attempting to discreetly communicate,” he said to her. “One of the reasons Foures is always at the front—where he has had the ill grace to survive—is for the convenience of his wife.”

  “You mean he knows of this?” Roustam-Raza demanded, thoroughly scandalized.

  “Let us say that he does his best not to know of it. He does not want to show himself a cuckold; but the favor of Napoleon has its undoubted benefits.” Murat’s smile was cynical.

  “Not if it keeps Foures at the front,” said Victoire with asperity.

  “How is it that Napoleon disgraces his officer in this way? How can he bring such dishonor upon himself?” Roustam-Raza was more baffled than outraged now. “He’s the leader. If he must have bodies, there are young men enough here who would gladly accept his favor.”

  Murat stared at Roustam-Raza. “Muslims,” he said comprehensively. “It is not Napoleon’s way to bed men, I fear. His taste is for women. Frenchwomen.”

  “Then find the houses where women are,” said Roustam-Raza at his most reasonable. “They will accommodate him. Or find a village and rape the ones that please the eye.” He drew up his shoulders. “But to take a married woman ... The Prophet would not permit it.”

  “Napoleon is a married man,” Murat reminded him. Then he threw back his head. “When I was in the seminary, I would probably have agreed with you. But the army has taught me pragmatism. Napoleon likes the bodies of women and prefers devotion in those he beds. Thus Pauline Foures. If her husband is not killed, they both will profit from the alliance. Napoleon is not shabby.”

  Victoire regarded him with new interest. “You were in the seminary?”

  “I thought I had the vocation,” he answered. “But I suppose what I wanted was the education. When it came to living a priest’s life, I hadn’t the aptitude.”

  “That appears obvious,” said Victoire. Then she sighed. “We have been chasing a chimera.”

  “Not a chimera,” said Murat gently, “but the wrong person, that’s certain.” He looked around the camp. “It’s late. And unless I miss my guess we’ll have an early summons from Berthier. He hasn’t done with us yet.” He glanced around the camp. “See her back to her quarters, Roustam-Raza, and keep watch over her. If she’s right, and the thief is at large, he may wish to put an end to her meddling.”

  The hope that had been fading in Victoire’s heart surged again. “You mean that you don’t doubt me? In spite of this?”

  “Well,”
Murat said, his eyes fixed intently in the middle distance, “I know that I did not take the scepter. I have been told that all the others can account for their time except your husband. And you say that he did not take the scepter. Assuming that you are correct and your husband is not the culprit, it follows that there is a desperate thief who has already killed one man in order to take his prize. I have no reason to think that he is not prepared to silence you.”

  This somber assessment silenced all three of them. Then Victoire squared her shoulders. “I’m fortunate to have good friends to guard me,” she announced with more confidence than she felt.

  “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?”