Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“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.

  “Meaning you will go to Alexandria no matter what I say,” Murat declared.

  “It’s no concern of yours,” responded Victoire with a curtsy. “I’m grateful to you for hearing me out.” She started away toward Roustam-Raza, watching as he paused to get a small loaf of bread and a round of cheese from the larder clerk.

  “Come back here,” Murat ordered without raising his voice.

  She paused and looked at him. “Thank you for your ... good advice, General Murat.”

  “Madame Vernet!” he called after her.

  This time she did not turn around.

  * * *

  The salt marshes near Alexandria were filled with all sorts of water birds, and Murat set his best marksmen to bagging some for their supper. As the troopers pitched tents for the night, he took Victoire aside. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Alexandria,” he said, indicating the road leading to the city. “Unless I can create a discourse that will grant you sense tonight.”

  “You’ve been very sensible all the way here,” said Victoire. “If I’d had to rely on Roustam-Raza, I fear the journey would not have been nearly as pleasant.”

  “You mean it would not have been possible. Berthier may be distracted from time to time, but he has better sense than to allow a Frenchwoman to go careering about Egypt with only a Mameluke for escort.” He looked away from her to where the cook was starting his first fire.

  Victoire smiled at him, not caring whether he saw her expression or not. “Then it was doubly kind of you to intervene with Berthier. I’m certain he would have refused to let me come if I had asked it. But since you made the request, he could not refuse you.”

  “I’ll probably burn a few more years in hell for it, too,” said Murat reflectively. “At least you’re a good enough horsewoman to keep up with my hussars.”

  “I have had some experience of hard riding, Murat,” she said, unwilling to admit that she was sore the length of her body. “Not all women confine their hours in the saddle to once around the park at a walk.”

  Murat laughed. “As you say, Madame Vernet.” He gestured in the direction of Roustam-Raza, “I know how you snagged me into this, but how did you manage to get him in your coils, as well?”

  She ignored the unflattering reference and answered directly, “I reminded him that he’s been set to watch me in order to demonstrate his trustworthiness. Surely nothing could do that more effectively than an undertaking like this one.”

  “And he accepted that argument?” Murat asked in surprise.

  “Not at first, but after a time he realized that my point was well taken.” She smiled at him. “As you have done.”

  “You mean you wore him down,” said Murat. “Small wonder. You have a sinister aptitude for convincing others to take your point of view.”

  “That’s very gracious.” She watched as two campfires flared. “I am sure you will be more in charity with me when we don’t have to sleep on the sand in tents.”

  “Are you?” Murat asked her. Then he brushed the ever-present dust off his scarlet jacket and teal trousers. “You may be right.” He moved away from her, then came back to her side. “I haven’t been avoiding you on our travels here, Madame Vernet.”

  She looked directly into his eyes. “No. You’ve been protecting my reputation. That was clear at the outset, and I am grateful for it. Those who are seeking to disgrace my husband would be pleased to claim that I am worse than he is.”

  “Something of the sort,” he said. “Which is why we ought not to talk much longer. I will want you to keep close to me and my men once we are inside Alexandria.”

  “You and Roustam-Ra
za are obsessed with kidnappers,” protested Victoire.

  “Not obsessed, Madame, concerned. As we have every reason to be.” He continued to walk back toward the campfires. “As long as you are with French soldiers you will be safe.”

  “Roustam-Raza is an excellent protector,” protested Victoire.

  “But there is only one of him,” Murat reminded. “Where I have twenty soldiers. I like the odds better, Madame.”

  She inclined her head. “I will do as you suggest. Once we are established within the city, I will make what arrangements I can, with Roustam-Raza’s help.”

  “Very well,” said Murat, and began issuing orders to the soldiers setting up camp for the night.

  * * *

  “These pantaloons are very comfortable,” said Victoire as she set out for Murat’s headquarters beside Roustam-Raza; around them the streets of Alexandria teemed with seafaring men from all over the Mediterranean. Occasionally there would be someone from far beyond—a Portuguese slave-trader, an American whaler, an African coast-trading merchant plying the waters the length of the Dark Continent. Although they had not found the scepter, she was determined not to be disheartened.

  “Keep your voice down!” ordered the Mameluke. “Do you want everyone to know that you are in disguise? There would be serious consequences if you are discovered.”

  “You’ve described them to me,” she said just above a whisper.

  “And speak Greek. You’re supposed to be a Greek boy. It was your idea, if you recall.” He had one hand closed around the hilt of his scimitar.

  She went a short distance in silence, then said, “Do you think we ought to have purchased the piece? A pendant so ancient, surely someone would be pleased to have it.”

  “It was not what you are seeking,” said Roustam-Raza, settling the matter.

  She shrugged, but could not resist saying, “What a beautiful thing it was. A high priest or a Pharaoh must have worn it.”