Then she found herself before impressive doors, two guards standing with tremendous pikes.
Mère Marie, she thought, this is the hareem.
One of the guards started toward her, his voice tense, though Victoire did not understand the question.
“Your pardon,” she stammered in Greek. “I ... I am lost, and—”
The guard was nearer, his pike pointed directly at her.
“There you are, you thankless young scamp!” bellowed a familiar voice behind her in dreadful Greek.
Victoire had never been happier to see anyone in her life, but she quailed obediently as Roustam-Raza came up to her and seized her by the collar.
He exchanged a few words with the hareem guards, and then lifted his hand as if to strike Victoire.
“If your master did not dote on you, I would beat you until you were blue all over,” he announced, adding something to the guards in Egyptian that made the two men laugh unpleasantly.
Victoire cringed as Roustam-Raza grabbed her by the shoulder. “I did not know, great Mameluke. I never thought ...”
“You are a foolish boy, and you would not be able to find your way from one side of the Nile to the other without someone to guide you.” He was enjoying hectoring her, harrying her toward the stairs she had not seen.
“Yousef brought me to a waiting room,” she said, which was true enough.
“And you let yourself be lost instead of waiting. Praise Allah that you did not find your way to the Pasha himself!” They were almost to the kitchen now, and Roustam-Raza lowered his voice. “What possessed you to do that?”
“I thought it would be suspicious if I didn’t,” she explained.
“Not good enough,” Roustam-Raza informed her. “You had no right to go beyond the kitchens. Where you should not have been.” He shook his head and tightened his hold on her collar. “Think what could have happened.”
This time her face was stark. “I did think. You may be sure of that.”
He saw the fading fear in her eyes and relented a bit. They were at the door to the kitchens, and he shoved her ahead of him. “What am I going to say to your master about you? What would I have told them if you had done anything incorrect?” He looked toward one of the cooks and said something in Egyptian that Victoire realized was a curse on wayward youngsters.
“They grow older,” said one of the cooks, which Victoire understood.
“This one might not,” Roustam-Raza countered as he got Victoire to the pantry hall. “You will wait outside the main gates for your answer, youngster, and you will be grateful that nothing worse befalls you.”
“Yes, yes,” she said in Greek, pleased when they stumbled into the kitchen yard. The side gate was very close.
And then they were outside, and he forced her to move more quickly.
“I thought you were not supposed to enter the palace,” panted Victoire as she strove to keep up with Roustam-Raza.
“When you disappeared inside and did not emerge, what was I supposed to do? I could not present myself to Napoleon to tell him that I had permitted a Frenchwoman to go disguised into the palace, where she was going to be imprisoned forever.” He indicated a side street. “It will be dawn in another hour, and Muslims will be at prayer. You would surely have been found out then.”
“And I tried to find a way out of the palace,” she offered. “It is a very confusing place.”
“It’s supposed to be,” said Roustam-Raza. “Only people who belong there are supposed to know how to find their way around it.”
“Then they are very successful,” said Victoire, whose leg was beginning to ache from the pressure and rub of the scepter against it. Yet she did not protest their pace. “I looked in one of the rooms.”
“Allah show me mercy!” burst out Roustam-Raza, “There is more to your escapade?” He pulled her into a narrow doorway. “I should not lay hands on a Christian woman. But if I did not—”
“I take no offense, Roustam-Raza,” she said. “And I know it was a great effort for you to go against your orders and enter the palace. Don’t suppose I’m unaware of your danger as well as my own.”
He stood a little straighter. “That is something,” he conceded.
“And it ... it was a gamble that was worth the risk.” She was about to tell him of the scepter, then held her tongue about it. “I saw something in a dispatch case—”
“You opened a dispatch case?” he demanded incredulously. “They would have pulled the skin off you for that, had you been discovered. Flaying is the punishment for—”
“Stop,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He realized that she was more shaken than she had revealed before. “Very well. But you must give me your word—though it is the word of a woman and writ on water—that you will not return to the palace again, not for any reason.”
“You have my word on that,” she promised him at once. “I will not return to the palace of the Pasha for any reason.” Had she not been worried about offending him, she would have crossed herself.
“I am a fool among fools, but I will take your word, Madame,” he said gruffly. “What was it you found in the dispatch case that makes you believe your risk was acceptable?”
She shifted her shoulders and adjusted her rumpled collar. “I think, but I am not certain, I think that there is someone in France who is working against Napoleon. That was what the paper in the dispatch case indicated.” She decided it was safe enough to tell him that much.
“How do you mean?” he asked, stepping back into the street and gesturing to her to follow. Now that they were out of immediate danger, he would not disgrace them both by touching her or her garments.
“There was a letter.” She steeled herself to the discomfort of hiding the scepter and tried to match her stride to his. “I didn’t have the chance to read it carefully, but it indicated that someone in Paris is working to Napoleon’s disadvantage. I knew the name of the man who sent it, but I cannot tell if it is his signature or the signature of someone else who wishes to implicate the other man.”
They were well beyond the area of the palace. The streets were narrower and Roustam-Raza drew his scimitar. “Would there be men who would do such a thing?”
“So it appears. There is much unrest in Paris. There is talk that a strong man is needed to guide the Republic. Many would see themselves as that man, others fear any who might be him. With so much at stake, it is surprising that ambitious men would try to end Napoleon’s career in disgrace ...” She stumbled and recovered. “I ask your pardon. I’m becoming very ... tired.”
Roustam-Raza shook his head and spat. “With all you have been doing, I am surprised that you have not fallen in the street. And do not tell me it is because you are a Frenchwoman. Not all Frenchwomen are as intrepid as you. For which I will thank Allah five times a day.”
“Very well,” she said, “it’s not because I am a Frenchwoman, not entirely.” Her eyes grew distant. “It is the fault of education, Roustam-Raza,” she said sardonically. “I have always been curious, and my education gave me a direction and a method to use my curiosity.”
“It is a mistake to educate women,” Roustam-Raza stated. “But if someone must educate women, let it be you French, not good Muslims.”
Victoire was too tired to rise to the bait. She hitched up one shoulder. “I suppose it would be useless to ask where we would be if I had no education.”
“We would not be here, running from the palace where you have committed a killing crime,” he told her roundly. “Remember that, in future.” He indicated another narrow street. “Cut through there. It will bring us to the south side of the garrison villa.”
For once she complied without argument.
HER TENT NOW seemed a very ordinary place to Victoire. She sat down on the cot and looked at her things, which had been stored in trunks while she was
away. On Vernet’s cot there was another trunk, with his possessions neatly packed in it. That was the worst thing in the tent, she decided, that trunk of Lucien’s things, for it made his absence all the more demanding to her. If only his side of the tent looked as if he were expected to return. As it was, she had to resist the urge to send his trunks on to Jaffa.
There was one leather case, not large but quite tall, used for carrying clothes brushes, boot trees, valet’s supplies and such, that lay on its side under Vernet’s cot, as ordinary and inconspicuous as a horseshoe in a farrier’s tent. In it, wrapped in a length of worn canvas, Victoire had hidden the scepter; she would return it when she could give it to Napoleon himself, and no other.
She had put on one of her day dresses that morning and was startled to find that it was a little too large for her. She rose and looked in the small mirror set up on the largest of the chests. Yes, she decided, she had lost flesh. She sighed. She was more of an angular dab of a woman than ever. The sleek bosom of Pauline Foures and her elegant curve of arm and hip were not to be Victoire’s.
There was a disturbance not far from the tent which attracted her attention, and then she heard Roustam-Raza call her name.
Knowing he would never come into her tent while they lacked a chaperon, she stepped outside, curtsying to him in form. “May Allah shower blessings on you, my friend.”
The Mameluke was wearing a new set of clothes finer than any she had seen since the day he had arrived in the camp. The shirt was made of silk and embroidered with colored threads in intricate designs. His belt featured a large silver buckle, which he wore on the side. He smiled. “You are improving your Egyptian. Very good.”
“With your help I will learn more,” she said, and saw him frown. “What is it?”
He stared down at the sand between them. “I’ve been ordered to go to Napoleon and the army. I am to join the campaign in Syria.” He looked directly at her. “I am sworn to Napoleon as his man for as long as there is life in my body. This is his command and I will obey it. I leave in the morning.”
She nodded, feeling an unexpected desolation sweep through her. Not only was her husband gone, but she was to lose her friend as well. She brought her chin up. “May you have a swift and safe journey to Napoleon’s side.” That seemed insufficient to her, and she added, “I’m grateful for all you have done for me, Roustam-Raza. I’ll miss you while you are gone.”
His face darkened. “It is incorrect for a married woman to say such things.”
“By now you ought to be used to my incorrectness, sir,” she said, trying to smile.
“One should not grow used to such things. But I thank you.” He coughed and spat. “It is dishonorable to think this, and more to say it, but I will miss you, as well, Madame Vernet.”
She sensed the effort his admission cost him, and did her best to lighten the burden of it for him. “Oh, I think you may count on Napoleon to provide you with trouble enough that you’ll not need me to add to it.”
He did not smile. “Your husband will soon take your thoughts away from such folly.”
Victoire met his gaze steadily. “I pray every day for his return. May God hear you.”
They could not correctly embrace or even shake hands. They settled for a bow and a curtsy, then he turned away, pausing to add, “May you thrive, Madame.”
“And you, my friend,” she said, and watched him walk away between the row of tents.
* * *
Larrey was more irascible now than when Victoire had left. He gave her a long, condemning stare when she presented herself at his tent for tending the wounded.
“And where have you been, Madame Vernet? You asked for two weeks to go to Alexandria, and it is two months and more since we have seen you.” He picked up a report and started to read it; his hands were shaking a little.
“It’s a long story. When Murat comes back, you must ask him to tell you about it,” she said.
“With Murat, were you?” His brows rose. “Your husband is in Jaffa.”
“And I am doing all that I can to clear his name, since he cannot,” she said. She hesitated, then said, “It was a difficult journey. There were many ... hazards. I had to swim in the Nile. I would have been murdered if I had not.”
This caught his interest. “Swam in the Nile! The day may come when you think you made a bad bargain, Madame Vernet.” He rose and came nearer. “What have you felt? Are you ill? Have you had any headaches, severe ones, that cause your neck to grow very stiff?”
“No,” she answered, surprised that he should seek to question her. “I believe that I am well.”
“How is your digestion? Have you been liverish?” He reached out and took her jaw in his hand, angling her head so that he could inspect the white of her eyes. “No sign of yellow yet.” He frowned, adding, “I wish I could say the same for some of the poor wretches we’re tending here.”
“My digestion is good, although I have—”
“Yes, I can see you have dropped flesh. Do you vomit after eating?” He pulled his stool closer and sat down directly in front of her.
“Not usually. I have when the meat has gone off.” She cocked her head to one side.
“Have you had flux?” He opened her jaw and peered at her tongue so that she could not answer him at once.
“Yes, but not severely. Everyone here has the flux some of the time,” she said.
“Lamentable and true,” acknowledged Larrey, continuing his investigations. “Have you had nodules in your neck or under your arms? Painful ones?”
“No,” she assured, feeling a stirring of alarm.
“Do you sweat in the night, or suffer sudden chills? Do you flush? Have you had the fever?” His questions came quickly, almost harsh.
“Occasionally I sweat in the night. How can I be chilled in this place?” She wanted to laugh but could not.
“And fever?” He placed his hand on her forehead and then felt the palms of her hands.
“Not that I know of. But crossing the desert, I might have had one; I would not have known it in such a furnace.” Her voice was level but her apprehension continued.
“Crossing the desert.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Where on earth have you been, Madame Vernet?”
“We went up the Nile, as far as Medinet Habu. It’s across the river from Thebes.” She thought it was safe to tell Larrey that much, and enough to account for doing it. “We were following an Englishman.”
“You and Murat?” Larrey asked, unable to conceal his condemnation of this irregular activity.
“And Roustam-Raza, and a very brave Egyptian woman. Roustam-Raza would not have gone with us without another woman so that we could chaperon each other. Muslims are very strict in that regard.” She shook her head slowly, thinking of Lirylah.
“God’s Teeth!” whispered Larrey, growing truly astonished.
“Much of the food we had was not of the first quality, and though we took care to drink from wells, I don’t know that all were pure. But Roustam-Raza is well, and General Murat ... had no illness when I saw him last.” Except sickness at heart, she added to herself. She looked down at her hands, pleased that unlike Larrey’s, they were steady.
Larrey sat more rigidly. “I will want to observe you carefully, Madame Vernet. Report to me regularly, and if there is any change in your health, no matter how minor, tell me at once. If you have taken any infection, I will want to treat you immediately. You are to inform me at once if anything irregular—”
“It was my plan to do that,” she interrupted. “I have no wish to contract foreign fevers.”
“No one has,” said Larrey very seriously. “Yet it occurs with regularity. You will find that we number many fallen to illness now, more than when you last worked with the wounded. You must treat them carefully so as not to take infection from them.” He swatted at the mosquito that landed on his ar
m and considered the little patch of blood the insect left behind. “We are out of oil of citron, and the mosquitos are everywhere.”
“The flies are worse, too,” said Victoire.
“Yes. Flies are inescapable in Egypt.” He stood up abruptly. “You may work half a watch today, in order to reacquaint yourself with our procedures. By tomorrow I will want you for a full watch. Unless you feel ill.” This last was a specific warning, and she responded to it at once.
“If I become ill, I’ll send you word of it at once, as you have instructed me.” She, too, rose and started toward the tent where the wounded lay. “Is there anything else?”
Larrey’s eyes grew distant. “In Thebes. They say there are temples as grand as Chartres. Is it true?”
“I don’t know,” said Victoire candidly. “We did not cross to the east side of the river. But I saw columns and the front of a tremendous and ancient building near Medinet Habu, and a few fallen statues of formidable size. It may have been a temple.”
“Ah,” said Larrey, indicating she could leave.
* * *
Without her allies to aid her, Victoire found it difficult to watch Berthier more than a few hours a day. Each morning and most evenings she lingered near his tent, making note of everyone who visited there, including the lovely Pauline Foures, who was trying to arrange for passage to Syria, ostensibly to be with her husband.
On those occasions when Berthier left the camp, Victoire tried to discover where he went, and for what purpose. She could not pursue him very far, for she was on foot and Berthier rode, yet she watched when he came and went, and tried to find out the reasons for his various expeditions.
Napoleon Must Die Page 20
