The Wanton Princess

by Dennis Wheatley

  Gaudin asked him a few questions about himself. Feeling it to be pointless and even dangerous to disclose the reason for his having been sent to Bruges, Roger said only that he had served on the Staff in Egypt and more recently with the Paris Headquarters of the Army of the Coast.

  Under the Major’s black, upturned moustache his mouth took on a sneer, ‘I see. Then you have put a foot wrong somewhere and been sent here to be disciplined. As we poor fellows have to fight the wars, most of the time half-starved, while you Staff people loll about at Headquarters stuffing yourselves with the fat of the land, it will give me special pleasure to have you on my Course. Go through that door on your left and report to Captain Adott, the instructor in charge of B Company. I can trust him to put you through the hoop.’

  Captain Adott proved to be a huge Dragoon with a manner and vocabulary which made it obvious that he had been an N.C.O. in the old Republican Army. He, too, asked a few questions, then clearly thought it a grand joke to have anyone like Roger in his Company.

  The classrooms in the building had been converted into dormitories and the unhappy Roger got his first glimpse of what was meant by ‘Endurance Course’ when he saw that the close-ranged beds consisted of three planks apiece with no bedding and only a single blanket.

  Soon after he had been allotted one, his new companions swarmed into the room. A few of them showed a vague interest in him as a newcomer; but the rest were too tired to do anything but lie at full length on their planks, and he was in no mood to talk. Half an hour later a bugle sounded and, pulling themselves together, they trooped down a corridor to the Company dining hall. Supper consisted of Army biscuits and an ill-cooked stew of vegetables.

  When Roger commented sourly on this sparse fare, the young man next to him replied, ‘It is as much as one can expect to get while living off the land during a campaign, and I don’t suppose we’ll do any better when we land in England.’

  He passed a hideous night, turning restlessly on his plank bed, with only his uniform for a pillow. Had Napoleon been at hand Roger would cheerfully have killed him for having played him this scurvy trick. For a while he contemplated creeping out, finding a horse and making his escape; but the thought of Pauline restrained him. Napoleon had as good as promised her to him so, for her sake, he must somehow put up with this martyrdom.

  A bugle call roused them at five o’clock. Hastily pulling on their outer garments, they ran out into the big yard and lined up for their first parade of the day. There followed half an hour’s violent exercise during which they were required to throw themselves down, heave themselves up, then jump high in the air. Next came early morning stables and, while Roger was an excellent horseman, he loathed having to groom a horse himself. Before breakfast, another meal of biscuits and vegetable stew, they were given half an hour to shave in a crowded washroom and clean themselves up. There was then an inspection by the gimlet-eyed Major and Roger was awarded seven days fatigues for no apparent reason.

  Instead of the technical instruction about supplying and administering large bodies of troops, that Roger had expected to receive, he found himself for fifteen hours a day being drilled on a barrack square, ordered off on twenty-five-mile route marches without water, and sent for cross-country runs from which the last ten men in were penalised by having to get up at four in the morning and clean out the latrines. In the riding school they had to trot without stirrups and jump hurdles ‘bareback, while cynical N.C.O.s flicked their mounts with long whips until they became almost unmanageable. There were sessions of bayonet fighting, wrestling and swimming in the noisome canals until half of them were sick from the stench of the sewage with which houses on the banks fouled the water. Grimly, Roger stuck it, now falling asleep exhausted each night on his plank bed. And in one way he earned the respect of his fellow sufferers. He was a superb swordsman and soon found that in the fencing school no one could touch him. So, after he had been in Bruges a week he challenged the giant Captain Adott to a bout. The tough ex-sergeant was a fine blade and his strength made him a formidable opponent, but Roger got the better of him and he handsomely admitted it. After that, life for Roger became a little easier; but there was no escaping the daily drills, the constant exertions and the monotonous, unsatisfying food.

  His rancour against Napoleon gradually subsided, for he had come to the conclusion that the First Consul’s idea had been that, before he commanded troops, he should learn to appreciate the hardships they suffered during an arduous campaign. And the thought of his beautiful Pauline waiting for him in Paris enabled him to endure these weeks of physical fatigue and acute discomfort.

  The officers on the course came and went, usually rejoining their units after a period of a month. None of those engaged on it had a moment to read a journal, so the only news they received from the outside world was from newcomers. It was early in September that one of these remarked one evening to Roger, ‘That Prince Borghese is a lucky fellow. Just think what a night one could have going to bed with Pauline Bonaparte.’

  Roger stiffened as though a ramrod had been thrust down his gullet and demanded, ‘What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘Why, don’t you know?’ replied his companion with a smile. ‘Although she is only ten months a widow, she married this Italian Prince towards the end of August. On the 23rd, I think.’

  Utterly staggered by this casual statement, Roger remained absolutely still for a moment. He felt sure that it could not possibly be true; but he had to make certain. Without a word he stood up, went along to the Instructors’ Mess and asked to be allowed to look through some of the journals. By that time he had come to be regarded as quite a good fellow who had been kicked off the Staff only because he had antagonised some General; so permission was readily accorded him.

  Shuffling swiftly through the numbers of Le Moniteur for the last week in August, he soon came upon an announcement that he could still hardly believe but had half feared to find. There it was in black and white; ‘Marriage of the First Consul’s sister, Madame Leclerc, to the millionaire Italian Prince, Camillo Borghese.’

  Almost physically sick at the thought of the way in which Pauline had betrayed him after all he had endured for her sake, he left the Mess and stood for a few minutes outside in the passage. Rage welled up in him, taking the place of disgust, then sudden determination.

  Davoust was completely merciless, and even took pleasure in signing death warrants for wrongdoers. He spent half his time having British spies, with whom the coast swarmed, hunted down and hanged; and any deserter from his army who was caught could be certain of facing a firing squad. Regardless of the fact that he was risking his life, Roger walked out to the stables, went straight to the stall in which stood the best officer’s charger and saddled, bridled and mounted her. He could stand no more. Come hell or high water he meant to confront in Paris the brother and sister who had used him so ill and call them to account.

  19

  Blackmail

  The officers on the course were allowed only one pass a week to spend an evening in the town: so as Roger rode through the gate the picket on duty shouted at him, asking where he was going on horseback. With the resource that had become second nature to him, he forced a grin and replied:

  ‘To Paris, of course. I’ve a young woman there who is expecting me. ’Twill make a pleasant evening’s ride.’

  Paris being some hundred and eighty miles distant, the young officer doing picket duty that night thought it a huge joke, gave a loud guffaw and waved him on.

  By midnight Roger was in Lille, where he slept, and next night at Estreés-St. Denis. On the second afternoon after leaving Bruges he entered Paris. At La Belle Etoile he enjoyed his first bath for two months and rid himself of the lice and bedbugs that had been a torment to him.

  Dressed in civilian clothes he went out that evening and, regardless of consequences, called at the Hôtel de Charost, where he enquired for Aimée. The footman on the door fetched a haughty major-domo who regarded Roger with surprise b
ut, judging from his clothes and manner that he was a man to be obeyed, he despatched the footman to the rear of the house. A few minutes later he returned with Pauline’s plump, pretty little maid.

  At the sight of Roger her eyes went round with apprehension and she gave a little gasp. But he smiled at her, led her to the far end of the great empty hall, where they were well out of earshot of the footman and slipped two gold pieces into her hand. Then he said in a low voice:

  ‘Aimée, I am anxious to congratulate your mistress on having become a Princess; but you will understand that I would prefer to do so in private. Can you suggest a time that would be suitable for you to take me to her?’

  For a moment Aimée hesitated, then she replied, ‘There’ll be no better opportunity than the present, Monsieur le Colonel, as His Highness is out dining with some gentlemen. But I dare not. I dare not. ’Twould lose me my place.’

  Roger first pressed into her now unwilling palm two more gold pieces, then he produced from the top of his breeches a short, sharp knife, and said with a smile, ‘Be not afraid. You have been a good friend and I would not harm you for the world. But you can tell your mistress that I threatened to cut your throat with this, if you refused to take me to her.’

  The girl gave a sudden half-hysterical laugh, ‘Grâce Dieu, you are the very devil of a man. I’ve always thought so, and that you’d stick at nothing to gain your ends. ‘I’ll do it then; but first you must swear to me that you will not harm her.’

  ‘No, I mean to do no more than lash her with my tongue for her infidelity to me.’

  Aimée shook her head, ‘She has deserved that, and to my mind has made herself a poor bargain. I suppose it means a lot to her to be called “Your Highness,” but I wouldn’t let her weakling of a Prince share my bed, however much he offered me. Come then, mon Colonel, I’ll take you to her; but point your dagger at my back as we go into her room.’

  She led him up the broad pillared staircase, across a lofty landing and into a blue and gold boudoir. Pauline was sitting at the far end clothed in filmy draperies. The only light in the room came from a wall bracket holding candles beneath Which she was sitting reading.

  Turning her head she asked, ‘What is it, Aimée?’ Then in the dim light she recognised Roger, dropped her book and came to her feet.

  At the same moment Roger flashed his knife, so that Pauline caught the glint of steel, and snapped at Aimée, ‘You may leave us now. Should you rouse the house I’ll seek you out, and I’ve told you what will happen to you.’

  Aimée backed away and swiftly closed the door behind her. Most women in Pauline’s situation would have been seized with fear that Roger, having forced his way in, intended to inflict a bloody vengeance on them. But a smile suddenly dawned on her lovely face and she cried, ‘Oh, Rojé, what a joy it is to see you.’

  Taken aback by her greeting, he put up his dagger, frowned and replied, ‘I am surprised to hear you say so, after your treatment of me.’

  She shrugged, ‘You mean my marriage. But you abandoned me; so you cannot blame me for that.’

  ‘Abandoned you! Nom d’un nom! I’ve served two months in prison and was ready to serve two more, so that we might be permanently reunited in November. And what do I find? In August, before even your twelve months of mourning were up, you have married another.’

  ‘I heard only that you had left Paris, and that without a word to me. I assure you that for some weeks I was utterly disconsolate.’

  ‘Did you not get my letter?’

  ‘No; to whom did you give it?’

  ‘To my landlord at La Belle Etoile, for Aimée. I wrote to let you know that Napoleon had as good as promised me your hand, but decreed that I must spend the time of waiting experiencing what the troops go through; so that when I had married you I should be fitted for a post as Governor-General.’

  She shrugged. ‘I never received your letter. And you must be aware of the duplicity of which Napoleon is capable at times. Clearly he never intended us to marry and adopted these means of getting rid of you. It seems, too, that he had you watched and, somehow, intercepted your letter to me.’

  Roger could not believe that either Maitre Blanchard or Aimée had betrayed him; but the landlord was a busy man, so it was possible that he had given the note to a potman to hand to Aimée and that, before Aimée had come to the inn, some police spy had bought it from the potman.

  ‘Whether or not you received my note,’ he cried angrily, ‘you could have gone to your brother, enquired my whereabouts and communicated with me.’

  Pauline stamped her foot, ‘Rojé, you are unjust. You left me stranded and with the impression that you had run away because you were too frightened of Napoleon to ask him for my hand. I am not made to live like a nun and Borghese pressed his suit with all the ardour of an Italian.’

  ‘So you fell in love with him?’

  ‘No, oh no! It was the emeralds he offered me. They are the finest in Europe. I must show them to you. I simply could not resist them. But that bitch Josephine! Would you believe it, she had the walls of a room specially repainted turquoise in which to receive me on the first occasion that she knew I would wear them on going to Court. The colour killed that of the stones utterly. I was so furious that I could have scratched her eyes out.’

  Roger sighed. What was he to do with this magnificently-beautiful but utterly inconsequent creature? After a moment he asked, ‘And Borghese. What sort of a husband does he make?’

  ‘Oh, terrible! I’ve been an utter fool. I don’t think he is attracted by men, but he is practically a neuter. I am as starved of love as when we first met in Bordeaux.’

  Suddenly she advanced on Roger and threw her arms round his neck. As he felt her warm, thinly clad body pressed against his own he was conscious of a swift upsurge of passion and clasped her to him.

  With a low laugh she murmured in his ear, ‘Borghese will not be back for hours yet; and when he does return it is certain that he’ll go straight to his own room. Oh Rojé, how good it is to feel your strong arms about me again. I want you, Rojé. I want you desperately.’

  Two minutes later he was in her bedroom with the door locked behind them.

  In the early hours of the morning Aimée smuggled him downstairs and out into the street through a door in the garden wall that led into the Champs Elysées.

  That day Roger lay long abed contemplating his position with very mixed feelings. All prospect of marrying Pauline was now gone, and with it that of some well-endowed post as a member of the Bonaparte family. On consideration he decided that the latter was more to be regretted than the former. He had never been afraid of work or of taking responsibility, so he would have enjoyed using his talents as the Viceroy of some French-dominated territory; whereas Pauline’s light-mindedness and instability of character might have caused him many irritations if he had married her; and she was now, once again, his mistress.

  It was as clear as crystal that she had married the Roman Prince only for his title, his family jewels and because he was so rich she could indulge to her heart’s content in every kind of extravagance.

  She had told Roger that, on the rare occasions Borghese did come to her, it was always before midnight; so at that hour Aimée could safely let Roger in by the door in the garden wall and bring him to her. If at any time there was a risk of his being caught in her room, he could go out on to the balcony and clamber down into the garden. With his happy memories of their tour through Navarre and Provence, and stay at St. Maxime, this opened a prospect that half the men in France would have envied him. But there was another side to his return to Paris which was far from being so satisfactory.

  Napoleon had evidently never had the least intention of letting him marry Pauline and, instead of saying so frankly, had used his guile both to break up the affaire and to prevent it from developing into a scandal. No doubt his ambition had been gratified by his sister marrying a millionaire Prince arid he had derived considerable amusement at having rid himself of his trou
blesome A.D.C. in a way that should teach him not to be presumptuous. But what was he going to say when he learned not only that Roger had returned to Paris but had also, as his police would soon find out, again become Pauline’s lover? Added to which there was the most unpleasant fact that by this time Davoust would have had ‘Lieutenant’ Breuc posted as absent without leave.

  After much thought, Roger dressed in civilian clothes, called a sedan chair and had himself carried round to the Rue du Bec. Having waited for well over an hour in an anteroom, he was received by Talleyrand. Gracious as ever, the Minister rose from his big desk, extended a perfectly manicured hand and said:

  ‘Cher ami, you must forgive me for keeping you waiting but, try as I will, I simply cannot avoid sometimes having to attend to affairs of State. Where have you been all this time, and why are you not wearing your beautiful uniform?’

  Sitting down in a gilt Louis Quinze elbow chair, Roger crossed his long legs, gave a rueful smile and replied, ‘The First Consul decided that I should be taught the rudiments of soldiering, so sent me to Davoust’s school for young officers at Bruges.’

  Talleyrand raised his eyebrows, ‘So that is where you were. Not a very pleasant experience, I imagine. But I did hear a rumour that he had sent you out of Paris because he was annoyed by your attentions to a certain lady.’

  Roger grinned, ‘So you know about that. I might have guessed it.’

  ‘The lady happens to be one of a dozen or so about whose—er—activities I find it useful to keep myself informed. Her marriage must, I fear, have been something of a blow to you. But she was so set on it that she refused even to wait until her period of mourning was over; and Napoleon, fancying himself as the brother-in-law of a Prince, was persuaded to give way to her.’