Boneparte gave them a glance, halted, and swung round on Roger. ‘What are those men of the Hundred and Thirty-First doing in barges?’
‘They are your escort, mon General,’ replied Roger promptly.
‘Escort! I want no escort!’
Roger was as stricken as if he had had a heart; attack. Before he had recovered sufficiently to speak, Bonepart went on peevishly:
‘Do you think I want the whole Army of Italy to know how I am spending the night?’
‘No,’ Roger stammered. ‘No. But you must have an escort—you must.’
‘Must! Who in thunder are you to tell me what I must or must hot do? Tonight I need you. Tomorrow I shan’t. On our return in the morning you will consider yourself under arrest.’
‘Yes. Very well. As you wish.’ Roger held up a protesting hand. ‘Do what you will with me in the morning. I don’t care. But I implore you to take an escort tonight in case …in case…’
‘In case what?’
‘Well, the Venetians. The conspirators I was speaking about in the coach. They might find out that you were on Portillo and try to kidnap or kill you.’
‘Fiddlesticks! How can they find out? You are behaving like an old woman.’
‘But… but…’
‘Stop acting like a fool, Breuc. All the escort I require is yourself and my orderly sergeant. Dismiss those men in the barges at once, and take me to this island.’
28
In the Trap
For a moment Roger’s mind went blank with sheer horror at the thought of the position in which he had landed Boneparte and himself; then it began to work with a speed at which it had rarely worked before. Somehow, he must get them both out of this terrible mess; but how? And he had only seconds in which to think. If Boneparte were given his way, they would be seven on the island, including Crozier and the three sailors. As the conspirators would expect to have to overcome a guard, they would be many more than that. The little Corsican was brave as a lion and would not submit tamely to being kidnapped. He would put up a desperate fight, so the odds were they would all get killed or seriously wounded.
There seemed only two ways to prevent that: either by stopping the conspirators from carrying out their plan, or by stopping Boneparte going to the island. For a second Roger wondered if he could get a message through to Villetard, telling him that there had been a hitch and that he must send Malderini off on a wild-goose chase by giving him the name of some island other than Portillo. But it was already past seven. It would take the best part of an hour for a messenger to get to Venice and Malderini was to be given the place of Boneparte’s rendezvous within the next half-hour; so he would be on his way to Portillo before the message reached Villetard.
Then Boneparte must be stopped. But how could he be unless he was told the truth? If he was, would he accept the situation, agree to take the escort and see the matter through? No, he would not, because it would have to be disclosed to him that his intention to spend the night at the casino with a lovely woman had got out; otherwise the conspirators would not know about it. And he had been insistent that there should be no scandal. His only means of scotching it would be to dine with the officers in the mess at Mestre and spend the night there.
With lightning speed, Roger assessed the results of confessing the truth. An end to his prospects of revenging himself on Malderini; the poor Princess Sirisha left, after all, in her evil husband’s clutches; himself clapped into a fortress for a term of years; and all chance gone of using the conspiracy, as he had hoped to do, as a pawn for England in the great game of international statecraft.
It was this last, more than anything else, that made him suddenly decide to take a final gamble. He had taken so many to bring his plans up to their present state; why not one more? Boneparte was already walking towards the steps. Junot took a pace forward to follow and see him off. Roger grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back, and whispered:
‘One moment!’
‘What is it?’ Junot said, testily. ‘You seem in a great state today.’
‘I’ve reason to be, I’ve no time to explain; but you must take charge of the escort and come after us.’
‘Sacré bleu! Disobey his orders! Is it likely?’
‘You love him, do you not?’
‘Of course. If I had nine lives, like a cat, I’d give them all for him.’
‘Very well then. Tonight his life may be in danger.’
Junot’s hand jumped to his sword hilt. ‘If anyone dares …’
‘Listen!’ Roger cut him short. ‘I have only a moment. We are going to the island of Portillo. You must follow with …’
‘How can I? It’s still light enough to see several hundred yards. If he turns his head he’ll catch sight of us. I’ll be ordered back, and he’ll have my hide off me into the bargain.’
‘Breuc!’ The angry cry came from Boneparte, who had just stepped into the barge. ‘Breuc! Stop gossiping with Junot. What the devil d’you mean by keeping me waiting?’
‘Give us a quarter of an hour’s start,’ Roger gasped. ‘It will be near dark by then. Portillo. Come in on the garden side. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Turning away from Junot he ran across the quay, down the steps and jumped into the barge.
That Boneparte happened to be in one of his black moods made the journey even more of an ordeal for Roger. When the Corsican was talkative whoever was with him had to drive their wits hard to keep up with his agile mind, but now he sat with his arms folded and his chin down on his chest, obviously plunged in gloomy thoughts; so Roger’s mind was free to roam over a score of unpleasant possibilities.
That Junot would follow them he had no doubt; but how long would he delay before doing so? Malderini and his friends would leave Venice at about eight so should arrive at Portillo by nine, or perhaps even a little before that. But it was a good mile farther to Portillo from Mestre than it was from Venice; so Junot could not be expected before half-past eight, as the barges with the troops in were more cumbersome and slower than the Embassy barge. Half an hour should be margin enough, but none too much in which to make sound dispositions to receive the conspirators.
On that score he now felt fairly safe. The thing that really worried him was the possibility that Malderini had decided to put the rescue of his wife before all else and had got to the island before them. If he had, and had managed to trick, hypnotise, or overcome Bouvard and his men, the love-nest would now be empty. What Boneparte would have to say about that in his present ill-humour passed beyond imagination.
There was, too, another and even more frightening possibility. Malderini might have brought the whole body of conspirators to Portillo with him. If so they could easily have overpowered the guard and would still be there, in ambush, lying in wait for Boneparte.
That thought made Roger close his eyes and bite his lip. It was not that he felt the same deep affection for the little Corsican as did Junot and several other people among the entourage; it was a matter of his personal honour. The fact that Boneparte’s death might well prove to the advantage of England in the long run had no bearing on the matter. Had Roger met him on a battlefield, he would have killed him without hesitation, but, as things stood, this brilliant mercurial wisp of a man had befriended and trusted him; so to deliberately lead him into a trap was a shameful thing to do.
Yet Roger could not escape the fact that that was exactly what he might be doing. The knowledge forced him to consider again if he ought not to confess to the tangled web he had spun and have the barge turned back to Mestre. Had his personal concerns alone been in the balance, he would now have accepted defeat and done so; but there was one matter outside them, and it was that which constrained him to remain silent.
Junot had said that now the snow had come it was too late in the year for Boneparte to have any hope of launching another successful campaign, and that he was anxious to conclude a peace as soon as possible; but the Emperor of Austria still insisted on being given Venice. Tonight,
there was just a chance that the Corsican might be persuaded to abandon his self-chosen rôle of protector of the city. To manoeuvre him into doing that, Roger believed, would, in the long run, be just as much a victory for England as one gained in battle. This was not simply a personal issue; he was, in fact, facing the French General-in-Chief on a battlefield. So the battle must go on.
There were no stars or moon; heavy thunder clouds rolled low overhead, blotting out the sky. By the time they picked up Portillo, darkness had fallen, and they were within a few hundred yards of the island before the denser blackness of its tall cypresses showed its position. His hopes mingled with misgivings, Roger sent out a hail. To his immense relief it was Bouvard who replied to it.
The barge drew in to the steps. Boneparte sprang lightly ashore and Roger after him. Bouvard was unable to suppress an exclamation of surprise as he recognised the General-in-Chief; then he reported all well. Boneparte asked him his name and how many men he had there. When he had replied he was told to collect his two men, get in the barge with them and return with it to Mestre.
Roger would have given a great deal to retain the sailors and the barge’s crew, as their departure would leave only himself, Crozier and the orderly sergeant on the island with Boneparte but he felt that any attempt to intervene would be useless, and the thought that Junot must by now be well on the way to Portillo made him considerably easier in his mind; so he remained silent while his companion, with his harsh Italian-accented French, adjured the men in the barge to preserve silence about having brought him to the island and gave an order that the barge was to return for him at seven o’clock in the morning.
While he was addressing the sailors, Roger had a quick word with the orderly sergeant, telling him to remain there on the steps and challenge any boat that might approach loudly enough to be heard in the casino; then he accompanied Boneparte up to it. On entering the salon they found Sirisha sitting on a sofa looking at an album of water colours. Putting it aside she stood up.
Bowing deeply to her, he returned to Boneparte and said, ‘Mon Général this is Her Highness Princess Sirisha of Bana.’ Turning back to her, he added, ‘Your Highness, permit me to present Citizen Napoleon Boneparte, General-in-Chief of the Army of Italy and the most renowned soldier of modern times.’
Sirisha smiled, made a slight inclination of her head and extended her hand. Boneparte returned her smile, bowed, took her hand, kissed it, then led her back to the sofa, sat down beside her and began to talk with lively animation. Within a few minutes he had become a different man from the ill-tempered little autocrat who had stepped out of the barge.
Roger gave a discreet cough and said, ‘When you wish for supper, you have only to call for it,’ bowed again, and slipped out of the salon into the kitchen. Crozier was there with everything arranged on his two-tier wheeled table; cups of jellied consommé, a cold lobster, breast of duck spread with foie gras and garnished with cherries, a cannon made out of pressed marrón, half concealed by a smoke cloud of spun sugar, slices of pineapple in Kirsch, late fresh peaches, champagne, Château Yquem and old cognac.
After nodding approval of it, Roger glanced at the clock. The hands stood at twenty minutes to nine. He checked it with his turnip watch and, to his consternation, found it right. They must have left Mestre later than he had thought. But Junot should be arriving soon. Cramming his hat on his head, he went out of the back door into the garden. It was now fully dark, and as he made his way across it, he could make out the pieces of statuary only just in time to avoid walking into them. A hundred paces brought him to the far shore of the islet at the back of the casino. For some five minutes he stood there peering out over the inky water, looking in vain for signs of Junot.
There came a sudden sharp pit-a-pat on his hat and shoulders. It had begun to rain. A long roll of distant thunder seemed to run round the great lagoon. The heavy drops fell faster. Another minute and it was sheeting down. All that could previously have been seen of the darkened landscape was blotted out. Even the tops of the cypress were now engulfed in an impenetrable blackness.
With a furious curse, already half drenched, Roger swung about and ran for the house. It looked now as if Fate had led him on only to crush him more certainly at the finish. Finding Sirisha still there, safe and sound, had for the past quarter of an hour led him into a fool’s paradise. But the game was not yet played out. In this torrential downpour all the odds were against the French coxswain of Junot’s barges finding the island. Yet those of the conspirators might. From boyhood onward, every Venetian fished these waters or traversed them on picnics.
As he staggered through the deluge, he ran slap into a small fountain, tripped on its rim, bashed his shoulder against the figure in its centre and fell sprawling in its basin. Blaspheming, he picked himself up only to find that he had lost his sense of direction. Next moment a vivid streak of lightning gave it to him again. The thunder rumbled, nearer now. The rain came sheeting down as though poured out of some gigantic cistern.
Groping his way forward, he reached the back of the casino. Along it ran a three-foot wide iron canopy with a scalloped edge. Under it, now protected from the cloudburst, he fought to regain his breath. After a moment he saw, within a yard of him, a chink of light. It was coming from a window behind which the curtains had not been completely drawn. His stockinged feet squelched in his shoes as he took a pace sideways, bent down and peered through the inch-wide opening.
He found that he was looking into the salon. By twisting his head a little he could see Boneparte and Sirisha. They were still seated side by side on the sofa, but now had napkins and plates on a low table and had started supper. The Corsican’s face had an expression that Roger had rarely seen on it. His over-wide, incredibly forceful jaw was relaxed, his sensitive mouth was curved in a charming smile, and his big grey eyes were alight with laughter as he waved his fork in the air, evidently demonstrating one of the thrilling stories that he so much enjoyed telling. That the Princess no longer felt the least constraint with him was obvious. As Roger watched, she suddenly threw her head back and very faintly he caught the sound of her delighted laughter.
Roger groaned. What could have been more fortunate than that they should like one another. But they, too, were floating like bubbles in a paradise of fools. Junot should have arrived with the troops a good twenty minutes ago. The fact that he had not showed conclusively that in the storm he must be hopelessly lost. The conspirators were far more likely to find their way through it and land on the island at any moment. It was, too, more probable than not that they would erupt onto the scene without warning. The orderly sergeant had been ordered to stay on guard, so he would not disobey; but he had not been warned to expect an enemy, so he might have taken shelter in the kitchen and be keeping watch through its window. If so, owing to the rain, it was unlikely that he would see anyone approaching until they had actually landed.
Every few moments the lightning made terrifying zigzags, rending the sky and throwing everything up in a flash of blinding brilliance. The thunder no longer rolled but crashed in a series of earsplitting detonations, as though the heavens were cannonading the earth in an attempt to destroy it. Roger, soaked to the skin, continued to peer between the chink in the curtains. Boneparte was feeding Sirisha with tid-bits of lobster from his fork, when the thing that Roger was dreading happened.
His range of vision did not include the door of the salon, so he did not see it burst open. He saw Boneparte suddenly start, drop his fork, spring to his feet and snatch up the light sword that he had thrown down on a nearby chair; then the room was full of angry shouting people. Unchallenged owing to the downpour, the conspirators had landed on the island and forced their way into the casino. Roger’s hand instinctively went to his own sword hilt. If Boneparte meant to fight, the least he could do, having led him into this trap, was to go to his aid. Yet if he did, what hope would the two of them have against the score or more Venetians? It was not muscle but wits that were needed if there was to b
e any chance of saving the situation. Junot could not be far off. Surely there was some way in which he could be brought to the rescue?
Boneparte had drawn his sword and stood behind the supper table, ready to defend himself. Packed close together, the Venetians enclosed him in a semi-circle. They were a mixed lot. A few were wearing the rich brocaded coats and powdered wigs that the Venetian nobles still went about in as a gesture of contempt for the ‘new order’; but most of them looked like prosperous bourgeois, and two wore fishermen’s jerseys. A tall man with high cheekbones and thick lips, in the centre of the group, appeared to be haranguing Boneparte. That would be the lawyer Ottoboni. Roger could not see Malderini, so assumed that, according to plan, he was keeping well in the background.
Frantically Roger racked his wits for a way to signal Junot. He had a pistol in his belt so could have fired it, but dismissed the idea at once. With the thunder and the storm it would never be heard at any distance. The storm seemed to be easing slightly. There had been no flash of lightning for several minutes. He wondered now that Junot had not picked up the island by the light of the flashes. Perhaps he had, but lost it again and gone past it in the darkness. It would be easy to miss such a small piece of land when one could hardly see one’s hand before one’s face.
Light! The inspiration struck Roger’s mind like a comet, following his thought of flashes. Turning, he raced along the covered way to the kitchen window. It had no blind and one glance through it told him all he wanted to know. It was occupied only by Crozier who, bent almost double, was peering through the keyhole of the door into the salon. Roger thanked all his gods at finding that he was pitted against amateurs. In a coup such as this, men who knew their work would have surrounded the house before breaking in, then made certain of securing any servants and all the doorways to the place. But Crozier’s still being free, showed that the fools had all crowded into the salon.
The Rape of Venice Page 52
