Finding Gabriel (35 page)

But alas, no solace was to be found within Ariah’s dreams.

Swallowing, she twisted her fingers in the material of his coat and tentatively eased against his body. “I could never repay your kindness, Jacques. You sacrificed everything for me and Emmaline.”

He inhaled a stiff breath and mutely turned to her. His gaze bore into her own, rich and laced with emotion. Then he reciprocated her smile, scooted closer, and pressed a tentative kiss against her temple. Ariah breathed in the crisp air, filling her lungs with his fresh scent.

“And I don’t expect you to. With us, there are no debts.” He peered down at her wedding band before lacing their fingers together, uniting their hands as one. “No debts and no regrets.”

Gabriel froze before the Tuileries Palace. The monument’s sweeping, neoclassical architecture dwarfed everything beneath its breathtaking scope. Countless windows peered down like so many eyes, a towering wrought iron fence encircled the perimeter, and a Romanesque chariot kept watch from its perch atop the massive
Arc de Triomphe
. Members of Napoleon Bonaparte’s Grande Armée – dressed in their dark greatcoats, shako hats, and white stockings – guarded the elaborate entrance in a meticulous single-file line. Indeed, the palace held the appearance of a fortress.

The soldiers collectively eyed Gabriel’s bronze badges and navy uniform, tipped their heads in solemn greeting, and allowed him to pass through the arched entry. He swiftly walked past them, his face lowered out of eyesight. His boots rapped against the floor and echoed his heartbeat, each step amplified by the palace’s soaring walls. The ornate foyer shimmered like a diamond; countless chandeliers floated overhead, and each one reflected in the intricate marble flooring.

A half hour later, a guard escorted Gabriel through the grandiose maze of rooms, showing him into Napoleon Bonaparte’s study. He removed his shako hat, lodged it beneath his arm, and knocked firmly on the door.

“Colonel de Laurent wishes to speak with you, Your Excellency.”

Silence hung in the air. Then came the familiar rumble of the emperor’s voice. As usual, it was smooth, decisive, and infinitely powerful. It cut through the rosewood door like a blade through water.

“Very good. Show him in.”

The guard urged the door open and gestured Gabriel inside with an extended gloved hand. Dread weighed heavily on Gabriel’s spirit as he stepped through the archway and locked gazes with France’s emperor. Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a tall man by any means – yet every fiber of his being commanded authority and respect. In spite of his much smaller stature, Gabriel felt dwarfed by the emperor’s presence. But he was no longer the lean, rugged warrior he’d once fought beside; Napoleon’s girth had widened over the years, his walk was clumsier, his pallor more sallow, and time had burdened his brow. And yet, through Gabriel’s eyes, he remained quite regal and formidable.

The study, too, was worthy of awe. Gabriel fairly held his breath as he devoured each detail. Fit for a king, rich velvets, rosewoods, and ornate gold embroidery furnished every centimeter of the room. A hand-carved grandfather clock stood against one of the walls, and a huge map concealed another. A massive Empire-style desk stood as the study’s centerpiece; a sculpted marble base, decorated with a lion’s roaring head, formed its wide feet. Books, rolled parchment, a towering curved hat, unfurled maps, dossiers, and writing utensils were haphazardly spread across the desk like so many toys.

Napoleon tucked a hand inside the folds of his greatcoat and marched over to the sweeping window. A volley of cheers echoed from the courtyard as Parisians harmoniously cried out:
“Vive l’empereur!”

Despite the fact that winter had come and gone, the park was still half-covered in frost and held in an icy grip. Brittle shafts of light burst through the fogged glass and drenched every corner of the study; the countless ornaments adorning Napoleon’s faded greatcoat appeared to catch fire. His square face and somber expression struck Gabriel with unrestrained emotion. He stood in reverential silence, as if witnessing some supernatural being. A sternness spread over the emperor’s dark brow, and a heavy gloom descended upon his countenance, which all but prevented his efforts to smile at the boisterous crowd.

“Glad to see you’ve returned to your rightful home, Your Excellency,” Gabriel finally said.

The emperor responded with a severe nod. He made a regal, cutting figure – a king looming high above his kingdom. Although he was stiff and mostly humorless, his passionate words and easy manner oozed charisma. His dedication to his men had earned him the affectionate nickname “Little Corporal” early in his career. Gabriel knew his climb to destiny hadn’t been easy – and each rung on the ladder had been earned with blood, sweat, and tears. And now Napoleon Bonaparte resembled a dying star.

Regardless, even after his defeat and exile, the emperor’s presence was nothing short of entrancing. Gabriel caught himself standing a little straighter, bowing his head a little deeper, and speaking a little more formally. An image of Napoleon galloping through Eylau’s battlefield rose into Gabriel’s mind.

The emperor scanned the palace’s courtyard, as still and coarse as those marble statues. The illumination transformed his short-cropped auburn hair into an unusual reddish hue, making it resemble a crown. Though the strands had thinned considerably, Gabriel took note, and they rested against his temples in limp, immobile strands. Yet his posture remained straighter than an arrow, both feet were evenly spaced, and his critical gaze missed nothing – not even the smallest detail. Indeed, Napoleon Bonaparte held himself as if the world still laid at his feet.

Down below, a swirling mist obscured the garden’s manicured lawn. Rows of trees lined the extended walkway, and at the very front loomed a chestnut in full bloom. Napoleon scrutinized the flowering tree with keen, narrowed eyes.

“Would you look at that? It’s as though the people have gifted a bouquet for their hero’s return.”

As if on cue, the cheering loudened out-of-doors until the cries nearly shook the window from its sill. Napoleon’s hand slid from his greatcoat, and in a majestic gesture, he waved them off.

“Bah! Be gone! Listen to their baying, Gabriel! What a show of fantastic hypocrisy. The hour for flattery has long passed.” His temper escalated with each word, and by the end of the speech, it had reached a boiling point. His jaw clenched, and he delicately swayed on his heels. “Daft fools,” he finished with a snarled flourish. “They let me re-enter Paris, just as they allowed me to leave months ago.”

His posture stiffened impossibly more, and a glazed, faraway look surfaced in his eyes. “I was born when Corsica was perishing. Thirty thousand Frenchmen assaulted our shores and drowned my home in waves of blood. The screams of the dying engulfed my cradle during the hour of my birth. I dedicated my childhood to detesting France – the very nation I now rule. I saved France from her own demise, I resurrected her from ashes, I laid the foundation for a new empire … and this is how they think to repay me!” His voice sounded livid and resentful, though Gabriel caught the elated glint in his astute gray-blue eyes. Shaking his head, Napoleon fought to gather his composure and rocked on his heels several more times. Then he rotated on his scuffed boots and strode from the window – every movement direct, decisive, and executed with definite purpose. The worn greatcoat swirled about his ankles and simple breeches. As usual, Napoleon’s unpretentious style of dress gave no hint that he was, quite likely, the world’s most dominant leader.

Never breaking stride, Napoleon cleared his throat and moved behind the colossal desk. He stared down at the unfurled maps – not allowing himself a moment’s respite.

“Tell me – what brings you here? You wish to bid my welcome, I suspect?” A trace of mirth laced the words together. He peered at Gabriel only when the silence began to stretch on.

“I would like to be reinstated as a regiment commander,” Gabriel hastily explained. “I understand you’re building an army again, and it would do me a great honor to serve by your side.”

Napoleon stared at his maps for almost a full minute. Gabriel wondered if the emperor was too distracted to hear his favor. Napoleon muttered something to himself, then reached forward and traced the map’s intricate lines as if committing a series of maneuvers to memory.

“Your Excellency? I – ”

“Do not waste your breath. I heard every word with resounding clarity.” He turned to Gabriel, tucked both hands behind his faded greatcoat, and marched forward. “And I shall hear no more stale formalities or elaborate addresses. Not from you, anyway.”

Morning’s light speared through the back window and distorted the emperor into a haunting silhouette. His gaze ran over the disfigurement – and Gabriel had an odd feeling that Napoleon saw much more than the surface wounds.

“Interesting. I cannot recall receiving news of your injury,” Napoleon said, signaling Gabriel forward with an elevated hand. “And I believe we broke our fast together the very morning you left for Paris. Isn’t that correct?” Gabriel nodded, knowing well where the insights were leading. “Let me have a closer look.” Napoleon splayed a hand on Gabriel’s upper arm and rotated his body toward the window. The emperor edged closer and inspected the healing skin for several weightless minutes.

“In my forty-six years, I have witnessed more death and battle wounds than you could ever imagine.” Gabriel met Napoleon’s stare – and he knew, without a doubt, that he’d extracted the entire truth with but a single glance. “This,” he continued, running his finger along the raised flesh, “is the mark of a very different, very unique kind of battle, is it not? This is the brand of an innermost war. Don’t bother denying it. I see it on your skin and in your eyes.” Silence took command. Gabriel nodded and exhaled a suspended breath. “And yet I have never known you to miss a shot. Please – sit, Gabriel. I want to share something with you. Something intensely private.” Napoleon gestured to the crimson velvet-lined chair.

“Thank you.” Gabriel seated himself, gripped both armrests, and waited for the emperor to continue.

“While I was in Russia, I carried a vial of poison around my neck. I kept that leather pouch against my heart for over five years. I was surrounded by good men yet all alone just the same. My thoughts dwelt on death, my dreams on the fury of my own destruction.” His boots resounded as he wheeled around the desk and stood in front of Gabriel. He momentarily glanced out the window, and a flash of despair surfaced in those deep-set eyes.

“After the invasion failed, everyone turned against me – even my own damned marshals. My wife and child were dragged back to Austria. Utterly crushed, I renounced my throne. I would sit in my room for hours each night and claw at my legs. Half-mad, I would do this repeatedly until blood soaked through my breeches. Only then did I know I still drew breath.” Napoleon shook his head before tucking a hand inside his greatcoat. “I finally emptied the vial into a glass of wine. The poison failed to kill me – yet I was already long dead inside. Everything had been spirited away. Everything that mattered. My crown, my legacy, my family, Josephine – my guiding star …”

Gabriel attempted to speak – but emotion rose in his throat, choking off any response.
I remember hesitating, right before I pulled the trigger. I remember the barrel slipping from my cheek. I remember uttering a prayer … I remember wishing for a second chance …

The emperor lowered onto the edge of the desk and locked eyes with Gabriel. “In truth, I exiled myself from France for one simple reason: I was already alone. Now I only hope I shall see my son once more before I die.” He surrendered to a tired, long-suffering sigh and shook his downcast head. His gaze ran over Gabriel’s features, and a smirk creased his thin lips. “You remind me of myself nearly twenty years ago,” he said without humor, “when I first laid eyes on Josephine. Smitten and quite green in the face. Alas, I won wars while Josephine conquered my wretched heart. Pray tell – what is her name?”

“Ariah.” Silence grew between them as Gabriel’s nails dug into the armrests. The mere sound of her name brought tears to his eyes and made his insides melt into a quivering mass. Emotion pressed hard on his chest, causing his throat to constrict, tighten, and burn. “I love her. I love her more than anything in this world.”

“Then I do you a great service by rejecting your request to be reinstated.”

“But I – ”

“My power depends on my glory,
mon ami
,” Napoleon interjected, simultaneously waving him off, “and my victories on my army. I cannot risk unsteady, undetermined minds commanding my men.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now rise again.”

Gabriel obeyed. Napoleon climbed onto his feet, marched behind his desk, and yanked open one of the drawers. He withdrew an exquisite flintlock pistol and case of shot and set them on the desk. “For my entire adult life, I dreamed of rescuing France. It was my destiny, my sole purpose. I was born without a gram of noble blood – and I carved my way purely by sheer power and determination.” Outstretching both palms and gesturing to the unfurled maps and battle plans, he said, “But
this
is not your destiny. It never was.” He offered Gabriel the flintlock pistol while a nostalgic grin spread across his lips.

“It’s stunning. Such fine craftsmanship.”

“Indeed. And she still fires beautifully. My father gave it to me well before I left for France. When I was still a boy living in Corsica. One of my family’s heirlooms, you might say. We were a very poor lot. My father assumed I might sell it one day. But I never could part from it. Not until now.”

Gabriel held the pistol up to the light and examined the intricate engravings.
Buonaparte
was etched into the wood as well as the Moor’s Head – Corsica’s national symbol.

“I cannot accept this.” Gabriel attempted to lay the firearm across the desk; Napoleon held out a dismissive palm, preventing the movement.

“Call it a parting gift, if you will – from one comrade to another.”

Gabriel nodded. “Thank you.” Then he reached forward and tugged Napoleon into his embrace.
“Mon ami.”

Napoleon reeled backward and held him at arm’s length. Gloved hands tightened on Gabriel’s shoulders, anchoring him in place. “We all must chase our destiny. It drives us, fuels our blood, and inevitably defines our character. One’s true measure emerges only from the lengths we will journey to achieve it. I have obtained mine. Now, Gabriel de Laurent, you must discover your own.”

•

The Tuileries Garden was bursting with energy. Newspaper and pastry vendors rolled through the congestion, handing out goods as if they were party favors. The creak of wheels echoed as phaetons, carriages, and lacquered coaches maneuvered through the crowd. Ladies waved delicate lace fans and chattered among themselves while gentleman shared brandies and cigars by turns. Naturally not everyone was pleased with Napoleon’s unprecedented return – and it appeared that many of the guests attended the celebration for the sake of celebrating.