Napoleon Must Die (20 page)

“I don’t know,” Victoire confessed. “My master said that I would be given a sealed packet, and I was to bring that back to him.”

“Your master is a prudent fellow, Perikles. Well you may thank Allah for his wisdom.” Yousef pulled his insufficient beard. “I know a place you can wait that is less confusing than this one.” He was proud to demonstrate his power to someone with less than he. “If you will come with me, I will take you to one of the waiting chambers.”

“That would ... that would be very gracious,” she said, wishing she could get word to Roustam-Raza, As heartened as she was by the chance to get into the palace, she dreaded what would happen if she were caught.

“Then come with me,” he offered, indicating one of the corridors beyond the kitchen. “The waiting chamber is on the floor above. It will not be incorrect for you, as a messenger, to wait there.”

“That is ... very generous of you, Yousef. I will tell my master of your service.” She was fairly certain this was a correct response.

“Any words that will help my advancement are welcome, if Allah wills,” he said, beaming at her as he led the way.

* * *

Victoire sat in the waiting chamber for the better part of an hour, every second fearing discovery. She heard men pass in the hall, and once the sound of angry voices drifted down from the floor above, but where the angry man was, or who, she could not guess. Her nerves were sensitized—she supposed that was the coffee at work—but that made her edgy. She paced the room until she knew every inch of it, and then she sat down on one of the two low divans there. She did not want to draw attention to herself, but she feared she would be forgotten until someone discovered her and exposed her.

At last the tension grew too much for her and she decided to explore. If nothing else, the room beyond was a meeting room. She might be able to discover something useful there. Yousef had told her that some of the Pasha’s soldiers had been there earlier in the evening. They might have left something behind.

Very carefully, Victoire went to the connecting door and lifted the latch, hoping that no one would be inside, for she had no explanation for her actions that would not condemn her.

No one was in the room, which was lined with unrolled maps. Had the room been more brightly lit, she would have taken time to make note of what was displayed on them. But the single oil lamp did not provide enough illumination for her to do this. Very slowly and carefully she began to explore, noticing that the door to the main corridor was bolted, and the third door, the one leading to a chamber Victoire had not seen, was bolted also.

There were two trestle tables in the room, one with a dispatch case sitting on it. Very carefully Victoire worked the buckles loose and opened the case, knowing that if she was found out now, it would mean a quick and messy execution for her.

There was a letter in the leather case, one she did not give herself time to read thoroughly, although it was written in French. The handwriting was quite poor and the grammar hardly better. She noticed that there was mention of Napoleon having informed the Directoire that Egypt was now a French possession and asking for himself to be appointed governor. The letter was signed Tallyrand, though the signature was so smeared as to be almost unrecognizable. The seal on the letter was definitely that of the Directoire, she had seen one on Vernet’s appointment as a major in the Gendarmes.

Victoire hurriedly returned the letter to the dispatch case, shocked at the enormity of what she had seen: that someone in the Directoire should send covert messages to the Pasha. Was Tallyrand truly the culprit, or was someone determined to destroy him as well as Napoleon? As she started to thread the leather straps through the buckles, she felt something shift inside the large dispatch case.

Curious, she opened it once again, shaking it and finding it much heavier than she had thought it was. On impulse, she felt the inside of the case and discovered a hidden latch. With trembling fingers she opened it, and found the scepter.

She stared at it for the greater part of a minute, astonished. Then she took it from the dispatch case and thrust it through the thick belt she wore, down the leg of her loose trousers. The gold was chill next to her skin, and reminded her again of the danger in which she stood.

Knowing that she was setting herself on an irrevocable path, Victoire slipped back into the waiting chamber. She smoothed her garments, doing her best to keep the scepter completely concealed. The head of the scepter actually added to her disguise, if she no longer claimed to be a eunuch. Her walk would have to be a bit more stiff-legged than usual, but she decided that she could manage it without becoming conspicuous.

Her heart racing, she went and opened the door, looking in both directions down the corridor. All she would need now was the opportunity to get back to the kitchens, and she would be able to slip out through the kitchen yard and back to the streets and Roustam-Raza’s protection.

The thought of the Mameluke made her smile nervously. He would surely be out of temper with her when she returned. She hoped that the return of the scepter might mollify his anger.

She went down the corridor, just as Yousef had led her, looking for the ornaments that she had tried to memorize as they walked. But it was later in the night, and some of the oil lamps had been extinguished, which brought about confusion. Victoire knew that she had to get to the lower floor, and from there to the kitchens, but she could not find the staircase that led down. Resisting the panic that rose in her, she continued along the corridor, keeping alert for any staircase that would take her below. She was certain that she had come farther than Yousef had led her. At last she .turned around, starting back along the corridor, trying to think what she would say if anyone came upon her.

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 arm 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.

She looked at what she had written to Vernet and shivered in spite of the heat.

For Tallyrand—if it is truly Tallyrand who has betrayed Napoleon—must have supporters here in Egypt. If the purpose is to destroy Napoleon, who better to do it than Berthier? So far I have discovered nothing of importance, but I am convinced, my dearest, that it is only a matter of time before he gives himself away, and then we will expunge forever any blot on your reputation, and fix the blame where it belongs. More is at stake here than your career in the army: the fate of Napoleon himself may lie in uncovering the identities of those who have implicated you. You have my whole account of everything I have learned thus far, and I beg you to keep it safe in case any misfortune should befall me; I will not give them the satisfaction of concealing their crimes with my intimidation.

Berthier is a cautious man, not one to make foolish mistakes. I do not underestimate his capacity for deception and wickedness. But I am a patient and determined woman, and I will persevere. I am determined to confront him when I am certain of how he has accomplished his sedition; he will not be able to hide behind a mask of ignorance when he is formally accused. Be of good cheer, treasured husband, and trust that while justice may be blind, she is not stupid. We will win through.

There was very little else to tell him; the letter she handed to the courier that evening was only two crossed pages.

* * *

Berthier nibbled the cuticle of his thumb, having run out of nail to chew. He looked over at Eugene, who was still pale and weak from a recent bout with swine fever. “If you are tired ...”

“A little,” his secretary conceded. “But for a time I can continue.” In demonstration he took another sheet of paper from his portable desk and reached for his pen.

“This is not a letter, or not yet,” said Berthier, the line between his brows deepening. “It is Madame Vernet.”

“She is still watching you,” said Eugene.

“Persistently. I could bring myself to admire her if she were not so inconvenient.” He stared across the tent, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. “I have not yet received word from Murat. I want to know about the scepter. She claims it was taken after they recovered it. I am not willing to accept her word, but Roustam-Raza agreed; I must evaluate the worth of the Mameluke’s story.”

“Surely you don’t doubt him, do you?” asked Eugene, trying to follow Berthier’s train of thought.

“I d-don’t know. The scepter is Egyptian. He is Egyptian. Would he lie about it because of that? Have they struck a bargain between them, whereby he gains the scepter for Egypt and she falsely exonerates her husband for his treason? Would she be able to sway him?” He tapped his fingers together. “Would Roustam-Raza lie to protect Madame Vernet? That is another question. Muslims are not given to protecting women beyond locking them up. Is it possible that he would defend her?”

“The scepter is Napoleon’s,” said Eugene. “The Mameluke has sworn lifelong fidelity to him. Surely he would not take the property of his master.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Berthier. “If he is as honorable as he seems.” He shook his head sadly. “She is in it somehow, Eugene. She and that husband of hers, they are at the heart of this plot. She reeks of it.”

Eugene nodded. “How will you discover her duplicity?”

“I have not yet hit upon a plan,” Berthier said slowly. “But I can see that I must.”

“Is she the instigator or—” Eugene began, only to be cut off.

“Oh, not she. It is her husband and she is his accomplice. No woman would concoct such a plan. She is an unusual female, but she would not tolerate a murder.” Then his face darkened. “There are women aplenty who watched the heads fall, seven years ago. Some of them even held the bags of spent grain to receive them. That was retribution, and those women were not the daughters of prosperous merchants. This is not some gutter woman from Paris, but the educated daughter of a Rouen merchant. Could she tie the marine guard thoroughly and cut his throat like a sheep? That takes the cunning and strength of a desperate man. Three officers knew about the treasure, and of those who did, all can account for their time, save one. Vernet is the man responsible, I am certain of it.”