Napoleon Must Die (21 page)

“Does she truly think he is innocent?” asked Eugene, fascinated by what Berthier conjectured.

“Who knows? She is not foolish. But women are curious creatures where their husbands are concerned. They believe more nonsense about them than nuns believe about the Holy Ghost.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not want to confine her, but if she continues to watch me, what other choice have I got than to order her to remain in her quarters?”

“Would that be prudent, sir?” Eugene inquired very deferentially.

“Probably not,” Berthier admitted. He leaned back on his stool, taking care to maintain his balance. “You’d better get the rest of my dispatches ready. The courier will be here shortly.”

* * *

It was more than a week later when Berthier rode into camp from Cairo only to find Victoire waiting for him at his tent. He stared at her in his most daunting manner and was surprised when it had no effect on her. As he swung off his horse he confronted her.

“You are growing very bold, Madame Vernet,” he said coolly.

”No more than you,” she answered, giving him an opportunity to speak.

“How is that, Madame?” he inquired with spurious courtesy. He whistled for a groom to come and take his horse.

“Last night I observed you hand a dispatch case to a marine guard. He, in turn, delivered that case to a corvette. There is no official record of any dispatches from you, and no record in the camp of the ship landing.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “Would you like to discuss this further? May I suggest we speak inside your tent?”

The groom arrived and took the reins from Berthier. “What I do is no concern of yours,” said Berthier, attempting to push past her.

“If it compromises my husband and endangers the campaign, it is very much my business—and the business of every other Frenchwoman in Egypt,” she declared. “When a man of your position sends covert messages, surely there is reason for sensible people to be dismayed.”

Berthier rolled his eyes upward. “Come into my tent, then, and let’s get this over with.”

“Thank you, General Berthier,” she said, following him through the flap. She stood very straight, remaining near the door.

He drew up his camp stool and sank down onto it; his back ached and his eyes were reddened. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “All right. You seem determined to drag me into your conspiracy. I can understand why you wish to keep your husband from danger, but I do not know why it must be at my expense. Find another officer. What of Desaix? Or Lavallette? Aren’t they equally culpable?”

“The others are not sending secret dispatches, or striving to throw blame onto Vernet, as you are. From the first you have been determined to fix the guilt on my husband, and have been at pains to point all suspicion at him and away from you. I’ll not permit you to ruin him.” She stopped abruptly, as if revealing so much exposed her.

“It would be damnable of me, if he were innocent.” His features were forbidding and his voice was hard.

Victoire refused to be daunted. “You will not succeed in your plan. When it is known that you are sending covert dispatches, that you have concealed important information, you will no longer be able to make honorable officers your victims.” She planted her feet and stared him down. “Your perfidy will not go unanswered.”

Berthier was on his feet, his hands closed into fists. “Breath of God, you go too far, Madame!” he thundered. “I have troubles enough without your meddling in matters you cannot understand.”

“I understand betrayal well enough,” she answered, taking one step back. “Threaten me all you wish—it will only add credence to my argument.”

That struck home. Berthier rocked back on his heels as if she had struck him. “If that is to be your game—”

“You’re the one who has created the game. I’m only doing what I can to counter your moves before you bring on the destruction of my husband.” She shook her head. “Do you think I cannot see how you are at work? When I left here in November, morale was good and our men were filled with enthusiasm. Now they are distressed and disheartened. Everything has deteriorated. There are desperate rivalries among the officers and the men do not treat one another as comrades. Who has brought this about? Surely not Napoleon, for he is in Syria. Who has been entrusted with this camp, with the maintenance of the army? Who has been in the best position to loot and pilfer?” She folded her arms. “Or do you think that Vernet did that as well, from Jaffa?”

Berthier locked his hands behind his back so that he would not be able to throttle her. “If you were a soldier, you would be in a cell, Madame Vernet, and if you persisted in these calumnies, you would be shot.”

“An admirable way to silence embarrassing questions,” she said. “I am preparing a report. I want you to know of it. I don’t want you to claim that you were unaware of the suspicions of others, and that you have been taken advantage of.” She looked toward the door of the tent. “Your motives are known, General Berthier. And your associates in the Directoire are known as well. You are no longer hidden.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, for the first time truly confused by what she said.

“I saw the dispatch.” She nodded once. “You thought that was a secret still, didn’t you? But I know. And I have already informed Vernet of it. If you take any action against me, there are others who will accuse you.” Her face brightened. “Did you think no one would find out?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he complained.

“As you know nothing of the scepter, or the death of the marine guard.” She wanted to laugh but could not. “Or do you claim ignorance of that, as well?”

“When it comes to the scepter, you have more to answer for than I, Madame Vernet,” said Berthier curtly.

She was prepared for his attack. “It must reassure you to think so,” she said.

Berthier pursued the point. “You were the one who went in search of it. You were the one who claims to have found it and lost it. Losing it is very convenient, Madame Vernet. Very, very convenient.”

“How do you wish me to interpret your implication?” she asked sweetly. “There are so many ways you could intend offense.”

Angry enough to speak more than he might ordinarily, Berthier said, “I think you found and kept that scepter. I think you have it now. I think you took it to make your husband rich, just as you intended from the f-first.”

Victoire had gone pale with rage. When she spoke her voice was very quiet. “If I had the scepter, you may be certain I would not be foolish enough to entrust it to anyone but Napoleon himself.” She turned on her heel, about to leave, when Berthier stopped her.

“If you have that scepter and do not give it to me at once, it is certain proof of your husband’s guilt. And yours.” He intended it as a parting shot.

She was prepared for it. “And if I had it to give you, how could I account for its disappearance, since you would certainly insist that you never possessed it. As you claim to know nothing of a conspiracy in Paris.” Satisfied that she had shaken him, she left his tent, stimulated and frightened, and feeling very much alone.

* * *

By nightfall Larrey was so exhausted that he could not sleep. He sat in his tent, the last of the brandy he had brought with him open on the leather trunk beside his cot. Two large tots had not been enough to release the tension of fatigue that held him in its grip. He regarded Victoire with an ironic shrug. “Are you sure you do not mind taking the night watch again, Madame Vernet?”

She watched him with concern. “It is no trouble.”

“Of course it is,” he protested, but without much heat. “Who wishes to tend these men in the night? It is thankless.” He put his long, large-knuckled hand to his forehead. “It is almost as thankless by day.”

“But they must be tended or they will be lost.” She smoothed the front of her dress, thinking that it would need mending again soon. “We’ve had too many die already.”

“Yes. The wounds mortify, and the flux does the rest,” he said, the end of his words slurring. “This is a terrible place to be.”

Victoire was not certain whether he meant the camp, the hospital tents, or Egypt itself. “The army goes where its leaders take it,” she said, as she had heard Vernet say many times.

“This is still a terrible place.” He filled his cup again and drank from it greedily. “The food is inedible, the water is contaminated, the heat is ruinous, and we are being cut off from retreat.” He shook his head. “Even with the additional troops sent to Syria, how can we prevail?”

“What additional troops?” asked Victoire, who had been hearing rumors for more than a week. “Who’s being sent?”

“Murat, for one. He’s been gathering all the cavalry together. That can only mean Napoleon expects a battle. There will be more wounded, more ill.” He tipped his head back. “I’m drunk.”

“You’re tired,” she added. “You need sleep.”

“And I can’t sleep,” he admitted. “I lie down, so worn that my bones hurt, and I remain awake. Every minute I suppose that in the next minute there will be another emergency, and I will have to be awake for it. And the whole night is gone.” He had another long sip of the brandy. “When this is gone, I don’t know how I will manage.”

“Some of the men have taken hashish,” said Victoire.

“They are fools; hashish drives men mad.” He fixed his gaze on the single leaf of flame from the oil lamp. “Did Murat use it, when you went upriver?”

“Not that I know of. I suppose Roustam-Raza must. He does not touch strong drink. His religion forbids it.” She frowned. Thinking of Murat troubled her.

Larrey waved in the direction of the hospital tents. “You’d better go and relieve Madame Vendrai. She doesn’t like to remain after her watch.”

Victoire rose at once. “Certainly. If there is need of you I’ll send word. In the meantime, sleep if you can.”

“If I can,” echoed Larrey as he helped himself to a few more drops of brandy.

For the first hour of her watch, Victoire was distracted by thoughts of Murat. She had not heard from him but once since they parted near Memphis, and the tone of that letter had not reassured her. With his continuing silence, she began to fear that his promise of support might not be as reliable as she had first supposed it would be. Although he had corroborated her account of their recovery of the scepter, she was now convinced that she could not depend on his advocacy.

The moans of a soldier suffering from a putrefying spleen claimed her attention, and from then until her watch ended after midnight Victoire had no more opportunity to bother herself with unhappy conjecture about Joachim Murat.

IT WAS AUGUST
and
the Inundation was finally retreating, giving the Delta its precious annual gift of water and soil. In the sweltering heat the land became fecund and rich. The French camp had lost many of the Egyptian servants who had worked there through the winter and spring; now planting demanded their presence in the fields and the tasks they had performed were left to the women and recuperating men.

The arrival of the troops returning from Syria brought the greatest excitement to the wives who had been left in camp. For the first time in months many of the women were animated; even those who had avoided Victoire because of the implication of scandal attached to her now treated her as a friend and confidante, sharing the joy of reunion. The afternoon when the men returned, all the women were sisters.

There was a shout, and the waiting ranks broke apart as the men started forward into the camp. Many of the wives went toward them, but a few hung back, some of them looking confused or troubled.

Victoire remained at the edge of the camp center, her eyes restlessly scanning the faces of the men as they surged into the place. At the instant the men were released from muster, she had to fight an irrational fear that swept through her—after all these months apart, would she be able to recognize her husband? She shivered and made herself take several long breaths to calm down. Where was Lucien? She wanted to call his name, but there was already so much noise, such whoops and cries, that she knew she would never be heard above it all. She had to find him. Vernet was tall. She ought to be able to pick him out by his height. His eyes were gray-green, a color like the ocean. He had a square jaw and dark hair.

What if he had not been sent back, after all? The question echoed in her mind like the remembered fragment of a bad dream. What if they had changed their minds? What if he had been detained by Berthier, or one of his agents? She clasped her hands together.

And then she saw him: he was coming toward her with long, purposeful strides. She lifted her hand and almost waved.

He stopped a little more than an arm’s length from her. “Victoire,” he said.

“Lucien.”

For a short while they stared at one another, the world narrowed down to the space between them.

Then he closed the distance and gathered her into his arms, heedless of the others around them. No matter how improper it was to embrace so passionately in public, neither of them cared.

* * *

Vernet’s cot sagged under their double weight. Victoire, straddling his supine body, tucked her head into the hollow of his chin and throat. They were both slick with sweat, and her fair hair stuck to her face and his neck. They were both exhausted and both wanted more of the other.

“Lord of the Prophets, how I have missed you,” Vernet whispered, one hand looping her ringlets through his fingers. “I forgot how much I missed this. And this.”

Victoire kissed the point of his collarbone and smiled. “I dreamed about you ... and this.” Her fingers began to trace enlarging arcs on his chest, the center of the circles growing lower. He began to respond, despite the hours of lovemaking already past.

“Dreams are not good enough, not nearly good enough,” he said, his free hand roving down her back as if reassuring himself that she was really there. “I never want to be away from you so long again.”

“Not ever,” she agreed, wishing that she weren’t quite so luxuriously tired. But Vernet was finding new energy and she would never deny him, not after so very long.

“I worried about you every hour.” He kissed her languorously, as if released at last from his concern. “Those weeks you were gone ... When no word came, I was frantic.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” said Victoire, doing her best not to squirm as his hand searched along her leg. “Without couriers, there was no safe means to—”

“I know.” He smoothed the damp tendrils back from her brow. “I know.” Then for a long time there was no need to talk.

“I worried about you, too,” Victoire said dreamily a while later. “With you so far away making sure the supply lines stayed open, I had no means to discover what might be—” She stopped, determined not to let the anxiety that still hung over them to ruin this night together.

“It wasn’t as bad as all that.” He smoothed the side of her arm. “Jaffa was boring, most of the time. The rest of the time, there was too much happening. I didn’t have to think about it, not the way you did.”

“But you could have been killed,” she said, and felt a flash of anger that he could be so careless of someone she loved.

“So might you, while you were gone.” He looked at her, staring into the depths of her eyes. “I would never have forgiven you, if you’d been killed.”

“Nor I you,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“No,” she concurred, and yet again let her body say the rest.

* * *

An hour before dawn, as they sponged one another with the limited amount of bathing water permitted, Victoire at last revealed everything she had learned to Vernet.

“But what you’re saying is monstrous,” he insisted. “When I read your letters, I couldn’t believe what you wrote to me.”

“I didn’t want to believe,” she reminded him. “You had to be warned, no matter how great the risk in writing. But what else could I do? Someone in Paris is attempting Napoleon’s fall; he has an accomplice here, someone high in the chain of command. Prom all I have been able to discover, that man must be Berthier. Who else is in a position to do so much damage?”

Vernet paused before emptying a small amount of water over her shoulders. “You’re very convincing, but ... Why would he support Paris when he has made such a place for himself with Napoleon?”

“Perhaps because he has been promised Napoleon’s place,” said Victoire, giving the reason that seemed most sensible to her. “A man in his position might grow envious; he could hanker for command.”

“But Berthier—” Vernet reached for her towel and held it out to her. “Berthier isn’t that sort of fellow. Look at him. If he hadn’t a commander, he’d come all to pieces.”

As she wrapped the thick cotton around her, she cocked her head. “You do not think he is well-suited to lead? That may be, but it would not stop his ambition.” She stared at him as he finished his own ablutions. “It’s his ambitions that trouble me, not his abilities.”

“I pray you’re wrong,” he said, taking the last of the water in the ewer and pouring it over his head. “If you’re not ...”

“It isn’t only my assumption because I ... I dislike him. Berthier is sending dispatches in secret. I’ve followed him. I have seen his secretary hand them to marines. A corvette has landed unofficially and carried his reports for him.” She watched him bundle himself in his towel. “I’ve kept a record of the occasions.”

He nodded. “And I have your letters. You say he knows about it?”

“Yes. I told him. It was necessary. I wrote to you about what happened. I haven’t approached him since. I thought it would be wisest—I told you.” She unfastened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders.

“That you did,” he said, his mouth grim. “If I had been here, I would not have allowed you to approach Berthier.”

“If you had been here it wouldn’t have been necessary.” She sat down on her cot. “There is a conspiracy, Vernet. And it reaches very high.”

He sat down opposite her. “You’ve convinced me of that.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Wait for Napoleon to come back, I suppose. After that ...”

He nodded.

“How was it?” she asked, eager to talk of something else.

“It was hard going. I spent the first weeks establishing guardposts along the supply route. Twice we were attacked by large numbers of mounted men. Fortunately they could not stand up to disciplined musket fire. Then we arrived at Acre. The siege was terrible. The walls were thick, and the first attack cost us heavily.”

“Yes,” Victoire agreed. “We received many casualties from that attack.”

“Then we settled into a formal siege. It was my job to make sure no one infiltrated the camp. It wasn’t meant to be a long siege, but the English intervened. They captured the siege train, all the big cannons. We held on longer than I thought we would. Then the Ottomans finally sent an army after us. We left as an army, at our own pace. It all cost us many lives. Men I left on picket disappeared and I fear they did not die easily.”

Victoire saw that Vernet was almost shaking as he recounted what happened. Gently she took his hand and stroked the top of it with her fingertips. After a few seconds he seemed to calm down.

“Well, as we marched away they attacked, but the divisions formed large squares and drove them off. The ground was covered by their dead. We marched on, dogged by those dreaded desert horsemen. Most didn’t even have muskets. They followed us with a fleet. Less than a day’s march from here they landed. Then Murat gathered the cavalry and drove them off. He had been in a funk since Napoleon recalled him to the army. No one knew why. It was something to watch. He seemed happier after the battle, more willing to talk to the rest of us. The others moved slowly back to Acre. We hurt them badly, but couldn’t take the city. The rest of the army was only a few hours’ march behind me. I’m glad to be out of it.”

“And I am thankful you’re here, and safe.” She did her best to smile again.

“If we are safe,” he reminded her.

“If we are,” she echoed.

* * *

Napoleon rode through the camp to cheers; they were not as joyous as when the, French had first landed in Egypt, but everyone pretended not to notice until Napoleon was once again in his command tent.

“How has discipline become so lax?” he demanded of Berthier once he had dismissed everyone but his senior staff. He sat at the trestle table with Roustam-Raza at guard behind him. “I expected better from you, Louis.”

“It has been very difficult here,” said Berthier, coloring to the roots of his frizzy hair. “Our morale is not good, and with the number of sick and wounded, many of the soldiers here have lost their ... devotion.”

“It should not have happened,” said Napoleon, watching the rest of his officers nod. “How did it come about?”

“I didn’t want it to,” said Berthier. “I have been trying to reverse the decline, but so far without results.” His face clouded as he sought some means to escape from the condemnation of his hero. “Supplies have been short, and the Egyptians have been charging terribly high prices for their goods. Much of the treasure we took was on the
L‘Orient.
Most of the troops here feel their inactivity and it chafes on them. Soldiers sour if they do not have battles to test their valor. And from that idleness grow rumors and discontent. They feel isolated, too far from France, and they are losing their purpose. If there weren’t so much suspicion and deception among those remaining here, I would have been better able to uphold your standards, General.”

Napoleon scowled. “You speak of rumors. I’ve been hearing rumors. Some of them do not redound to your credit.” He tapped his fingers on the trestle table where he sat. “Very well. You might as well tell me the worst now. I don’t want this coming back to haunt me.”

It was Berthier’s intention to lead gradually to his accusation, but with this clear opportunity, he spoke directly. “The worst has been Madame Vernet. Not content with throwing dust in our eyes with the intention of protecting her husband from the consequences of his acts, she has implicated me in his treason, so that it would appear that he was the innocent one and I the one to betray you.” He realized that all the officers were staring.

Roustam-Raza took a single step forward. “I know Madame Vernet, and what you say of her is not like the woman I know.”

“She is very clever,” said Berthier, his back stiff. ‘If Murat were here, he would tell you. He was her supporter once, but he is not so willing to take her part now.”

“Murat knows her as well as I do, and he will say nothing to her discredit,” said Roustam-Raza, and there was such candor in his manner that none of the men sniggered or winked. “This woman would not act against you,” he said to Napoleon.

“Indeed she would,” Berthier insisted. “She has done nothing but conspire against our cause since the marine guard was killed and her treachery was thwarted.”

“She sounds formidable,” said Napoleon drily. “We’d better have this paragon in—and her husband with her—before we continue. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it won’t be obtained without questioning her.” He motioned to Roustam-Raza. “You know her. Fetch them.”

Roustam-Raza bowed. “At once.”

Napoleon signalled to Lavallette. “I’ll want Larrey here later for a report on the wounded. Desaix, find out how our horses are holding up. The farriers will tell you. I give you all half an hour to bring me a first report. And while they are gone, you, Berthier, may explain how it comes that we have been robbed of so many medical supplies.”

* * *

Victoire stared at the figure in the door of the hospital tent, not quite willing to trust her eyes. She put a fresh bandage on the young dragoon’s smashed hand, then rose, smoothing the front of her dress as she did. “Is that you, Roustam-Raza?”