The Sultan's Daughter (71 page)

That night he went to the Luxembourg, intending to ask his master for leave. There was a crowd of people there, but Bonaparte was busy in his cabinet with Bourrienne. After a while Josephine caught sight of Roger and beckoned him over. As he made a smiling bow to her, she said:

‘
Cher ami
. Have you heard the wonderful news? The General and I are to move to the Tuileries. After living in our little house for so long, I'll feel like a pea in a box. But just think of the splendour of it, and the parties I'll be able to give there.'

Roger bowed again. ‘Our Lady of Victories will shine there more brightly than ever did any Queen of France.'

Her big eyes sparkled and she tapped him with her fan. ‘
Cher, cher Colonel
. You have always stood out among our soldiers as a courtier, and there will be the warmest welcome for you always, at any time, at the Palace. Our first great reception is to be on Christmas Day and, of course, we shall count on you.'

Christmas had long since been abolished by the revolutionaries. Not only did it hold no place in the calendar as a Revolutionary Festival, but for years past no one had dared
to treat it as other than an ordinary working day. Much surprised, Roger raised an eyebrow a fraction.

Josephine laughed, flicked open her fan and behind it whispered to him, ‘The choice of day is deliberate. The preparations for us to occupy the Palace are being hurried forward on that account. The General wishes to show the people that he is without prejudices and will permit religious persecution no longer.'

‘
Madame
, that is excellent news,' Roger said quickly, ‘and a truly wise measure. No ruler, however strong, can have too much support and, by granting religious toleration, our General will win the love of countless thousands of, yes … why should we not say it … his subjects—and yours.'

‘No, no,' she chided him. ‘You must not say such things. He insists that he is no more than an ordinary citizen charged with the duty of giving expression to the wishes of his fellows. But I had almost forgotten. There is a special reason why you must not fail to be in attendance at the Tuileries on Christmas night. There is someone who by then will be in Paris and whom I shall invite: someone who is eagerly seeking news of you. I received the letter only yesterday from M. Ouvrard, who corresponds with a Greek banker named Sarodopulous. This lady is the daughter of one of my girlhood friends, who in the most romantic way has become the favourite wife of the Great Turk.'

•     •     •     •     •

For a moment, Roger was struck dumb. It could not possibly be anyone other than Zanthé to whom Josephine referred. Clearly Sarodopulous had made arrangements for her to travel to France, and she had arrived safely. Her only possible reason for undertaking the hazardous journey must be to rejoin and marry him. At the thought Rogert felt panic rising in him. Only long practice at concealing his emotions enabled him to prevent Josephine from realising the shock he had received.

She was going gaily on with an account of Aimée Dubucq de Rivery's capture by Corsairs and how, by her entrancing beauty, she had captivated the Sultan. Roger listened with a fixed grin, hardly taking in a word she said. As soon as he decently could he turned the conversation, drew two other
visitors into it, then bowed himself away and left the apartment.

Back at La Belle Etoile he went up to his room, flung himself into an elbow chair and gave himself furiously to think. He could still return to the Luxembourg in the morning and ask Bonaparte for leave; but now it was unlikely that the General would grant it until after Christmas Day. At his first reception as First Consul he would naturally wish to have all his paladins around him, ‘
le brave Breuc
' among them.

It occurred to Roger that he could cut loose. If he did not put in an appearance next day no one would start a hue-and-cry after him. By taking horse that night he could reach the coast before anyone even started enquiring about him. But he was very loath to do that.

While in Egypt he would have given anything to free himself from the double life he was leading, but since his return to Paris the excitement of being in the vortex of the political cyclone had again got hold of him. He had with pain and grief overcome the two great threats to his career as a secret agent. Talleyrand was now convinced of his loyalty and Fouché had forgone the chance to question his past, in return for a collaboration which would now make it impossible for him to do so and be believed. Added to which Roger enjoyed the friendship and confidence of the new master of France.

If Georgina were still free and willing to become his wife, he would have been happy to leave Mr. Pitt's service and settle down with her. But it was close on two years since he had seen her and, even if she were still free, he doubted if he could persuade her to marry him. Failing that, what did the future hold? A few happy, carefree months in England then, as he so well knew, the itch to be at the centre of great events would get him again. To set off without explanation would be to become a deserter, and to throw away the extraordinary position he had achieved might later cause him the most bitter regrets.

There was then the personal problem. As Zanthé had risked shipwreck and capture to follow him to France, how could he possibly requite such love and courage by ignoring his obligation to her; still worse, leave her stranded in Paris?
As he thought of her, his heart began to glow again with memories of her beauty, the intensity of her passion and the wonderful nights they had spent together.

It was still his inescapable duty to return to England and report to Mr. Pitt as soon as possible. That he must do. But at least he must remain in Paris over Christmas to welcome Zanthé. Then, on some pretext of duty, he would slip away and secretly cross the Channel. Yet not for the long, carefree months to which he had so greatly looked forward. Every decent instinct he had cried aloud that he must get back to France as soon as he could and take Zanthé for his wife.

In this frame of mind, wearing a new and brilliant uniform, he went to the Tuileries on the evening of Christmas Day. It was the first of scores of receptions that Bonaparte and Josephine were to hold there. In due course Kings, Princes, Grand Dukes and Eastern Potentates would be ceremoniously announced and bow before them, but this was just a large, jolly party drawn from every strata of society.

There were a handful of aristocrats who, like Talleyrand, had survived the Revolution and a number of the Members of the Institute who came from well-to-do families; but the majority of the guests had once been poor and were still ill-educated. There were the soldiers, clinking about in their spurred top-boots, as yet innocent of sonorous titles and glittering Orders. They used the language of the camp. Lannes and Augereau were incapable of opening their mouths without using some obscene expression and most of the others were little better. With them they brought their wives, nearly all looking awkward in their hastily assembled finery. They had no idea how to adjust feathers in their hair or make a curtsey in response to the bow of a gentleman. Many of them were ex-prostitutes who talked the argot of the gutter and Lefebvre's wife had, when Bonaparte was a seedy young Lieutenant, been his washerwoman. The remainder of the guests were mostly sharp-featured or florid-faced politicians in ill-fitting cloth suits and their women were no worse, but no better, than those of the soldiers.

Among this motley throng Roger took his place in a queue that was moving slowly up the grand staircase. At the top Josephine and Bonaparte were receiving. Grouped on either
side of them was already a score of attendant men and women. Having made his bow Roger, as an aide-de-camp, was about to take his place among them; but Josephine turned her head and signed to one of the women near her to come forward. She was Zanthé, but dressed in European clothes, which accounted for Roger's not at once catching sight of her.

His heart throbbing, he smiled a greeting. To their right, in the great salon, the band had just struck up for the first dance. To cover his confusion Roger bowed to Josephine again, then gave Zanthé his arm and led her into the ballroom. For a few moments they were both tongue-tied, then he said:

‘How wonderful it is to see you again.'

‘I am glad you feel that,' she murmured. ‘I was somewhat doubtful if you would be.'

‘That is not surprising, seeing the way I left you.'

‘I learned that you had sailed with General Bonaparte, but I took it hard that you lacked the courage to say goodbye to me or even leave a message.'

‘When I rode away that night I had no knowledge of the General's intentions, and it had occurred to him to take me with him only at the last moment. When I got aboard the anchor was already weighed.'

At that moment, Murat called to Roger, ‘Come, Breuc! You and the lovely lady you have with you are just what we need to make up a set.'

Roger could hardly refuse, so he led Zanthé out and they took their corner for a minuet. The dance that ensued had little resemblance to those trodden by Marie Antoinette, her ladies and their gallants in the royal palaces of France. Zanthé was not alone in never having before danced such a measure. Fewer than half the dancers knew the figures, but they gaily clumped round, twirled the women about and—shades of Versailles—two of the men committed the impropriety of embracing and kissing their partners when they met at corners.

Almost unconscious of the barn-dance behaviour that was going on round him, Roger bowed and twirled with the others. At the first sight of Zanthé he had been chilled by the
realisation that the European clothes she was wearing robbed her of much of her glamour; but her face and figure were as lovely as he remembered them and within a few minutes he was again under her spell.

When the dance was over he led her into one of the long, broad corridors that were furnished with settees for sitting out. As soon as they had settled themselves he decided that this was no case for half-measures. Since he was to marry her, she must not be allowed even to suspect that he had ever had second thoughts about doing so. Taking her hand, he said:

‘As I was telling you, Bonaparte gave me no chance to decline to go with him. Otherwise I would have done so and returned to you so that we could be married.'

Her big eyes opened wide in surprise and she stammered, ‘But … but you said yourself that if you ever got another chance to leave Egypt you would take it, and that nothing would ever induce you to come back.'

‘No, surely!' he protested. ‘I have no memory of ever having said anything like that.'

‘You did. It was on the occasion when you were nearly stung by a scorpion.'

‘Why, yes. I do remember now. But when I spoke of a chance to leave Egypt, I meant one that would have enabled me to take you with me. As things were, my voyage back occupied near two months, and for the past six weeks everything here has been in a state of great uncertainty. Now that Paris has settled down I intended to write to M. Sarodopulous and ask him to arrange for you to travel, with as much safety as he could devise, to France.'

‘What!' she exclaimed, her lip trembling. ‘You meant to send for me?'

‘Of course. But, brave girl that you are, you took it on yourself to make the voyage. So you have rejoined me three months or more before I could have hoped you would. All we have to do now is find a priest of the Orthodox Church to marry us.'

Zanthé swayed towards him. For a moment he thought that she was about to faint, but she recovered herself and gasped, ‘Marry! But I am already married.'

‘What say you!' Roger exclaimed. ‘To … to whom?'

‘Achilles … Achilles Sarodopulous,' she stammered. ‘Did not Madame Bonaparte tell you?'

He shook his head. Still too astonished to be certain if he was pleased or sorry, he muttered, ‘Then you did not come to Paris on my account?'

‘No. The relations which were opened by you between M. Sarodopulous and the French Army have proved so profitable that Achilles has been sent here to open a branch of the Sarodopulous bank.'

Roger's work often made it necessary for him to lie, but he was no hypocrite. Realising now how much having regained his freedom meant to him, he could not bring himself to reproach her; but it would have been unkind to her not to appear distressed, so he asked in a low voice, ‘How did this come about?'

For a moment she was silent, then she said, ‘From the way in which Achilles was always so eager to please me you surely must have realised that he had fallen in love with me. But he attempted nothing dishonourable against you. When … when you had gone, neither of us thought you would ever come back and he did his best to console me. He is a fine man, kind, generous and of the East—so in some ways better suited as a husband for me than you would have been.'

‘I understand,' said Roger gently, ‘and, if the fault for our separation lies with anyone, it is with me rather than with you.'

‘It was the Will of Allah—blessed be the name of His Prophet. But … but there was another reason. I mean why I decided to accept Achilles soon after you had gone, instead of waiting in case some message came from you.'

Roger gave her a quick look of enquiry.

She nodded. ‘Yes, I am enceinte. While we were in Acre old Gezubb, who was wise in such things, looked after me. But during that last fortnight at the Sarodopulouses' … it was then. Your son … I know it will be a son … will be born in May.'

‘Does Achilles … ?' Roger hesitated.

‘No. I hate deceit, but he adores me and has made me truly fond of him. It is much kinder to him that he should
believe himself the father and that it is a seven-month child.'

All that had to be said between them had been said. Roger was quick to realise that for them to prolong their talk now must lead to embarrassment for both of them. If they remained there discussing the affair further he could not, in decency, do less than pretend acute distress at having lost her. Then if she loved him still, as he believed she did, she might break down and avow it. Inwardly wincing at his own words, he said: