“The Moloch,” whispered the abbess. “It was the pagan worship of this god that the Hebrews deplored, but were accused of indulging in. They threw their living children into the fire to placate the god.…”
“Yes,” said my mother, “and worse. Though most ancient people believed that revenge belonged only to the gods, the Phoenicians believed it belonged to them. The places they founded—Corsica, Sardinia, Marseilles, Venetia, Sicily—are places where treachery is only a means to an end; where retaliation means justice. Even today their descendants ravage the Mediterranean. Those Barbary pirates did not descend from the Berbers, but from Barbarossa—‘red beard’—and even now at Tunis and Algiers, they hold twenty thousand Europeans in bondage for the ransom by which they make their fortunes. These are the true descendants of Phoenicia: men who rule the seas from island fortresses, who worship the god of thieves, live by treachery, and die by the vendetta!”
“Yes,” said the abbess with excitement. “Just as the Moor told Charlemagne, it was the chess service itself that would carry out the Sar—revenge! But what is it? What can the dark secret be, sought by the Moors and perhaps even known to the Phoenicians? What power is contained within these pieces—perhaps once known, now lost forever without this buried key?”
“I am not sure,” my mother replied, “but from what you’ve told me, I may have a clue. You said there were eight Moors who brought the chess service to Charlemagne, and refused to be parted from it—following it even to Montglane, where they were believed to practice secret rituals. I know what this ritual may have been. My ancestors the Phoenicians practiced rites of initiation like the ones you’ve described. They worshiped a sacred stone, sometimes a stele or monolith, believed to contain the voice of the god. Like the black stone of the Kaaba at Mecca, like the Dome of the Rock at Jerusalem, there was a masseboth at every Phoenician shrine.
“In our legends, there’s the tale of a woman named Elissa, who came from Tyre. Her brother was king, and when he murdered her husband, she stole the sacred stones and fled to Carthage on the shores of North Africa. Her brother hunted her—for she’d stolen his gods. In our version of the tale, she sacrificed herself on the pyre to placate the gods and save her people. But even as she did, she claimed she would rise again like a phoenix from the ashes—on the day when the stones began to sing. And that would be a day of retribution for the Earth.”
The abbess sat in silence for a long time when my mother had completed her tale. Nor did my stepfather and I choose to interrupt their thoughts. At last, the abbess spoke what she was thinking.
“The mystery of Orpheus,” she said, “who sang the rocks and stones to life. The sweetness of his singing was such that even the desert sands wept blood-red tears. Though these may be only myths, I feel myself that this day of retribution is near at hand. If the Montglane Service rises, may heaven protect us all, for I believe it contains the key to open the mute lips of Nature, to unleash the voices of the gods.”
Letizia looked around the small dining room. The coals in the brazier had burned to ashes. Her two children sat silently watching her, but Mireille was more intent.
“And did the abbess say how she thought the service might bring such a thing to pass?” she asked.
Letizia shook her head. “No, but her other prediction came true—the one about Rousseau. For the autumn after her visit, his agent arrived—a young Scot named James Boswell. Under the pretext of writing a history of Corsica, he befriended Paoli and dined with him every night. The abbess had begged us to report to her his movements and to caution those of Phoenician ancestry not to share with him the old tales. But this was scarcely necessary, for we are by nature a clannish and secretive people who do not easily talk to strangers unless, like the abbess, we owe them a strong debt. As she also predicted, Boswell contacted Franz Fesch, but was put off by my stepfather’s cool reception and jokingly called him a typical Swiss. When The History of Corsica and Life of Pasquale Paoli was later published, it was hard to imagine he’d learned much to take to Rousseau. And now, of course, Rousseau is dead.…”
“But the Montglane Service has risen,” said Mireille, standing up and looking Letizia in the eye. “Though your tale explains the abbess’s message and the nature of your friendship—it explains little else. Do you expect me, madame, to accept this story of singing stones and vengeful Phoenicians?
“I may have red hair like Elissa of Q’ar—but there is a brain beneath mine! The abbess of Montglane is no more a mystic than I, and would be no more satisfied with this tale. Besides, there was more to her message than the part you’ve explained—she told your daughter that when you received this news you would know what to do! What did she mean by that, Madame Buonaparte?… And how was it connected with the formula?”
At these words Letizia grew ashen white and put her hand to her breast. Elisa and Napoleone were riveted to their chairs, but Napoleone whispered in the silence, “What formula?”
“The formula that Voltaire knew of—that Cardinal Richelieu knew of—that Rousseau undoubtedly knew of—and that your mother most certainly knows of!” cried Mireille, her voice rising with every note. Her green eyes burned like dark emeralds as she stared at Letizia, who still sat there, in shock.
Mireille crossed the room with two swift strides and, grasping Letizia by the arms, pulled her to her feet. Napoleone and Elisa jumped up as well, but Mireille held up one hand to ward them off.
“Answer me, madame—these pieces have already killed two women before my eyes. I’ve seen the hideous and evil nature of one who seeks them—who hunts me even now, and would kill me for what I know. The box has been opened, and Death is on the loose. I’ve seen it with my own eyes—just as I’ve seen the Montglane Service—and the symbols that are carved into it! I know there is a formula. Now tell me what the abbess wants you to do!” She was nearly shaking Letizia, her face set with grim fury as she saw again before her eyes the face of Valentine—Valentine, who’d been murdered for the pieces.
Letizia’s lips were trembling—she was weeping, this woman of steel who never shed a tear. Even as Mireille clutched her, Napoleone slid his arm about his mother and Elisa touched Mireille’s arm gently.
“Mother,” said Napoleone, “you must tell her. Tell her what she wants to know. My God, you have braved a hundred French soldiers with guns! What horror is it so terrible you cannot even speak of it?”
Letizia was trying to speak, her dry lips running with salt tears as she struggled to check her sobs.
“I swore—we all swore—we would never speak of it,” she said. “Helene—the abbess knew there was a formula, before she had seen the service. And if she had to be the first to bring it to light after these thousand years, she told me she would write it down—write down the symbols on the pieces and the board—and somehow she’d send them to me!”
“To you?” said Mireille. “Why to you? You were only a child at the time.”
“Yes, a child,” Letizia said, smiling through her tears. “A child of fourteen—who was about to be married. A child who bore thirteen children of her own and watched five of them die. I am still a child, for I did not understand the danger of my promise to the abbess.”
“Tell me,” said Mireille softly. “Tell me what you promised her to do.”
“I’d studied the ancient histories for all my life. I promised Helene that, when she had the pieces in her hands—I’d go to my mother’s people in North Africa—I’d go to the ancient mufti of the desert. And I would decipher the formula.”
“You know people there who can help you?” Mireille said with excitement. “But madame, that is where I’m bound. Oh, let me perform this service. It is my only wish! I know I’ve been ill—but I am young, and I’ll recover quickly.…”
“Not until we communicate with the abbess,” said Letizia, recovering a bit of her former aplomb. “Besides, it would take more than one evening for you to learn what I’ve learned in forty years! Though you think you’re strong, you’re not
strong enough to travel—I think I’ve seen enough of this sort of illness to predict that in six or seven months it will run its course. Just enough time for you to learn—”
“Six or seven months!” Mireille cried. “Impossible! I cannot stay here in Corsica that long!”
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” said Letizia with a smile. “You see, you’re not ill at all. You are with child.”
LONDON
NOVEMBER 1792
Six hundred fifty miles north of Corsica, the father of Mireille’s child, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, sat on the frozen banks of the river Thames—fishing.
Beneath him on the stubbled grasses were spread several woolen shawls covered by oilcloth. His culottes were rolled above the knee, tied with grosgrain ribbon, his shoes and stockings placed carefully beside him. He was wearing a thick leather jerkin and fur-lined boots, with a broad-brimmed hat designed to keep the snows from his collar.
Behind him, beneath the snowy branches of a large oak, stood Courtiade, a straw basket of fish over one arm and his master’s velvet cutaway folded neatly over the other. Lining the straw basket to soak up the blood of the fish were the yellowed leaves of a French newspaper already two months old, which had been tacked to the study walls until only that morning.
Courtiade knew what the newspaper said and was relieved when Talleyrand had suddenly ripped it from the wall, stuffed it into the basket, and announced it was time to go fishing. His master had been unusually quiet since the news had first arrived from France. They’d read it aloud together:
WANTED FOR TREASON
Taillerand, former Bishop of Autun, has emigrated … try to get information from relatives or friends who may harbor him. This description … long face, blue eyes, average nose with a slight upward tilt. Taillerand-Périgord has a limp, either in the right or left foot …
Courtiade’s eyes followed the dark outlines of the barges moving up and down the bleak gray waters of the Thames. Chunks of ice broken from the riverbanks bounced like baubles sucked away by the swift current. Talleyrand’s line floated out among the reeds between crevices of sooty ice. Even in the cold air, Courtiade could smell the rich and salty scent of fish. The winter, like many things, had come too soon.
It was September 23, scarcely two months ago, that Talleyrand had arrived in London at the small house on Woodstock Street that Courtiade had prepared for his arrival. It had been none too soon, for the prior day the committee had opened the king’s “iron cupboard” at the Tuilleries—and found the letters from Mirabeau and LaPorte that revealed the many bribes that changed hands from Russia, Spain, and Turkey—even from Louis XVI—to dedicated members of the Assembly.
Mirabeau was lucky; he was dead, thought Talleyrand as he reeled in his line and motioned for Courtiade to bring him more bait. That great statesman whose funeral had been attended by three hundred thousand—now they’d thrown a veil over his bust in the Assembly and removed his ashes from the Pantheon. For the king, matters would go far worse. Already his life hung by the merest thread, incarcerated with his family in the tower of the Knights Templar—that powerful Order of the Freemasons who were clamoring for him to be brought to trial.
Talleyrand too had been brought to trial, in absentia, and found guilty. Though they had no hard evidence against him in his own hand, LaPorte’s confiscated letters suggested that his friend the bishop, as former president of the Assembly, would be willing to serve the king’s interests—for a price.
Talleyrand strung his fish hook through the bit of suet Courtiade handed him and with a sigh tossed his line back into the dark waters of the Thames. All his precautions to leave France with a diplomatic pass had been in vain. A wanted man now in his own country, the doors of the British peerage had been slammed against him. Even the Èmigrés here in England loathed him for having betrayed his own class by supporting the Revolution. Most dreadful of all, he was now completely without funds. Even those mistresses of his upon whom he’d once relied for financial support were now destitute in London, making straw hats to sell or writing novels.
Life was bleak. He saw the thirty-eight years of his existence swept under by the current like the bait he’d just tossed into the black waters, leaving not a trace. But still he held the pole. Though he spoke of it rarely, he could not forget his ancestry descended from Charles the Bald, grandson of Charlemagne. Adalbert of Périgord had put Hugh Capet on the throne of France; Taillefer the Ironcutter was a hero of the Battle of Hastings; Hélie de Talleyrand had put Pope John XXII in the Shoes of the Fisherman. He was descended from that long line of king makers whose motto was “Reque Dieu”: We serve none but God. When life was bleak, the Talleyrands of Périgord were more likely to throw down the gauntlet than to throw in the towel.
He reeled in his line, cut the bait, and tossed it into Courtiade’s basket. The valet helped him to his feet.
“Courtiade,” Talleyrand said, handing over his pole, “you know that in a few months it will be my thirty-ninth birthday.”
“Certainly,” replied the valet. “Would the monseigneur wish me to prepare a celebration?”
At this, Talleyrand threw back his head and laughed. “By the end of this month I must relinquish my house on Woodstock Street and take a smaller place in Kensington. By year end with no source of income, I shall have to sell my library.…”
“Perhaps the monseigneur has overlooked something,” said Courtiade politely, helping Talleyrand to remove his things and holding his velvet cutaway. “Something that might have been provided by fate against the difficult situation in which he now finds himself—I refer to those items currently located behind the books of the monseigneur’s library at Woodstock Street.”
“Not a day has passed, Courtiade,” Talleyrand replied, “that I’ve not thought the same thing myself. I do not believe, however, that they were meant to be sold.”
“If I may make so bold,” pursued Courtiade, folding Talleyrand’s clothes and picking up his shiny pumps from the riverbank, “has the monseigneur heard news of late from Mademoiselle Mireille?”
“No,” he admitted, “but I’m not yet prepared to write her epitaph. She’s a brave girl, and she’s on the right course. What I meant was, this treasure now in my possession may be of more value than its pure weight in gold—else why has it been pursued by so many for so long? The age of illusion is ended now in France. The king has been weighed in the balance and—like all kings—found wanting. His trial would be merely a formality. But anarchy cannot replace even the weakest rule. What France needs now is a leader, not a ruler. And when he comes, I shall be the first to recognize him.”
“The monseigneur means a man who will serve God’s will, and restore peace to our land,” said Courtiade, kneeling to pack some ice into the basket of fish.
“No, Courtiade,” Talleyrand sighed. “If God wanted peace on earth, we should surely have it by now. I quote a savior who once said: ‘I came not to bring peace, but a sword.’ The man I describe will understand the value of the Montglane Service—which is summed up in one word: power. It is this I offer to the man who will one day soon lead France.”
As Talleyrand and Courtiade made their way along the frozen banks of the Thames, the valet hesitantly put forth the question that had been in his mind ever since they’d received that French paper, now lying crumpled beneath melting ice and ripe fish:
“How does the monseigneur plan to locate such a man, when the charge of treason prevents him from returning to France?”
Talleyrand smiled, clapping his hand upon the valet’s shoulder with unaccustomed familiarity. “My dear Courtiade,” he said, “treason is merely a question of dates.”
PARIS
DECEMBER 1792
The date was December 11. The event was the trial of Louis XVI, king of France. The charge was treason.
The Jacobin Club was already packed when Jacques-Louis David entered the front doors. The last of the stragglers from the first day’s court hearings were trailing behind him,
and a few clapped him on the shoulders. He caught snatches of their conversation—the ladies in their boxes at the trial drinking flavored liqueurs, the hawkers selling ices through the Convention Hall, the mistresses of the Due d’Orleans whispering and giggling behind their lacy fans. And the king himself, presented with the letters from his iron cupboard, pretending he’d never seen them—denying his own signature—pleading a poor memory when confronted with multiple charges of treason against the State. He was a trained buffoon, the Jacobins all agreed. And most had decided on their vote even before entering the large oak doors of the Jacobin Club.
David was crossing the tiled floors of the former monastery where the Jacobins held their rallies when someone touched his sleeve. He turned to look into the cold, glittering green eyes of Maximilien Robespierre.
Impeccably outfitted as always, in a silver-gray suit with high-boned collar and carefully powdered hair, Robespierre looked paler than the last time David had seen him, and perhaps more severe. He nodded to David and, reaching inside his jacket, extracted a small box of pastilles. He took one and offered the box to David.
“My dear David,” he said, “we’ve not seen you about, these many months. I heard you were working on a painting of the Jeu de Paume. I know you’re a dedicated artist, but you must really not absent yourself so long—the Revolution needs you.”
This was Robespierre’s subtle way of pointing out that it was no longer safe for a revolutionary to stay away from the action. It might be construed as lack of interest.
“I heard, of course, about the fate of your ward at l’Abbaye Prison,” he added. “Permit me to express my deepest sympathy, though belated. You know, I suppose, that Marat was chastised by the Girondins before the entire Assembly? When they cried out for his punishment, he stood in the Mountain and pulled out a pistol, flourishing it at his temple as if he meant to do himself in! A disgusting display, but it bought him his life. The king might do well to follow his example.”
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