Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  “Maman!” he cried. Startled, the bishop let go. Moussa shot out of his grasp. He ran to Serena and buried his head in her dress.

  “Go home, Moussa,” she said quietly. “Now, quickly. Wait for me there.” He nodded and she watched him bolt from the apartment. Then she turned to face the bishop. He was struggling to right himself and was gathering his robes about him. He was half-drunk, she could see it from across the room. An animal, slobbering and grotesque. Her head was pounding.

  She moved swiftly across the room. She saw the poker by the fireplace. She picked it up as she went, lifting it above her head to strike him. The bishop raised his arm to ward off the blow. “I will—” she started to say. At that moment the housekeeper rushed in behind her, accompanied by the coachman.

  “Your Grace!” The housekeeper gasped. “I am so sorry, Your Grace! She pushed me over! What has happened! Are you all right? Has she hurt you? Get back, you! Get away from the monseigneur!” Serena hesitated, the rod high above her head. The coachman stood behind the housekeeper, glaring at Serena. His eyes were on the curved iron hook of the poker. He judged her to be a woman who would plant it in his skull, and didn’t relish a test.

  “Get her out of here,” the bishop said, wheezing. He sat heavily down in one of the chairs. “She’s mad. She tried to kill me. Call the rest of the house staff if you must. Just get her out. And then get out yourselves.”

  Another servant stepped forward hesitantly to carry out the bishop’s instructions. It was unnecessary. Serena dropped the poker, which fell with a dull thud on the carpet. Without a word she turned and strode from the room.

  * * *

  Serena desperately wished Henri were home. He was at one of the balloon factories – she didn’t know which one – and was not coming to the château first. They were to meet at the opera. She didn’t want to go to the damned thing, not tonight. But she had promised, and he would be waiting.

  Moussa was all right. He had cried, and wouldn’t tell her what had happened, but he was all right. He was safe. She had touched his face, his head, his arms and his legs. She had held him for a long soft moment. Then he pulled away, and ran outside to play with Paul. He wouldn’t do that if he weren’t all right. She made certain both Gascon and Madame LeHavre would be there to look after him. Gascon read the trouble on her face and reassured her. “If you wish it I shall not leave his side.”

  “I wish it,” she said, and he had moved off to watch over the boy. And so there was no reason, really, not to go. She would tell Henri of the situation the next day. It would be Noël, his holiday Noël. They usually went skating then, on the lake in the Bois. She would slip and slide on the ice, her ankles wobbly, and he would try to hold her up, and they would collapse together in laughter. Her memories of it were warm. But this year they would not skate. They would talk. She knew she would have to tell him. She had hidden her own troubles, but this was different.

  His rage would be terrible. She needed his rage.

  He has tried to harm my son. She trembled at the thought. She tried to concentrate on her dress and her hair. She wore her hair with a ribbon in a thick braid to the side, the way Henri liked it. She wore no jewelry except a ring he had given her. It was turquoise and silver, from Afghanistan. She regarded herself critically in the mirror. She did not paint her face. She thought she was horribly plain, but Henri truly loved the way she looked, she knew he did. The other men seemed to notice as well. But she had learned not to take their attention as a compliment. Frenchmen were not discerning. They leered at anything vaguely female.

  She decided she was too plain. She found a hat, a big one with feathers from Elisabeth’s room. It was graceful and becoming. She knew it would make him laugh when he saw it. She never wore hats and he would know she was doing it for his silly opera. She smiled. Oh, she loved him so.

  He has tried to harm my son. The thought kept intruding, washing over her like a cold wave of horror. What manner of man would do that to a child? She would have to stop what she was doing, and catch her breath and think about all of the what-ifs. What if Paul hadn’t come to her? What if she hadn’t ridden so fast? What if, what if…

  He has tried to harm my son. Every time she thought it, her blood boiled and a terrible sick feeling seized her by the chest. She shuddered. Prussians outside the gates, Henri’s Church within.

  I could have killed him, she said to herself. I could have buried that iron rod in his brain. She didn’t know why she had stopped. It wasn’t the servants. She had simply stopped.

  He has tried to harm my son. His flesh was her flesh. His hurt was her hurt. His torment came from her blood, his blood that was her blood, and they were both so foreign here. His honor was hers to protect, his life in her hands until he grew to his destiny. She had made a choice many years ago, to marry the count and have his children. It had been the right decision, but a selfish one. She had known it at the time. The amenokal had known too. He had warned her of the trouble that would follow, the trouble that would befall her child. He had seen it so clearly. It was her own selfishness that had placed her son in peril.

  He has tried to harm my son.

  And it is my fault.

  CHAPTER I5

  A hundred glorious carriages drew up before the opera on the rue le Pelletier. The dress of the women was more subdued than normal owing to the war, but still there were feathers and lace and bright faces, gay smiles and quiet laughter. Even with Bismarck at the door Paris still knew how to have a good time.

  Henri saw her coming. She moved through the crowd with grace. “As I predicted, you will captivate them all,” he said. He looked appreciatively at her hat and fooled her by not laughing. “It becomes you.”

  “It feels as if a bird landed there.” She smiled. “I keep wanting to swat it.”

  He felt her tension immediately in spite of the smile. “Is anything the matter?”

  She had settled herself for the evening. It could wait. “Nothing, I’m sorry, it’s all right. We can talk about it later,” she said. He took her arm and they walked inside, the count returning a score of greetings, the countess a score of looks.

  The hall glowed with official Paris. Henri pointed out Governor Trochu and the mayor of Montparnasse, a scattering of colonels and generals, and the American ambassador. Even Victor Hugo had come. Serena had learned to read French with his books, and stared at him raptly from across the hall. His head with its flowing white hair was just visible over the edge of his box, and pretty young women were on either side of him. The audience was alive with excitement and gossip, everyone hoping for an escape, however brief, from the troubles outdoors. Both sides were celebrating an unofficial Christmas truce. Just after noon the guns in the forts had fallen silent, and the audience would be able to hear.

  From the instant it began Serena was enchanted with the production. As Henri had promised, there was grand spectacle and beautiful music. The orchestra was very close. She watched the musicians as they played, their breath visible in the cold hall, yet the temperature not seeming to affect their music. The performers came out onto the stage to huge applause, and there was a riveting solo by a beautiful woman, her voice soaring through the absolutely quiet hall. “She’s the one who—” Henri started to explain in a whisper, but she shushed him. She would follow it. At one point the stage swarmed with bishops in their purple robes, the bright red of the Grand Inquisitor in their midst. Serena’s heart beat faster at the awful sight of all the high priests, but she reminded herself it was just a performance, and pushed him out of her mind.

  At the intermission they went to the lobby, where Henri pointed out the murals, the paintings of famous singers who had performed there. They moved across the crowded room, Henri constantly caught up in greetings and brief conversations. She was looking up at the chandelier when she turned and nearly bumped into the bishop. He was talking with a small group of men. They were fawning, hanging on his every word. He looked to one side and saw her. His eyes were still glazed from the
day’s drinking, but he was sober enough now. His gaze darkened and his demeanor changed. He turned away from his companions. She realized he was coming to say something to her.

  “Why Comtesse.” He bowed with heavy mockery. “To see you twice in one day. Such a pleasure is more than I deserve.”

  Serena felt the blood pounding in her temples. Pure malevolence emanated from the man. He was remarkable, that she granted him. That he could carry on so normally after what he had done was all the more damning. She spoke in a low steady voice. “I left too soon today, Priest. I should have used the poker on you. If you come near my son again, I will use it. I will kill you.”

  The bishop’s eyes lit with genuine amusement and he laughed. He leaned forward and put his face near to hers, so that he could speak for her ears only. “Such a temper you display. Actually, I had been planning to have him back one day. I can only wonder how the child could be so fine when he is nothing but the half-breed bastard of a pagan slut. Most curious, isn’t it?”

  The savagery of his words took a moment to register. She heard the voice and felt the spittle and saw the twisted smile, and all the horror of the afternoon came rushing back at her and her hatred became blinding and passionate.

  She didn’t think about what happened next. She simply acted. She moved as if through a dream, everything slow, calm, methodical. Behind the bishop stood a major of the Garde Mobile. He wore his full dress uniform, with a red and blue tunic with gold filigree on the sleeves, a képi, and gleaming knee boots. He carried a sword on one side, a pistol on the other. She took two steps through the crowd, its laughter and talk and the tinkle of champagne glasses seeming distant and vague. In a fluid motion she yanked the gun from the major’s side. She turned to face her tormentor, everything happening so quickly no one had time to react but the bishop, who alone saw her movements. His face twisted in the horror of slow comprehension. He raised his hands and said something and stepped back. She didn’t hear. She couldn’t hear anything now. She raised the weapon and drew back the hammer, and she thought of the boar in the Bois that day so long ago, that other malevolent beast that had tried to harm her son, and she fired, and fired, and fired again, fired at the face retreating behind a mask of blood, fired at the huge grotesque creature as it sank to the floor, fired bullet after bullet into the hated brain. After a while she realized that the roar had died. The bullets were all gone, the chamber empty. The gun clicked and clicked as she pulled the trigger. She stopped.

  The opera house erupted in pandemonium. Women screamed and men ducked and shouted. At first no one knew what had happened. The people standing close drew back in horror as the bishop fell. Henri had been talking with an American diplomat. At the shots he whirled and saw Serena standing there with the pistol in her hand, a cloud of smoke around it, the bishop of Boulogne-Billancourt lying at her feet. Serena dropped the pistol to the floor, and stared dumbly at the body. Henri was paralyzed with disbelief.

  “Get back! Out of the way, quickly!” came a deep voice from the crowd, and the prefect of police pushed his way forward. For a moment he said nothing as his eyes took in the scene. His face turned ashen. He knew the bishop. He knew the count, and the count’s wife. It was all there, clear before him, yet nothing was clear at all.

  “I am afraid you must come with me, Countess,” the prefect said gently. He moved to take her arm. It was enough to shake Henri from his shock. He sprang forward and shoved the prefect out of the way. He caught Serena by the hand and pulled her through the crowd, which was still boiling in confusion. There was no time to think, only to do. He was not going to let them take her. They had to escape. Nothing else mattered. With elbows and shoulders he cleared a way through the throng, Serena following, holding his hand tightly. A man in an infantry officer’s uniform stood to block them. Without breaking stride Henri lashed out with a vicious backhand that sent the man reeling. Another few steps and they were at the front doors. All around them there were shouts and confusion, the house shattered in shock. A whistle shrilled.

  They raced out the door and down the street, Henri still leading Serena by the hand. It was quite dark. The streets were covered with a thin blanket of snow, their progress slowed by the ice underneath. Henri looked back. A few people had ventured out of the doors behind them into the cold night, and were staring after them. But so far no one was giving chase. They came to his carriage. He lifted her easily and jumped in, and whipped at the horse. “We’ve got to get Moussa and Paul,” he said as the horse responded to the lash of his whip. “We’ve got to get out.”

  She nodded dumbly. “I had to do it,” she said simply. “I had to.”

  Henri barely heard. He drove the horse away from the opera, toward the Boulevard Haussmann. The bitter cold air stung his face. He was shaking a little, with the realization of what he had done. His action had been instinctive, but his mind cleared quickly and he knew he was right.

  His wife had shot the bishop in cold blood. Of that he was certain. It didn’t matter why, not yet. The only thing that mattered was to get her out, out of the city, away from the madness and the masses. He had left Jules in the hands of justice, and had doubted the wisdom of it ever since. There would be no such doubts with Serena. She was his life. He had to protect her, had to get her out of the country, out of Paris at least. He had no illusions about what could happen to her if they stayed. He had powerful friends, but so had the bishop. He was prepared to lose everything for her, if it came to that. He would never let them take her.

  Their carriage flew through dark streets. Serena sat next to him, holding tightly. He turned again to look behind. Still no one following, but he knew they would come. Soon. His mind raced with escape, with calculations of coal gas and wind and ballast. It would work, if only there was enough gas, and enough time.

  “There’s a balloon just ready, at the Gare du Nord. It was to leave tomorrow night. We’ll get Moussa and Paul. We’ll leave tonight.”

  * * *

  The prefect was shaken. He knelt by the bishop, who had collapsed in a pool of blood and purple robes. He was dead. The prefect grimaced at the mess that had been the man’s face. He pulled a part of the bishop’s robe over his head, to cover it.

  The prefect had despised the bishop. There was nothing to like about the man or his methods. On occasion they had done business together, and the prefect had made a great deal of money. On other occasions he had cleaned up after others had finished dealing with him. There had been suicides, hushed and ugly, and a murder. The bishop was always somewhere at the fringes, never close enough to be implicated. His death would leave Paris a better place. Offhand the prefect supposed the countess had gotten caught up in some nasty business with him, and had finally done what so many others secretly longed to do. The prefect would have preferred to dump the body into the Seine and lift a toast to a better city, but, of course, it was out of the question. He had a job to do. He had to act. A hundred people had seen it happen. A hundred people had seen the countess and her gun. She would have to be brought to account.

  The prefect had known the count for years. Never closely, but from a distance. The count had surprised him by running, but then he understood that a man would wish to protect his wife. The count would in turn understand that the prefect would wish to protect the city.

  The prefect stood and turned to a sergeant of the police. “You will take two men and go quickly to the Château deVries. It is near Boulogne, on the road to St.-Cloud. You will arrest the countess for the murder of the bishop. If the count resists or interferes in any way, you will arrest him as well.”

  “At your order.” The sergeant saluted, turned, and pushed his way through the milling crowd.

  * * *

  She started talking at the Neuilly gate. Henri had leaned down to speak with the sentry. As the man opened the gate it made her think of the fall day when the bishop had looked down upon her as she was being expelled from the city, and the whole story began to pour out. She told him what had happened that
day, and about her morning at St. Paul’s with Sister Godrick, and about later, at the palace. Henri listened intently but drove like a madman through the Bois de Boulogne. The forest looked eerie in the snow and low light. Everywhere there were tree stumps, the remains of a great forest being cut to fuel the city’s fires against the bitter cold. Even the roots were disappearing.

  Serena’s voice broke as she repeated what the bishop had said at the opera. “I could not help myself, Henri,” she said as she finished. “I would shoot him again for what he tried to do to our son.” Henri put his arm around her, and the carriage sped through the woods.

  At the château Henri talked urgently to Gascon in the front hall. He told him quickly what had happened, holding back nothing. There were no secrets between them. Gascon’s eyes widened but he said nothing. “Get me fresh horses,” the count told him. “I’m going to take Serena and the boys out of the city.”

  “Sire.” Gascon raced to the stables. He harnessed the two best horses there, and loaded the carriage with supplies that he thought the count would need, including heavy blankets and a lantern. In the château he pulled a rifle and two pistols from the case. He made certain they were loaded and that there was spare ammunition. Then he ran to the kitchen to find food for the trip.

  Henri went to the study, where he was startled to see Elisabeth. “You will not take Paul,” she said. She had been listening to what the count told Gascon. Henri hadn’t seen her for weeks, didn’t know where or when she might be coming back.

  “I didn’t know you were here, Elisabeth. I only meant to protect him. Of course I won’t take him. He’ll stay with you.” He moved through his study, stuffing papers into his bag.