The wanton princess rb-8

by Dennis Wheatley

  After another futile attempt to get a hearing from the First Consul, Roger rode to St. Cloud with the object of getting Talleyrand to intervene; but the Foreign Minister was not there. He was spending the night at his mansion in the Rue du Bac. There, in the evening, Roger saw him and told him of his absolute conviction that d'Enghien was innocent.

  Rising from his chair, the elegant, impeccably-dressed aristocrat laid a hand gently on Roger's shoulder and said in his deep voice, 'Cher ami, I pray you concern yourself no further in this matter. It is no business of yours.'

  'But it is!' Roger protested hotly. 'It was I who found out for you when in London that a Bourbon Prince was to enter France and act as Regent until Louis XVIII could be brought to Paris. How can I now stand by and sec an innocent young man condemned to spend years of his life in prison? For I've no doubt that, if he is court-martialled,

  Napoleon will have given orders that he is to be found guilty.'

  Talleyrand sighed, 'Of course. And guilt in this case, as he will be charged with treason, would result in a sentence of death.'

  'Death!' cried Roger. 'No! You cannot mean it. 'Twould be the most atrocious crime.'

  'True,' the Minister nodded. 'Yet I pray you remember that during the past ten years several million people have had their lives brought to a premature end for no good reason at all. That this young man should lose his is unfortunate; but the interests of the State must override all other considera­tions. Forfeiting his life may preserve civil peace and save many other people from losing theirs in abortive attempts to overthrow our present government.'

  To execute a handful of trouble-makers, even if one or two of them had become involved by accident, rather than allow them to continue at liberty until a movement developed leading to riots in which scores of innocent people lost their lives, were wounded or had their property destroyed, was a policy to which Roger had always subscribed; but he would not accept it in this instance. For a further ten minutes he pleaded with Talleyrand to intervene; then, finding him firmly resolved to take no action, took his leave.

  His next resolve was to ride to Vinccnnes and learn what was actually happening there. He arrived a little before eleven o'clock to find Savary in charge and that the Duke had just been put through a preliminary examination. To his horror he learned that the trial was to take place at one o'clock that morning and that d'Enghien's grave had already been dug in the dry moat of the castle.

  Old General Hulin, a veteran revolutionary who had been one of the leaders in the mob's attack on the Bastille in '89, had been nominated as President of the Court; so there could be little doubt that against a Bourbon Prince a verdict of 'Guilty' would be brought in.

  Savary was an old acquaintance of Roger's. It was he and Rapp, Desaix's other A.D.C., who had found him naked and wounded on the field of Marengo while searching for the body of their dead General; so, in a sense, Roger owed his life to him. But that was the only bond between them; for Roger had found him a hard, unfeeling man. That, he sup­posed, was the reason why Napoleon had made him Chief of Police. Nevertheless Roger now did his utmost to persuade Savary, in the event of the verdict being 'guilty,' to postpone d'Enghien's execution till the following day. But Savary refused to depart from normal procedure, which was that after a sentence had been passed it should be carried out within a few hours.

  Tired as Roger was, in desperation he remounted his horse and rode back to St. Cloud. The fact that he was an A.D.C. enabled him to enter the Palace unchallenged. Although it was well after midnight he thought it probable that Napoleon would still be at work, so went straight to the Orangery, that the First Consul had made his office. There he found Rustem, the faithful Mameluke that Napoleon had brought back from Egypt. He was sitting on the stairs that led to an upper room with his scimitar across his knees and obviously on guard.

  Assuming that the First Consul was up there Roger demanded to sec him. Ruslem shook his turbaned head. 'That is not possible, Monsieur le Colonel. He is amusing himself upstairs with a lady, and has given imperative orders that he is not to be disturbed.'

  At that moment Constant, Napoleon's confidential valet, entered the room to collect Napoleon's hat, cloak and sword. Turning to him Roger asked quickly, 'Who has the First Consul upstairs with him?'

  Constant, who knew Roger well, replied with a grin, 'A new one: Madame Duchatel. She is Madame Bonaparte's reader, and a real beauty. She is only twenty but as clever as they make them, and very discreet. No doubt she docs not want to upset her old husband who is no use to her. But she has been skilfully angling for our master ever since she has been here.'

  'I have got to see him,' Roger said tersely. 'It is a matter of life and death: a matter that may seriously affect his own future.'

  For a moment Constant hesitated, then he shrugged, 'In that case .. . but God help you if he does not regard the mat­ter as so serious as you seem to think.' Then he waved Rustem aside.

  Roger ran up the stairs, knocked twice hard on the door, waited a moment then, although no reply came, threw it open and marched in.

  Napoleon, wearing only a shirt, stood near the hearth on which there was a blazing fire that gave the only light in the room. Obviously he had only just jumped out of bed. Lying there was a beautiful girl with golden hair, cornflower blue eyes, a perfectly shaped aquiline nose. Her mouth, half open in surprise, showed too that she had lovely teeth. After one glance at Roger she hurriedly turned over so that her back was to him. Meanwhile, Napoleon, scowling like thunder, snarled:

  'What is the meaning of this? How dare you force your way in here? Who gave you permission to disturb mc? This abuse of your position is unforgivable! Here and now I deprive you of your appointment as an A.D.C.; and of your rank of Colonel. Get out! Get out! D'you hear me?'

  Roger did not attempt to check the flow of vituperation that followed, but stood his ground. When it had ceased he said in a tired, hoarse voice, 'Consul, I come upon the matter of d'Enghien. Unless you intervene before dawn they mean to shoot him. He is innocent. I know it. I swear it.' Then, in a spate of words he gave his reasons for his belief.

  'Damn you!' roared Napoleon before he had finished. 'I have heard all this before, and I don't give a hoot for it. This is no affair of yours but a matter of State, and to preserve the peace the Prince must die.'

  'A few hours back Monsieur de Talleyrand said the same to me,' Roger retorted. 'Yet if it is not my affair it certainly is yours. Do you permit this to happen 'twill be murder! Murder! Murder! And your name will stink in the nostrils of all Europe as a result of it. For your own sake you have got to give me a reprieve that I can carry to Vincennes before it is too late. You must. If you refuse you will never live this down. For the rest of your life you will regret it.'

  For a moment Napoleon considered; then, his mood com­pletely changed, he shook his head and said quickly, 'No, Breuc. You have ever advised me soundly and I appreciate that you have broken in on me only on account of what you believe to be my best interests. But it cannot be. I am deter­mined to make an example of this Bourbon Prince as a deter­rent to others.'

  From the way he spoke Roger knew that further argument was useless; so he replied, 'Very well then. I will return to Vincenncs, tell Savary that I have seen you and that by word of mouth you have sent me to order a stay of the Prince's execution. There is still a chance that by doing so I may save you from your own folly.' Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Outside the Palace he wearily mounted his tired horse and again set out on the ten-mile ride through the southern suburbs of Paris to Vincennes, which lay right on the other side of the city. He had covered no more than a quarter of the distance and was already reeling with fatigue in the saddle when, while trotting along a dark, tree-lined road, the faint light that lit the scene grew dimmer until he found him­self staring ahead into impenetrable darkness.

  For a moment he thought that, for the first time in his life, he must have fainted. But almost immediately a new light dawned about
him. It was not bright but clear and he found himself looking down on a wide expanse of sea upon which the sun was setting. He knew immediately that it was in the tropics for, in the distance, he could see a palm-fringed island. Close in to it there was a ship from which a cloud of smoke was ascending. She was on fire and sinking. Nearer, but some way off, there was a longboat in which the seamen were rowing desperately. Still nearer several men were swim­ming and one man held a slender sword clenched between his teeth.

  Suddenly, immediately beneath him he saw Georgina struggling in the water. As clearly as if she had in fact been only a few feet from him he heard her shout, 'Save me Roger! Oh, save me!'

  The strange psychic link that several times before, when one or other of them was faced with an emergency, had enabled them to communicate although hundreds of miles apart, had functioned once again. He felt as certain as he had ever felt of anything that the intangible spirit that gave him being and purpose had been transported to the West Indies and that at that moment Georgina was actually on the point of drowning.

  In his deep consciousness he knew that physically he could not aid her, but that by joining the power of his will to hers he might give her the additional strength to keep herself afloat until she was rescued. No thought of their quarrel or her betrayal of him entered his mind. He was conscious only of his h'fe-long love for her. Calling silently on God to help him. he threw out the very essence of himself to buoy her up in her struggle to survive.

  Next moment he found himself diving right on to her. He felt no impact but in some miraculous way they seemed to have become one. She had gone under but swiftly surfaced. Her arms flailed the water with new strength. Turning, she struck out vigorously for the shore. While still some distance from it his sight began to blur. Swiftly the vision faded. In earthly time it had lasted only for a few seconds. During that time he had lost control of his horse and plunged headlong from the saddle. In rapid succession he felt blows on his head, shoulder and ankle. The horse trotted on leaving him lying in the road unconscious.

  23

  Overwhelmed

  When Roger came to, he dimly realized that he was in bed and that strangers were grouped round him. As his mind cleared his gaze focused on the face of a youngish man who was hurting him abominably by doing something to his head, then on a portly woman holding a basin of water. At the end of the bed stood an older man and with him a rather plain young woman.

  Several hours later he learned that he had lain in the road unconscious for a long time, been found by two workmen in the dawn and carried into the house of a couple named Boutheron. They had called in their doctor to dress his wounds and the girl was their daughter Heloise. Still later he learned the full extent of his injuries. The back of his skull had been cracked, it was thought by a blow from a rear hoof of his horse as he fell from it; he had dislocated his left shoulder and sprained his left ankle.

  The doctor declared that he ought not to be moved for some time and the Boutherons, who were prosperous bourgeois, said they were perfectly willing to look after him until he was out of danger. In due course, when he was able to tell them about himself, they declared themselves delighted and honoured to have as their guest an A.D.C. of the idolized First Consul.

  His memory of the vision he had had of Georgina returned to him in his first spell of full consciousness, and as he lay there through the following days he spent many hours thinking about it, hoping that she had survived but tortured by the thought that she might be dead and that he would never see her again.

  At first his head pained him too much for him to think coherently for long, but as he grew stronger he spent an hour each night attempting to solve the question by the only means which offered a chance that he might do so. Long since, they had solemnly promised one another that if one of them died he or she would appear to the other. Although fearing the result he forced himself to concentrate on willing her to come to him if she was dead; and when, after a week, his efforts proved abortive, he felt more hope that she was still alive. But he could feel no real certainty that she was as, although he was a convinced believer in survival, he could not dismiss the possibility that others, who did not believe in it, might be right.

  Either Madame Boutheron or Heloise sat with him for a good part of each day and, when he grew strong enough, either talked or read to him, often from the news sheets. From them he learned that Savary had had d'Enghien exe­cuted in the moat at Vincenncs at half past two on that fatal morning, and also learned the results of this terrible affair.

  In spite of the Government's attempts to suppress the facts the truth had leaked out and all Europe had denounced Napoleon as a murderer. Even several of Roger's friends who, when they learned where he was, came to see him, spoke of the affair with horror and said that it had stained the First Consul's reputation in a way that would long be remembered.

  Then in mid-April Pichegru was found one morning strangled in his cell. It was given out that he had committed suicide but, after the d'Enghien affair, many people were of the opinion that Napoleon had given orders that the General, too, should be murdered.

  Nevertheless Napoleon did not intend such adverse specu­lations to interfere with the designs he had formed for making use of the conspiracy, as Fouche told Roger when paying him a visit.

  Keeping his fish-like eyes well away from Roger's, the cadaverous ex-Minister sniffed and said, 'Although Napoleon has been made Consul for life, as long as he remains an elected ruler his death would mean a struggle for power between half a dozen people ambitious to step into his shoes, and in the resulting turmoil the Monarchists would stand a very good chance of putting a Bourbon on the throne. In consequence, as soon as they have recovered from their recent setback they'll start planning another attempt to assassinate him. But if he became an hereditary monarch, whoever he had appointed as his successor would take over at once. Knowing that would put a real damper on Royalist hopes. None of them would then be willing to risk his neck on the chance of being rewarded with a dukedom.'

  Roger nodded, 'That, I remember, was the argument used after the attempt to blow him up on his way to the Opera in December 1800. But he was not then firm enough in the saddle to risk the violent opposition of the Old Guard Republicans, like yourself.'

  'Oh. I...' Fouché snuffled into his handkerchief. 'I have always been in favour of his wearing a crown. As long as the regime started by him continues I shall retain my modest fortune and have nothing to fear; whereas a return of the Bourbons would be the end of me. But it's true that many of my old colleagues who are in the same boat would then have been fools enough to cut off their noses to spite their faces by raising the mobs against him. Now though, matters are very different. There is not a Jacobin left with enough stomach to raise a pea-shooter, and this recent conspiracy has given him just the chance he was seeking to get himself made a monarch. He has as good as given an order to everyone depen­dent on him to canvass the project at every opportunity, and any day now you will see the measures he is taking in secret produce results.'

  As usual in such matters Fouché proved right. On April 23rd an obscure member of the Tribunate named Curee proposed the adoption of the 'hereditary principle', and so well had most of the members been primed that Carnot, who had saved the Republic from being overwhelmed in its infancy by his brilliant organization of the Armies, alone had the courage to speak against it. A commission was appointed to debate the proposal and obsequiously reported in its favour. On May 18th the Senate decreed that Napoleon should henceforth be styled 'Emperor of the French'.

  A spate of resounding titles then gushed forth from the Napoleonic cornucopia. The two junior Consuls became the Arch-Chancellor and the Arch-Treasurer of the Empire, Tal­leyrand Grand Chamberlain, Duroc Grand Marshal of the Palace, Berthier Grand Master of the Hounds, Caulaincourt Grand Master of the Horse. The most loyal among the Generals—Mortier, Berthier, Murat, Davoust, Ney, Soult, Moncey and Bessieres—were all made Marshals of the Empire; but so, too, in order to rec
oncile them to the new state of things, were the potential trouble-makers—Bcrnadottc, Augereau, Massena, Jourdan, Brune and Lanncs—and four old heroes of the Republican wars were also brought to heel by being given the honour of this supreme rank.

  Best of all fared the Bonapartes. Honest old Lctizia flatly refused to accept any title, so Napoleon had to content himself by having her styled 'Madame Mere'; but Fesch, already 'His Eminence the Cardinal', became Grand Almoner, the brothers Joseph and Louis Their Imperial Highnesses the Grand Elector and the Constable of the Empire. The three sisters were also given the rank of Imperial Highnesses. Thus, to heights equalled only by the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs, was raised a poor Corsican family that ten short years before had been dependent on the charity of the Republic so ironically termed, 'One and Indivisible.'

  Roger could well imagine the unfeigned delight with which Pauline would display the second coronet which, in her own right, she was now entitled to have embroidered on her lingerie. That was, if she had the chance to do so to any man other than her semi-impotent husband.

  Since she had been forced to leave Paris he had received occasional scrawled and ill-spelt letters from her; in each she had described her situation as ever more deplorable. Roman society was rigidly conventional as far as women were con­cerned and both her own mother, who had gone to join Lucien in his voluntary exile, and her horrid old mother-in-law kept an eagle eye on her to ensure that she remained, like Caesar's wife, a paragon of virtue.