Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She looked at what she had written to Vernet and shivered in spite of the heat.

  For Tallyrand—if it is truly Tallyrand who has betrayed Napoleon—must have supporters here in Egypt. If the purpose is to destroy Napoleon, who better to do it than Berthier? So far I have discovered nothing of importance, but I am convinced, my dearest, that it is only a matter of time before he gives himself away, and then we will expunge forever any blot on your reputation, and fix the blame where it belongs. More is at stake here than your career in the army: the fate of Napoleon himself may lie in uncovering the identities of those who have implicated you. You have my whole account of everything I have learned thus far, and I beg you to keep it safe in case any misfortune should befall me; I will not give them the satisfaction of concealing their crimes with my intimidation.

  Berthier is a cautious man, not one to make foolish mistakes. I do not underestimate his capacity for deception and wickedness. But I am a patient and determined woman, and I will persevere. I am determined to confront him when I am certain of how he has accomplished his sedition; he will not be able to hide behind a mask of ignorance when he is formally accused. Be of good cheer, treasured husband, and trust that while justice may be blind, she is not stupid. We will win through.

  There was very little else to tell him; the letter she handed to the courier that evening was only two crossed pages.

  * * *

  Berthier nibbled the cuticle of his thumb, having run out of nail to chew. He looked over at Eugene, who was still pale and weak from a recent bout with swine fever. “If you are tired ...”

  “A little,” his secretary conceded. “But for a time I can continue.” In demonstration he took another sheet of paper from his portable desk and reached for his pen.

  “This is not a letter, or not yet,” said Berthier, the line between his brows deepening. “It is Madame Vernet.”

  “She is still watching you,” said Eugene.

  “Persistently. I could bring myself to admire her if she were not so inconvenient.” He stared across the tent, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. “I have not yet received word from Murat. I want to know about the scepter. She claims it was taken after they recovered it. I am not willing to accept her word, but Roustam-Raza agreed; I must evaluate the worth of the Mameluke’s story.”

  “Surely you don’t doubt him, do you?” asked Eugene, trying to follow Berthier’s train of thought.

  “I d-don’t know. The scepter is Egyptian. He is Egyptian. Would he lie about it because of that? Have they struck a bargain between them, whereby he gains the scepter for Egypt and she falsely exonerates her husband for his treason? Would she be able to sway him?” He tapped his fingers together. “Would Roustam-Raza lie to protect Madame Vernet? That is another question. Muslims are not given to protecting women beyond locking them up. Is it possible that he would defend her?”

  “The scepter is Napoleon’s,” said Eugene. “The Mameluke has sworn lifelong fidelity to him. Surely he would not take the property of his master.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Berthier. “If he is as honorable as he seems.” He shook his head sadly. “She is in it somehow, Eugene. She and that husband of hers, they are at the heart of this plot. She reeks of it.”

  Eugene nodded. “How will you discover her duplicity?”

  “I have not yet hit upon a plan,” Berthier said slowly. “But I can see that I must.”

  “Is she the instigator or—” Eugene began, only to be cut off.

  “Oh, not she. It is her husband and she is his accomplice. No woman would concoct such a plan. She is an unusual female, but she would not tolerate a murder.” Then his face darkened. “There are women aplenty who watched the heads fall, seven years ago. Some of them even held the bags of spent grain to receive them. That was retribution, and those women were not the daughters of prosperous merchants. This is not some gutter woman from Paris, but the educated daughter of a Rouen merchant. Could she tie the marine guard thoroughly and cut his throat like a sheep? That takes the cunning and strength of a desperate man. Three officers knew about the treasure, and of those who did, all can account for their time, save one. Vernet is the man responsible, I am certain of it.”

  “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 fo
rward 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.