Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “My husband was in Jaffa, on your orders. I wasn’t able to ask him for advice.” She fixed her eyes on the scepter. “If he had told me to deliver the scepter to Berthier, I would have done so at once.”

  Vernet spoke up. “I stand by what my wife has done. She is a woman of excellent good sense. I trust her judgment.”

  “I see,” Napoleon muttered. He swung around to look at Roustam-Raza. “What do you think? Is this a clever ploy?”

  “Madame Vernet does not deceive you,” said the Mameluke. “For a woman she shows much honor.”

  Napoleon nodded once. “But she suspects my faithful Berthier.”

  “As he has suspected her and her husband,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “True.” Napoleon drummed his fingers again. “Well, I appreciate the return of the scepter. But I am not pleased that this disagreement should have become more important than the campaign in Egypt.” He rose. “Murat will be back tomorrow or the next day. I will consult with him, and I will make a decision at that time.”

  “General Buonaparte,” Victoire dared to intervene. “What of my husband and me? And what of Berthier’s actions?”

  Napoleon stared at Victoire: they were much the same height, which was unnerving for both of them. “Berthier does not need to account for his actions to you.”

  “But he must to you,” she countered. “And given all that is transpired, I think that an account must be rendered. Don’t you?”

  Berthier gave a put-upon sigh. “There is no reason to keep the secret now that Napoleon is back. But I dislike having my hand forced, Madame Vernet. Everything you have done has made my work more difficult than it needed to be, which has endangered far more than my position. I have been given a task that requires the utmost discretion, a discretion that you have been determined to compromise, Madame Vernet. A select number of Napoleon’s staff are about to leave Egypt to return to France. As you say, there is trouble at home, and it cannot be ignored.”

  “And you have been arranging their departures?” Vernet asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” said Berthier.

  “On my orders,” said Napoleon.

  “Of course,” said Berthier again. “We are being trapped here by English ships. Nelson is still out there with over a dozen men-of-war. If that were not enough, the merchants say that the blockade has been extended to cover Toulon and Marseilles. There is no way we can again pass an army through the Mediterranean. Yet it becomes vital that Napoleon return home, with those he can truly trust. I have had the two surviving frigates wait in the harbor at Alexandria. They could slip past the English.” The aide stared at Vernet as he ended his explanation.

  “I see,” said Vernet, glancing once toward Victoire. “It is a reasonable precaution, my love. Berthier is doing what any responsible man in his position must do when the enemy is near.”

  “I’m pleased that one of you grasps that simple fact,” said Berthier harshly.

  “Our hour for departure grows near,” said Napoleon. “We are waiting on the final arrival of a dozen more officers, and then we must move, or risk being driven back into the desert.” He made an energetic sweep with his arm. “There is still a chance to surprise the English, and we must do it. And we must surprise those traitors in Paris, before they can do any more damage.”

  The officers in the tent growled consent.

  Victoire listened. “Then only a few of your staff will go with you,” she said thoughtfully. “The rest will be left behind?”

  “Theirs is a rear-guard action. They can hold this land against the Ottomans. Further, it will force the British to send an army to recover his land. That will cost them gold that can’t be used against France herself. And there is always the chance we will prevail before the English can raise an army to fight them.” Napoleon rose and paced as if unable to contain his energy any longer. “We have work ahead of us if we are to preserve our cause. There are those who long for the days of Madame Guillotine and the sound of tumbrels in the streets. I say this will not happen. The Revolution has brought us to this, and if we return to the excesses of eight years ago, we will eventually ruin all we have achieved.”

  This time the officers cheered him, and Desaix had to wipe his eyes.

  Berthier took advantage of this moment to rise and bow to Victoire. “I very much regret, Madame Vernet, that due to the circumstances of our withdrawal, you and Inspector General Vernet will not be accompanying Napoleon. I am certain you understand.”

  “Louis, for mercy’s sake, not now,” said Napoleon.

  “I’m not stupid, General of the Division Berthier,” said Victoire, curtsying to him. “I understand perfectly.”

  * * *

  Roustam-Raza dozed in the shade of Napoleon’s tent; most of the camp observed the midday rest, and those few people who could not lie down through the heat of the day went about their work lethargically.

  Victoire, returning from the hospital tent, made a point of going to speak to her Egyptian friend.

  “Allah shower blessings upon you,” she said as she sank down on the sand beside him.

  “May he advance your husband and—”

  “I know; give him many sons,” Victoire finished for him. She folded her hands in her lap. “I hear that Murat is back.”

  “Early this morning,” said Roustam-Raza, “He looks very thin.”

  “Poor man.” She watched Roustam-Raza for some clue to how Murat had acted. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Nothing more than a few words. He was tired. They rode most of the night.” The Mameluke pulled at his moustache. “You are concerned for what he will tell Napoleon.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I thought he would be a champion for ...” Her words trailed off. “When Lirylah died ...”

  “He bleeds for her. Deep inside him the wound is not healed,” said Roustam-Raza, his large eyes bewildered. “Why that should be so, when she was only a woman ...”

  “He mourns her,” said Victoire.

  “You fear he will not defend you to my master because the girl died,” said Roustam-Raza, “That would not be honorable.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Victoire agreed. “But grief does strange things. It’s possible that Murat could come to believe that somehow I was at fault, for I was with her when she was shot. If he thinks that, then he will turn away from me, and Vernet and I will be lost.”

  “I have given my account to Napoleon already,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “And for that I thank you, and so does my husband.” She wiped the sweat from her brow with the tips of her fingers. “I wish I had a proper bonnet still. This”—she fingered the round straw hat she wore—“is terrible.”

  “You will have more in France,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “If ever I see France again.” She kept her eyes on her hands so that Roustam-Raza could not see the tears there.

  Roustam-Raza started to speak, then fell silent. After a short while, he said, “I will speak with Murat.”

  At that she met his gaze steadily. “I couldn’t ask it of you, my friend.”

  “Nevertheless, I will speak with him,” said Roustam-Raza.

  LARREY ROLLED DOWN his bloodstained sleeves and watched Victoire with bleary eyes as she began the thankless task of preparing the dead soldier for graves registration. “He was too weak. If he had not had the flux, he might have survived. But when pernicious pus comes and the flux as well, no physician on earth can save—” He turned on his heel.

  “Yes. He was too weak,” said Victoire steadily. She watched her hands go about their tasks as if they were no part of her. “He didn’t have sufficient strength to fight, even had there been no pus. The flux had taken its toll.”

  “No, he hadn’t any strength left,” said Larrey. “I had hoped that I would not have to write many more of the letters ... You know how difficult it is, telling a father
or mother or wife or brother or sister that ...” He motioned the words away.

  “You have saved many others,” said Victoire, wanting to keep her thoughts away from what she was doing. “There are hundreds who are walking the earth who would be under it, if not for you. Be consoled with that, Monsieur Larrey.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Larrey, rubbing his face and jaw, heedless of the faint smear of red he left on the stubble of his beard.

  She was almost finished with what she needed to do. “Do you want me to write the report, or will you?”

  “Oh, I’ll do it. You’ve been doing more than your share here these last two days.” He glanced her way. “I gather from your presence that everything is the same. Still no change on Berthier’ s part?”

  “You mean in regard to our returning to France?” She saw him nod. “Nothing. He’s obdurate. I think he would bury us here if he could find an excuse for doing it.”

  “And there is no lessening of the animosity he has for you?” He fixed the cuff latches and gestured to her to come away from the dead man. “Leave him alone now.”

  “Very well,” she said, willing to be finished. As she moved between the ranks of beds, she said, “What will become of these men, once Napoleon is gone?”

  Larrey caught his lower lip between his teeth before he answered. “I’m not certain. Once the staff leaves, any who recover will be needed back with their battalions. In the many battles or through illness almost half the men who first came here have been lost. Pressure will be greater, once it is known that Napoleon has left. Though after the Ottoman’s recent defeats, so long as the army stays together, you will be safe. If the Pasha or the Ottomans return to power here you will all be killed out of hand. I wish there was something I could do. It seems pointless to save a life, only to strand the same person in this thankless land. It’s out of my hands; that troubles me as much as it removes a burden from me.”

  “But they won’t simply be abandoned,” said Victoire anxiously. “It’s one thing to leave the able-bodied behind—if we must fend for ourselves, we will—but the wounded and ill, they’re at the mercy of everything. I fear for them, Monsieur Larrey.”

  “Well you should,” Larrey said as he lifted the flap leading to his own quarters. “Someone must concern themselves with their welfare or none of them will live.” He looked over at Victoire. “Is that what you want me to do before I leave? Do you want me to make guarantees?”

  “No,” she said, a bit uncertainly. “But there is something I want you to do: I want a last opportunity to speak with Berthier.”

  “With Berthier? Your dealings with him have always been disastrous. Why would you want to bring his wrath upon you again?” He pulled up a stool and sank onto it.

  “Isn’t it bad enough now?”

  “That’s why I want to speak with him. I’d like him to understand. I want him to know why I came to suspect him. It wasn’t caprice, Monsieur Larrey. If he can grasp that, he might reconsider Vernet’s position.” Her hands were caught together, her knuckles white.

  “It’s possible,” said Larrey. “But it could make matters worse between you. Have you thought of that?”

  “I have.” She pulled her hands apart and they clung to the folds of her skirt instead. “But I must make the attempt.” She faltered. “If you asked it of him, he might listen to me.”

  “Very well,” said Larrey. “I’ll do what I can. I owe you that much. Come back at eight this evening, after everyone has eaten. If I can persuade him, he will accompany me. If I can’t, then—” He made a gesture of capitulation. “I wouldn’t do this for most of the women who have tended the wounded. They are competent nurses, most of them, but they are timid and unobservant. You are not cut of that cloth; you are determined and you are constantly alert. You have never hesitated when you thought the welfare of the patient was at risk. For that, for the men who are alive because of you, I will do this.”

  Such praise took Victoire by surprise, and she stared at Larrey. “I didn’t do this to have ...”

  “No, you did not. You have never tried to turn your work here to your advantage until now. And I share your sentiments. So I will make an attempt.” He indicated the door. “I think it would be best if you will leave your husband in your quarters. Berthier might agree to talk with you, but not the two of you as a united pair. He is not satisfied that you were not simply following Vernet’s orders.” He caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror and shook his head. “And I had better do something before I present myself at Napoleon’s mess.”

  Victoire curtsied before she left the tent. “Thank you, Monsieur Larrey. I’m very grateful to you.”

  Larrey muttered a response as he reached for the sliver of soap that remained and his shaving brush.

  * * *

  Berthier’s eyes were flinty as Victoire came into Larrey’s quarters; it was a quarter after eight and the camp was thrown into the last eager activities of the day as dusk swiftly surrendered to night. “Madame Vernet.” He gave a movement that might have been a bow. “Larrey has been your advocate all through our meal,” he said without any courtesy. “For the respect I bear him and in order to put an end to this, I have agreed to hear you out, Madame Vernet. And let that satisfy you.”

  It was not a very promising beginning, but Victoire did not argue with him. “If that is how you will have it, I will accept it,” she said. “And so will Inspector Vernet.”

  “He is working with General Marmont tonight, as I recall,” said Berthier. “Preparing for tomorrow’s departure.”

  “Yes,” said Victoire. “Earlier today he was with Desaix and Kleber.” She hesitated, then said, “The Egyptians will miss Desaix.”

  “His duties keep him at Napoleon’s side,” Berthier said sternly.

  “Of course,” said Victoire. “But the Egyptians prefer him to Kleber, and admire his demeanor. His conduct suits them and they admire his courage. That was all my remark intended.” She glanced at Larrey, hoping to find some encouragement in his eyes.

  Berthier selected one of the two stools in the tent and sat down. “How is it that you are inclined to study such things as what the Egyptians approve?”

  “We are in Egypt, General Berthier. It is wise to know how to go on here.” She did her best to keep the challenge out of her tone. “This isn’t France, and we are mistaken when we suppose it is. When I went in search of the scepter, I learned a great deal.”

  Berthier snorted, but for once said nothing. He regarded her steadily, giving her the obligation to speak.

  She gathered her courage and began. “I realize I was mistaken in my assumption that you were the officer acting against Napoleon. For that I apologize again, and assure you it was never my intention to embarrass you. I didn’t have sufficient information at my disposal—or, rather, I did, but did not realize it. You appeared to be the one who acted against Napoleon when I examined the facts as I knew them. I did not arrive at that conclusion without cause.” She pressed on, trying to ignore the forbidding countenance Berthier turned on her. “I’ve wanted to tell you how I came to believe this dreadful thing of you, so that you will not leave here convinced that I was attempting to impugn your honor without cause.” Now that she had cleared that first hurdle, some of her terror faded. “I am very pleased that Monsieur Larrey is willing to listen to this, so that you and I will both have the protection of a witness to our remarks.”

  “Go on,” said Berthier, no change in his condemning expression.

  She presented her arguments just as she had ordered them in her thoughts. “It was the death of the marine guard that began this whole terrible episode. His death must be marked as the point where the actions of those opposed to Napoleon took form. Until then there may have been those who wanted to bring Napoleon to heel, but they had no opportunity to put their desires into action. With the death of the marine guard, matters changed. This
was not clear when the crime was discovered. It was assumed at the time that the entire purpose of the murder was to permit the thief to steal the scepter.”

  “Yes,” said Berthier. “What other reason could there be?”

  She met his eyes. “Silence,” she answered. “If the guard had not known the thief, there would have been no reason to kill him. He could have been bound and gagged, and the thief could have taken the scepter. But the guard was murdered, and the murder was deliberately brutal.”

  “It was,” said Berthier. “On that we will agree.”

  “Thank you,” said Victoire at once. “The thief wanted to leave a warning to the other marine guards, the ones set to watch Napoleon’s treasure. Which implies that they, too, would recognize the man if they saw him. There was no way to anticipate they would all be killed on the L’Orient.”

  Berthier pursed his lips. “It is possible. There is some merit in what you say.”

  “I have had a long time to think about it,” said Victoire. “And much reason to examine the case.” She looked toward Larrey, but the physician had not altered his neutral expression. Victoire resumed her argument. “Who was aware of the treasure and the guards? You were one, General Berthier. My husband was another. So was Murat. The other two were Desaix and Lavallette. And, of course, the guards who stood watch.”

  “Yes?” said Berthier impatiently. “What is there new in—”

  “Therefore one of you had to have been the thief. The rest of the camp was not aware that the treasure was stored here, or how it was guarded. Whoever murdered the guard had to know those things. Murat was on patrol when the murder was done, and so it was not he. Desaix is accounted for, and so is Lavallette. That leaves my husband, you, and the guard himself.” She stared at Berthier. “I know that my husband did not do it. So who else could I suspect, if you not you?”

  “A very loyal posture for a wife to take,” said Berthier, but his tone was softened a little.