Loath to give up his wild idea of regaining possession of Zanthé by force, he spoke to a man who was sitting in a doorway of one of the houses facing the wall. On the flimsy excuse that he was feeling faint from lack of air, he offered the man a piece of money to be allowed to go up and sit for a while on the roof of his house. The man, who was a leather merchant, readily agreed and led him through his shop, up two flights of rickety stairs on to the roof. Like nearly all the roofs in Cairo it was flat and, the house being a two-storey one, only a few feet above the level of the wall opposite.
From there Roger could see, two hundred yards away, the upper storeys of the back of the palace and the domes of its roof, but his hopes of seeing into the garden were disappointed. Immediately inside the wall a double row of palm trees had been planted, so that their interlaced fronds rose for another dozen feet above the wall, thus securing the privacy of the garden from the gaze of the occupants of the dwellings outside it. If he came and sat there for hours every day, there still would be no chance of even catching a glimpse of his divinity.
Returning to his house he refused the meal that had been prepared for him and spent a miserable evening thinking of plans to get speech with Zanthé, only to reject them. Had she been living in the house of her former husband, he might have got into it by disguising himself as an Arab pedlar of silks, fans or perfumes, or he could have kept observation on it until, as sooner or later must prove the case, she would be carried from it in a litter to visit friends or go shopping in the bazaar. But, even if he could get into the palace, he knew that he would never be allowed into the seraglio, and any attempt to waylay her when she left it would be equally hopeless, as it was certain that she would be accompanied by a guard of Janissaries.
Next day, almost ill with longing for her, he resumed his duties. But he was not the only one mooching round headquarters in a state of sullen depression, although the others had different reasons. The situation of the Army was going from bad to worse. Many of the men had become victims of venereal disease, contracted from the coloured street-women, and several hundred were suffering from acute ophthalmia, caught while bathing in the polluted waters of the Nile. Food was becoming scarcer than, ever and from Alexandria and Rosetta Kléber and Menou both reported actual famine; because Nelson, realising how short the French were of supplies, had deliberately put ashore the three thousand sailors he had captured at Aboukir, to deplete further their scant reserves.
In spite, too, of all Bonaparte’s blandishments, the half-million population of Cairo were becoming increasingly restless. They were finding, as had other people whose countries he had occupied, that ‘liberation’ by the French had to be paid for in no uncertain manner. Not only were taxes exacted as heavy as they had had to pay under the brutal oppression of the Mamelukes, but the French, having lost their own treasure in L’Orient, were now seizing hoards of gold wherever they could find them, in order to pay their troops. The number of French soldiers murdered increased weekly, and even the Turkish officials would no longer co-operate with their ‘allies’ except when practically forced to do so.
Bonaparte continued to work like a demon and showed no lack of confidence in the future. But at about this time he received a terrible personal blow, about which Roger heard from Bourrienne.
The letters that now got through from France were very few, but one had reached Junot. Among other news, it stated that Josephine was being unfaithful to her husband and that her infidelities were so flagrant that they were the talk of Paris. Junot, who regarded Bonaparte as a god, could not endure the thought that his wife should betray him. He became so enraged that he committed the shocking indiscretion of showing the letter to his beloved master.
Bonaparte had good cause to suspect that Josephine had already been unfaithful to him within a few weeks of their marriage. He had had to leave her in Paris after a single night’s honeymoon to set off on his Italian campaign and, despite his passionate appeals by letter to her, many months had elapsed before he could persuade her to join him in Italy. Now that he was convinced of her infidelity his rage and despair knew no bounds.
Some days later, in the hope of getting Josephine out of his mind, he ordered Duroc to arrange an entertainment for himself and his Staff at which he could inspect a number of Eastern beauties. Duroc, being puritanical by nature, was not the man to have been charged with this commission, and he bungled matters badly, probably by simply ordering an Arab slave-dealer to select the beauties for him. In any case, those produced at the Hamam where the party was held were to the Arab and not the European taste. They were quite young, but had been specially fattened by a régime of idleness and gorging great quantities of sweetmeats. Their breasts were huge and their bottoms enormous. In vain they sang a monotonous chant in shrill voices, twanged their lyres and waggled their naked stomachs in a Nautch dance. Bonaparte looked on sourly for a while, then stood up and stalked out in disgust
Yet, a few days later, his interest was really caught, and by a Frenchwoman he chanced to see in the Tivoli Garden. Roger, who happened to be with him, was promptly charged to find out who she was. As Roger had once before played ponce, in the service of his country, to Bonaparte, he had no objection to doing so again in the hope of cheering up the unhappy little Corsican and rendering the atmosphere at headquarters slightly less sultry.
The following evening he was able to report that the lady’s name was Marguerite Pauline Fourès, and that she was the wife of a Lieutenant in the 22nd Infantry of the Line. They had married only just before the expedition had sailed for Egypt and were so loath to part that, disguised in the uniform of a soldier, she had accompanied her husband on the voyage. Bonaparte then told Roger to arrange a little dinner party, at which the lady would be present.
Using General Dupuy, who was then Commander of the Cairo garrison, as his willing stalking horse, Roger arranged for the party to be held at the General’s house. He then got together half a dozen other senior officers whose wives had, in one way or another, succeeded in reaching Cairo, and had an invitation sent to Madame Fourès, which did not include her husband. In spite of that the lady, doubtless flattered by this attention from the High Command and even, perhaps, hoping to advance her husband’s prospects, accepted.
After dinner the General-in-Chief dropped in. With his usual directness he stared at Marguerite Pauline as though he meant to eat her, and nobody could deny that she was worth staring at. She was small, had a lovely figure, big violet eyes and such an abundance of fair, golden hair that it was said that it would make a cloak for her whole body. To these personal charms were added great vitality, a bubbling sense of humour, a silvery laugh and a voice which would have enabled her to earn her living as a professional singer.
That evening Bonaparte attempted nothing, but told Roger that he must arrange another dinner party, and soon. Roger obliged and, beforehand, received his master’s instructions. This time the General-in-Chief attended the dinner, sitting on one side of Pauline while Roger sat on the other. The meal had hardly started when Roger, carrying out his orders, clumsily spilt his soup into Pauline’s lap. His master jumped to his feet, abused him roundly and, taking Pauline by the arm, hurried her off into another room to help her repair the damage. To the considerable embarrassment of the rest of the party they were away for two hours.
The next move was to get rid of Pauline’s husband. Bonaparte sent for him and said that he had heard such excellent reports of him that he had decided to do him a signal honour. Handing him a bulky despatch, he told him to return to France and deliver it to the Directory. The astonished Lieutenant, believing that his fortune was made, hurried off to Alexandria and went aboard a merchant ship. As the wily Corsican had expected, the ship and Lieutenant Fourès were promptly captured by the English.
By then, Bonaparte had installed the gay and charming La Bellilotte, as Pauline was nicknamed, in his own palace and, with the utmost cheerfulness, was parading her about Cairo openly as his mistress. The British had many sp
ies in Cairo and the Commodore in charge of the blockade had learned of the French General-in-Chief’s infatuation; so he decided to play him a scurvy trick. He told the gullible Fourès that his ship had been ordered to the Pacific and it would be inconvenient to have a prisoner on board for many months. Then he courteously put him ashore.
Fourès hurried back to Cairo, was amazed to find his wife absent from their lodging and, after receiving many evasive replies from people whom he questioned, at last learned what had happened. Against everyone’s advice he forced his way into her apartment and a stormy scene followed. But Pauline was far teo honest and much too pleased with her good fortune to beat about the bush. She sent him packing. Next day, on the orders of the General-in-Chief, the Commissary-General of the Army pronounced the Fourès divorced, and the Lieutenant passed from the pages of history.
Glamorous, amusing, kind-hearted Pauline then settled down to enjoy herself thoroughly. She was beloved by everyone and in the afternoons, when she drove round the city in a carriage and pair, always escorted by two of her lover’s aides-de-camp, the troops all greeted her with cries of ‘Good luck to you, Cleopatra!’ and ‘Long live the little General!’
The only person who disapproved of the arrangement was seventeen-year-old Eugéne de Beauharnais who, much as he admired his step-father, had the boldness to protest at this infidelity to his mother. But the young man had not a leg to stand on, and the only satisfaction he got was to be relieved of his turns at escorting La Bellilotte on her afternoon drives.
Throughout September, in all else things went no better for Bonaparte. He was still doing his utmost to persuade the Turks that he had taken over Egypt in the interests of their master the Sultan. In the hope of furthering this policy he despatched a letter in most cordial terms to Djezzar, the Pasha of Acre. This Pasha had a most unpleasant reputation for craft and extreme cruelty; but he ruled all Syria and, although nominally the Sultan’s Viceroy, had made himself virtually independent, so he would have proved a powerful ally. But he contemptuously ignored Bonaparte’s overture.
In mid-October good news came in from the south. Desaix had been despatched, with some three thousand men, up the Nile to deal with about the same number of Mamelukes, who were still under arms with Murad Bey and continued to menace the peaceful settlement of the country. On the 7th Desaix had inflicted a severe defeat upon them, which rendered them incapable of doing further serious harm.
But Cairo was growing ever more restless and, unrealised by the French, the Imams who went up to the minarets every evening to call the Faithful to prayer had begun instead to call upon the whole country to revolt and massacre the invaders. Bands of armed men were being secretly organised in the city, Bedouin Sheiks were mustering their forces outside it, and the Turks were turning a blind eye to these preparations for a Holy War.
The signal for the outbreak was the massacre of a convoy of French wounded who were being brought up from Salahiyeh. When news of it was received on the night of October 20th the word was given by the Muslim ringleaders for the revolt. In the early hours of the 21st, thousands of turbaned fanatics streamed out into the streets and set about killing every Frenchman they could find.
Roused by the clamour, Roger and Marbois hastily pulled on their clothes and ran outside. At the entrance to the main street a group of half a dozen Muslims rushed at them, screaming ‘Death to the Unbelievers’. Roger halted, took careful aim with his pistol, fired and dropped their leader dead in his tracks. The others, being no braver than the average slum rat out for easy plunder, halted, gave back and took refuge under an archway. But the shouting from nearby streets, and that such a rabble should have dared to attack him, was quite sufficient warning for Roger. Turning, he grabbed Marbois by the arm and together they ran at the best pace they could make to headquarters.
Bonaparte had just come downstairs. No one knew what was happening. News came in that General Dupuy had been killed in the street by a lance, then that a company of Bedouin Arabs were endeavouring to force their way into the city by the Bab-el-Nasser gate. Bonaparte told Sulkowsky to take half a company of Guides and reinforce it. Sulkowsky was a good friend of Roger’s; so when Roger heard this he went to the General-in-Chief and reminded him that Sulkowsky had only just recovered from a wound he had received in August in the battle at Salahiyeh. Then he asked to be allowed to relieve his brother aide-de-camp.
‘Very well,’ said Bonaparte. ‘Take another fifteen Guides, follow and send him back with an escort, then take charge of the gate yourself.’
When Roger reached the gate it had already been broken open and, to his great distress, he found Sulkowsky dead. But his men had poured a murderous fire into the Arabs and they had fled.
Suddenly it dawned on Roger that this great disturbance in the city was the very thing he had unconsciously been waiting for. Swiftly he had the gate again firmly secured, then placed a Lieutenant of Guides in charge of it, leaving him sixty men. Ordering the rest to follow him, he set off for the Pasha’s palace.
On the way they had several skirmishes with the insurgents, but a volley of musketry scattered them on each occasion and Roger lost only two men. A quarter of an hour later they reached the little door in the great wall at the end of the palace garden. A score of musket balls aimed at the hinges weakened it considerably; a battering with musket butts did the rest. In ten minutes they had forced it back far enough to squeeze through.
As they approached the palace through the garden, one of the Janissaries gave the alarm. There ensued a short, sharp conflict, but the Turks were soon worsted by the veteran French. Six or more Turks fell, killed or wounded; the remainder fled.
When the firing had ceased, the corpulent Pasha, accompanied by several of his civilian staff, came out on to a terrace at the back of the palace and waved a white cloth in token of surrender. Wasting no time, Roger ordered him to lead the way to his seraglio. The Pasha broke into violent protests. Roger jabbed a pistol barrel into his stomach and told him that if he wished to live he had better not argue.
The sweating Pasha gave in and led Roger, followed by his men, along a tiled corridor to a series of arcaded rooms that opened on to the garden and were plentifully furnished with colourful divans. In one lofty room some two dozen women were assembled, most of them huddled together in a corner, some clutching children and others staring over their yashmaks with big, frightened eyes at the French soldiers.
At the first glance Roger identified Zanthé. She was not among the group, but was seated on a divan beside the elderly woman who had come off the barge in front of her, whom he assumed to be the Pasha’s principal wife. Bowing to them he said:
‘Ladies, I apologise for this intrusion but, as you must know, the population of Cairo is in revolt. As was the case when that last happened, the mob may break into the palaces and do their inmates grievous injury. Have no fear. I am here to protect you. However, as it appears that the Turkish authorities have taken no steps to suppress the insurrection, they must have countenanced it. Therefore it is my duty to take two hostages.’ After pausing a moment he waved a hand towards Zanthé and added, ‘They will be His Excellency the Pasha and this lady.’
At that moment a hoarse voice exclaimed behind him, ‘Why, blow me, if she ain’t yer old love, the Sultan’s daughter.’
Swinging round, Roger recognised the Sergeant who had sold Zanthé to him. Scowling, he demanded, ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘No offence. Colonel,’ replied the veteran with a grin. ‘I was among the guard at the Bab-el-Nasser gate. Seein’ you had taken over and left it secure, I thought it would be more interestin’ and there’d be a bit of loot, perhaps, if instead of staying there I came along to give you a hand.’
Meanwhile Zanthé had come to her feet. Her splendid eyes flashing, she cried in French, ‘How dare you pursue me! This is an outrage! I refuse to become your hostage.’
Roger ignored her and counted up his men. He found that they numbered twenty-two, including a Lie
utenant, the Sergeant, Marbois—who had been with him throughout—and two Corporals. He ordered the Lieutenant, with one Corporal and nine men, to remain there and, with the help of the surviving Janissaries, to protect the seraglio. The other Corporal he told to act as escort to the Pasha. Then, turning to the Sergeant and motioning to Zanthé, he said:
‘Sergeant, you have taken charge of this lady before. This time you will be more gentle with her; but, even should she struggle, you will persuade her to accompany us.’
Realising that it would be futile to put up a fight, Zanthé, angry-eyed but passive, allowed the Sergeant to take her by the arm, and the terrified Pasha offered no resistance. Surrounded by the remaining half of his men, Roger led the way from the palace across the garden, out through the wall gate and round to his little house. There he again divided the party. He could not possibly take Zanthé back to headquarters; but he was already convinced that the rising was only a matter of dangerous mobs which could be put down by disciplined soldiers in a matter of hours. His small house was, therefore, very unlikely to be attacked, provided it were suitably garrisoned.
When they reached it, he had Zanthé taken up to the bedroom and locked in. He had decided to leave the Sergeant there, with the Corporal, Marbois and three men. To the Sergeant he said:
‘My servant will provide the lady with anything she may require. You will remain here and, should the house be attacked, defend it to the last bullet. But I think it improbable that you will be called on to do more than sit here for, perhaps, twenty-four hours. One warning I must give you. Get no ideas with regard to the lady. When I return, should I learn that you have so much as laid a finger on her I’ll cut off your ears and stuff them down your throat.’
The Sergeant grinned and touched his forelock. ‘That’s the sort of orders I like to hear, mon Colonel. Shows you’re made of the right stuff and worthy to be on the Staff of the “Little Corporal”.’
The Sultan's Daughter Page 27