The Wanton Princess

by Dennis Wheatley

  On the morning after the battle Melas, feeling his position to be hopeless, had asked for an armistice. Bonaparte had agreed to give it to him on condition that the Austrian Army, and all its garrisons in Tuscany and Ancona, should retire behind the Mincio. It was a month to the day since Bonaparte had crossed the Alps and in that short time he had again made himself master of all north-western Italy.

  Roger remained in the hospital at Alessandria for a month. Provided he refrained from putting any strain on his body, and from taking a deep breath, his wound was not especially painful and, owing to his good health, the flesh of his chest and back healed well.

  When, in mid-July, he was told that he could be moved, he decided to go to a small château near St. Maxime in the South of France, that he had purchased some years before. That he should have been shot through the lung seemed a curious coincidence, as he had long established the belief that he suffered from a weak chest, and had used that as an excuse to obtain sick leave to spend periods in the sunshine of the South while, in fact, he had secretly returned to England to report to Mr. Pitt. But he had occupied the little château from time to time, keeping there an elderly couple named Defour as caretakers and to look after him on his rare visits.

  Having always been subject to sea-sickness, and fearing that a bout of it might bring on a haemorrhage, he decided that instead of crossing by ship from Genoa to Toulon he would go by road; so he bought a comfortable carriage and took into his service a coachman and a valet. They made the journey round the Gulf in easy stages, so that the jolting of the carriage should not tire him unduly and, on August 1st, arrived at his property.

  For the best part of a fortnight he did little but lie in the sunshine, acquiring a rich tan; then he felt that he might venture on a gentle swim each morning and, taking his Italian valet, Angelo, with him, in case he overdid it, he spent many pleasant hours on the nearby beach. By the end of August he could walk two or three miles without fatigue and was beginning really to feel his old self again.

  By September the time of the vintage was approaching so one day he took a walk to see the condition of the grapes in his vineyard. It was on a slope and above it lay another that belonged to the owner of a pleasant little house on the top of the hill. On his previous stays at the château he had deliberately refrained from cultivating his neighbours on the grounds that the less they knew about him and his comings and goings, the better. But he was aware that the house belonged to a retired lawyer named Pasquier who had had a practice in Toulon.

  While he was examining his vines, Roger noticed that a woman in a sunbonnet was doing the same thing in the adjoining vineyard. As they came closer he saw that she was rather short, about thirty, attractive-looking and well dressed; so, assuming her to be a member of Pasquier’s family, he made her a polite bow and wished her good morning.

  She returned his greeting with a pleasant smile, showing two rows of fine even white teeth between full lips set in a bright-complexioned face. Then she said, ‘Monsieur must be the famous Colonel Breuc’.

  He laughed, ‘Colonel Breuc, at your service, Madame. But why you should think me famous, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Oh, but it is so,’ she replied quickly, ‘anyway hereabouts. Everyone knows that you are one of the First Consul’s Aides-de-Camp. People still talk of your having brought him and many distinguished officers here for refreshments shortly after you had all landed at Fréjus on his return from Egypt.’

  ‘That I did so is true enough,’ Roger agreed. ‘But I can claim no more than to bask in his reflected glory. I trust, Madame, that Monsieur Pasquier is well?’

  She shook her head, ‘Alas, Monsieur, my father died over a year ago. He left me this property and as shortly afterwards I lost my husband, who was an officer in our Navy, I decided to sell our little house in Toulon and live here instead.’

  Roger had been studying her large dark eyes with appreciation and, with a bow, he said, ‘Madame, your misfortune is my good fortune. I expect to be here for some time, and it will be pleasant to have such a charming neighbour.’

  Having heard in the village that he was convalescing from a wound, she inquired about it, and he gave her an account of the battle of Marengo. Then, after a few remarks about the prospects of the vintage, they parted.

  For several weeks he had been too ill to wish for company; but recently he had begun to feel distinctly bored from lack of it, so it was hardly surprising that the following morning he again walked up to his vineyard, hoping that he might see Jeanne Meuralt, as he had learned his neighbour was named.

  She was there, some distance away at the far end of her vineyard, but she did not appear to notice him until, after waiting for a few minutes, he called out and asked, on the excuse that he would like to compare her grapes with his, if he might join her.

  For a short while they both made a pretence of sharing a great interest in grapes, then the conversation took another turn and, with frequent smiles at one another, they remained chatting for over an hour.

  At the end of that time she said to him, ‘Monsieur le Colonel, you are a man with much knowledge of the world, whereas I am hopelessly ignorant where money matters are concerned. My affairs, alas, are in a shocking tangle. Would you think it trespassing too much on your time if I asked you to look into them?’

  ‘Why, no!’ he laughed. ‘These days I have nothing whatever to do, and if I can be of assistance to you it would be a pleasure.’

  Ten minutes later he was seated on the vine-covered terrace of her little house, sipping a glass of her previous year’s vintage that she had just poured for him and about to look through a portfolio of papers she had brought out. In spite of what she had said she gave him so lucid an account of her financial affairs that, having glanced through a few of the documents, Roger had no doubt about the reason for her anxiety. She was being swindled by a lawyer named Lacourbe, her late father’s junior partner, and he had deliberately complicated the accounts he rendered her in order to cover up what he was doing.

  Roger had a shrewd suspicion that Jeanne knew perfectly well what was happening and had asked his advice only to provide a reason for them to have further meetings. In consequence, instead of giving his opinion right away, he said that the matter needed going into carefully, and if he might take the papers away he would study them that night. He added that it was her turn to try a bottle of his previous year’s vintage, then suggested that she should do so at the château next morning when he would be ready to discuss her affairs with her.

  She willingly agreed to do so, and arrived at midday, dressed in a pretty gown of sprigged muslin and carrying a parasol: a small but well-made little person, pink-cheeked and smiling. Having given her his views about her papers Roger said they must later consult on what was to be done, then shelved the subject and took her on a leisurely tour of the château.

  When she said that she ought to be getting back for her midday meal, he expressed surprise and told her that he had taken it for granted that she would have it with him. Seeing her hesitate, he went on with a smile, ‘Surely you cannot be such a stickler for the old conventions as to count it culpable that two neighbours should enjoy a meal together just because they happen to be of opposite sexes?’

  Despite the Revolution, Jeanne had been brought up with bourgeois traditions; but fearing that this splendid gallant from Paris might think her a country bumpkin, she gave way to her own inclination and replied a little hurriedly, ‘Certainly not! Such … such stupidities went out of fashion long ago.’

  Their luncheon together was a great success, and she stayed on well into the afternoon. It was followed by others and two days later, when Roger asked her to brighten one of his lonely evenings by dining with him, she cheerfully waved good-bye to her reputation as of far less importance than pleasing this wonderful man who had come into her life. An hour or so after they had dined, Roger found little difficulty in seducing her.

  That having been satisfactorily accomplished, there was no further p
oint in continuing to pretend that they met mainly to discuss her inheritance, and Roger took her affairs in hand in earnest. Having sent for Maitre Lacourbe to come over from Toulon for an explanation, he gave the lawyer one of the worst half hours he had ever experienced.

  Displaying the cold, hard anger that he could simulate so well when it suited his purpose, he accused his visitor of having callously defrauded a woman whose interests, as his late partner’s daughter, it was his sacred duty to protect, on the assumption that because she had no husband or brother to advise her he would not be found out.

  For a few minutes Lacourbe protested violently and threatened to bring an action against Roger for slander. But Roger called his bluff.

  ‘Go to it, then,’ he snapped. ‘And, by God, I’ll see you rue it. As we are far from Paris and you have influence in these parts, no doubt you are counting upon some corrupt magistrate to give a verdict in your favour. But those days are gone. And you will find the arm of my master, the First Consul, long. Moreover he is swift to act. I have but to write him an account of this matter and before the month is out you will find yourself disbarred. Ah, and facing a charge of malefaction that, knowing the origin of the Prosecutor, no judge will dare set aside lightly.’

  The outcome of this interview was that Lacourbe not only agreed to make restitution, but was blackmailed by Roger into paying such a heavy sum as compensation, for loss of interest, that he positively wailed with grief. Roger then arranged for all of Jeanne’s money to be invested in the Funds, feeling confident that, under the new government, they would continue to rise and so greatly increase her small fortune.

  Little Jeanne gave expression to her gratitude in a highly practical manner and it was obvious to Roger that she derived great pleasure from doing so. As a ‘sop to Cerberus’ they continued to live in their respective houses but, as in so small a place it would have been impossible to conceal for long that they were having an affaire, they made no attempt to do so and spent the better part of each twenty-four hours together. Naturally the servants talked, and this caused considerable tittle-tattle among the ladies of the district. A few of the plainer ones said some spiteful things about Jeanne; but the majority envied her her luck and maintained that to expect any young woman who had been a widow for over a year to resist such a dashing figure as the Colonel would have been asking too much. Some even thought that by acting as she was she stood a better chance of hooking him than if she had played the prude.

  For a brief while Jeanne had herself toyed with the breath-taking thought that he might marry her. But in order that she should know where she stood Roger had disabused her of any such idea before persuading her to go to bed with him. With the beautiful Zanthé in mind, he had told Jeanne that while in Egypt he had engaged himself to a noble Turkish lady who might at any time arrive in Paris, refraining from adding that Zanthé had since married the young banker Achilles Sarodopulous and some three months before had given birth to a child of whom he was the father.

  Quickly reconciling herself to the knowledge that her relationship with Roger could only be a temporary one, Jeanne had determined to make the most of it while it lasted and Roger found her a delightful companion. Her education left much to be desired, but she had abundant vitality, a happy nature and a ready laugh. For his part he found it a pleasant change to have a mistress who knew little about the great world and international affairs. It was a long time since he had enjoyed a spell of carefree idleness; so through the warm autumn months they were as happy together as two young people on a honeymoon.

  Yet, after four months of this halcyon existence Roger’s congenital restlessness again beset him. He had been given indefinite sick leave but it was getting on for six months since he had been wounded and, having taken good care of himself, his old capacity for physical exertion was almost restored. More and more frequently he found himself wondering how things had been going in Paris and what new schemes Bonaparte was hatching in his fertile brain.

  At the end of the first week in December, not wishing to hurt little Jeanne by giving her to think that he had tired of her, he told her that he had received a despatch recalling him to duty. And after loving farewells, he set off next morning for Paris.

  7

  Away to Pastures New

  It was in Lyons that Roger heard about the Battle of Hohenlinden. It was common knowledge that after Marengo the First Consul had again offered peace to the Emperor of Austria on the basis reached at Campo Formio, but the Emperor had rejected it; so the war on the far side of the Rhine had continued throughout the autumn.

  According to the bulletin in the Moniteur, the Archduke John, seeking to emulate the new methods of war introduced by Bonaparte, had formed the ambitious project of outflanking the French and cutting off their retreat. But such operations depended for their success on swiftness of movement and to that the Austrian had never been trained. In consequence, after rashly leaving his strong position, the Archduke’s deployment was too slow to take the French unawares. On December 2nd Moreau concentrated his troops round the village of Hohenlinden on an open plain in the middle of the forest that clothes the great plateau of Ebersberg. To penetrate the woods the Austrians had to break up their formations and were unable to make use of their cavalry. Leaving General Grenier with a strong force to oppose the enemy as they approached the village, Moreau had executed a flank movement with the rest of his Army, led it through the forest and round to the Austrian rear. Caught between two fires, the Archduke’s troops had surged back on themselves, broken and completely routed. They lost twenty thousand men in killed, wounded and prisoners, so it was a victory of the first magnitude.

  Roger already knew that early in September Malta had surrendered to the English, and that on the same day that Desaix was killed, General Kléber, whom Bonaparte had left to command in Egypt, had been assassinated in Cairo. Then on reaching Paris he soon caught up with the other news.

  The Blanchards told him of Bonaparte’s triumphant return from Marengo and of how, as he was more popular than ever, great indignation had been caused in October by a plot to assassinate him. He was a great votary of the Opera, and said then to be having an affaire with a beautiful singer named Madame Grassini, whom he had brought back from Italy with him. On the 10th he had gone to a performance, and an attempt had been made to murder him as he left his box. The leaders of the conspiracy had been two Corsicans named Ceracchi and Aréna, and the painter Demerville. Most fortunately, they had been seized and overpowered before they could harm him.

  From Talleyrand Roger heard the inside story. Demerville, being a braggart, had boasted of the plot to a penniless officer named Harel, who had been dismissed from the Army, and he had reported the matter to Bourrienne. On being informed of what was afoot, the First Consul had ordered that the attempt should be allowed to proceed while Fouché took precautions to protect him against it. In consequence, he had never been in any danger but made great capital out of the affair.

  With lazy satisfaction Talleyrand then spoke of the success that had crowned his negotiations with Russia. Having detached Paul I from the Coalition the previous winter France had since been wooing him. The vain, feeble-minded Czar had taken a childish delight in having been elected Grand Prior of the Knights of Malta and had had a gorgeous uniform suitable to that dignitary made to strut about in. The British having captured Malta, he had expected them to hand it over to him and had taken great umbrage at their refusal. Bonaparte had then made him a present of the Knights’ famous sword of Valetta, which had pleased him greatly. Declaring himself to be the friend of France, he had revived the League of Armed Neutrality, by which ships of the Northern Nations resisted attempts by the British Navy to search them for, and confiscate, any contraband-of-war they might be carrying; and this interference with their profitable commerce had resulted in Denmark and Sweden declaring war on Britain.

  As a result of the armistice after Marengo, French and Austrian plenipotentiaries had met at Lunéville to discuss the poss
ibilities of a permanent peace; but the Austrians had shilly-shalleyed for so long that Bonaparte had lost patience with them and, in November, declared his intention of resuming the war.

  Brune had succeeded Masséna as Commander-in-Chief Italy. He had been joined by Macdonald, who had brought his army over the Splügen Pass—a feat much more remarkable than Bonaparte’s crossing of the St. Bernard because the former had been accomplished so late in the year and in spite of vile weather. Brune had then crossed the Mincio in force, and the two Generals were now driving the Austrians before them up into the old Venetian lands. Meanwhile Moreau had shattered the other Austrian army by his great victory at Hohenlinden; so Talleyrand was in hopes that, soon now, the Austrians would at least see reason and throw in their hand. Murat, meanwhile, had been despatched south, had driven all before him, entered Naples and compelled King Ferdinand to accept a French garrison and sign a Convention closing his ports to British ships.

  Roger’s reception by Bonaparte proved not only disappointing but alarming. Later he put it down to the First Consul’s being in an ill humour from having learned that for the past few days everyone in Paris had been saying that Moreau’s victory at Hohenlinden was a much greater triumph than his at Marengo; as indeed it was, since Moreau had not first nearly lost the battle and he had inflicted more than double the number of casualties on the enemy.

  It was in any case well known that Bonaparte, while a generous man in other ways, was always jealous of the success of other generals and mean in his praise of them. After Marengo he had claimed the credit for Desaix’s splendid counter-attack and, instead of promoting young Kellermann for his well-judged action which had proved decisive, had merely remarked to him, ‘You made a very good charge’.

  Whatever the cause of his irritability on the morning that Roger reported to him, after briefly congratulating him on his recovery he said abruptly: