The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  That was in ’92, and from then on his promotion was rapid. The following year he was commanding a division in the Pyrenees, and in ’96 he was one of the three divisional commanders of the Army of Italy when Napoleon arrived from Paris to take it over.

  In that amazing campaign he did more than cover himself with glory. During this time there occurred one of the very few occasions on which Napoleon lost his head. The ragged Army of the Republic was greatly outnumbered by Austrians and Sardinians and partially surrounded. Retreat could have proved disastrous, yet to attack the Austrians up on the heights of Castiglione appeared equally dangerous. Napoleon could not make up his mind which to do; so Augereau took charge, stormed the heights and won a great victory.

  He was no strategist but a brilliant tactician, and always had his divisions in the right place at the right time. He was utterly fearless and, like Ney, Lannes and Murat, was a front-line commander who always personally led his men into battle. Although he was a strict disciplinarian, he never tired of looking after their welfare, so they adored him.

  In spite of the fact that he was now a Duke, with great estates and a huge fortune piled up by wholesale looting in a dozen countries, he was at heart still a revolutionary and atheist; and he lost no opportunity of treading on the toes of the returned émigrés whom in recent years Napoleon had been welcoming to his Court, or showing his contempt for everything connected with religion.

  Such was the strange, forceful, unscrupulous, gay, greedy man in whose company Roger and Georgina spent the next five days. On October 1st they arrived in Paris and, with heartfelt thanks for his most timely protection, took leave of the Marshal Duke after drinking a last bottle with him in his great Paris mansion.

  From there Roger took Georgina to his old haunt, La Belle Etoile, not far from the Louvre. Long ago, in the days before the Revolution, as a youth and the secretary of a wealthy Marquis, Roger had lived at the hostelry. The patron, Monsieur Blanchard, and his wife were an honest Norman couple. They had sheltered Roger during the Terror and seen him rise in Napoleon’s service to fame and honour.

  Although for many years past Roger could have afforded better accommodation, whenever he was in Paris he always stayed at their inn. Up in the attic they kept for him a big trunk containing a considerable variety of civilian clothes, and a reserve of money.

  It had become a custom that, whenever Roger arrived in Paris, on his first night there he should dine with the Blanchards in their parlour. Now, having been presented to Georgina, they realised at once that she was a great lady and hesitated to invite her to share a meal. But Roger swept away their diffidence by saying that he had told her with such gusto about duck cooked in the Norman fashion that, all the way to Paris, she had been looking forward to this speciality of Madame Blanchard’s.

  A few hours later, rested and refreshed, Roger and Georgina were happily despatching a pair of fine ducks with their host and hostess; and washing them down with a good vintage Burgundy. Innkeepers have their fingers more firmly than other men on the pulse of public opinion and Roger never failed to get a sound assessment of feeling in Paris from Maître Blanchard. When asked about it now, he replied:

  ‘Monsieur le Colonel Baron, I cannot complain. There is plenty of money about and no lack of food to be had at reasonable prices. But the people are not happy. In the bad old days, when the churches had been turned into gaming-hells and brothels, the populace were half-starving and the city one great slum, but at least the citizens did not lack joie de vivre. As the ragged bands of volunteers marched to defend France from the armies of the Kings who would have crushed the Revolution, they laughed and sang. Later, as you will know, when the news used to come in of victory after victory gained by the “Little Corporal”, we had good reason to cheer and, whenever he came to Paris, the people went wild with excitement. But that is so no longer.

  ‘Apart from that short break in 1803, we’ve been at war for seventeen years. And what good has it done us? Saving your presence, it is no doubt a wonderful experience for the Emperor, his Marshals and high officers like yourself to ride in triumph into Milan, Berlin, Vienna, Madrid and all those other cities. But, for all but a few, these great campaigns mean death, to be crippled for life or, at best, years at a stretch marching with heavy equipment, along endless roads, living in great discomfort, often existing only on vegetables stolen from some wretched peasant’s garden and, above all, separated from those they love.

  ‘Time was when my wife and I used to think that Le Bon Dieu had treated us harshly by denying us sons. Today we thank Him that He did not. By now they would be dead, handicapped by some awful injury or far away with but only half a chance of our ever seeing them again.

  ‘For two years past a great part of the drafts to the colours have been made up of youngsters who should still be finishing their schooling, instead of being sent to fight and kill their fellow men. And even the supply of these is drying up.

  ‘Yet, on the Emperor’s return to Paris, he insisted that the gaps in his armies must be filled. For the purpose he ordered Marshal Moncey to take special measures. As you must know, deserters have become legion. No-one reproaches them any more. On the contrary, everyone helps them to get back to their homes, or hides them and gives them work to do at night. Now they are being flushed out by the thousand. In every city, town and village throughout France, Monceys gendarmes are carrying out house-to-house searches, and thrusting their bayonets into the hay in the barns. Every man between the age of sixteen and sixty has to give a satisfactory account of himself. If he can’t, he gets a brutal beating and is dragged off to the nearest barracks. Can you wonder that people no longer cheer the Emperor, and that many wish him dead?’

  The duck was followed by a flaming omelette au rhum, and they rounded the meal off with pre-Revolution Calvados. When they went up to bed, Georgina having every confidence in Roger’s ability to take care of her, was tired but happy. He, on the other hand, although their cheerful evening with the Blanchards had caused him for the moment to put aside thoughts of the future, was far from being so.

  The mysterious deaths of von Haugwitz and Lisala ware so sensational that the story might already have reached Paris. In any case, it was certain that when the voluble Augereau paid his respects to the Emperor he would give him an account of the affair. What view he would take of it was quite unpredictable. Napoleon justifiably prided himself upon being a great law giver and, provided it did not conflict with his own interests, was a great stickler for the law being carried out.

  When Roger reported for duty, as he must the following day, he felt sure that the Emperor would question him about his doings at Schloss Langenstein. If he insisted on his innocence, Napoleon might well decree that he must be sent back to stand his trial. On the other hand, the case against him being so black, the Emperor, who was notoriously indulgent of faults committed by his old friends, might, if told the truth, rather than expose le brave Breuc to the risk of being condemned and executed, decide to deal with the matter himself. Yet, if he did, as Roger’s victim had been the Prussian Chief Minister’s brother, he might feel it politic to appease the wrath of his Prussian allies by sentencing Roger to a year’s imprisonment in a fortress.

  And, should that be the outcome, what would become of Georgina? Gone would be all chance of getting her to England. Still worse, apart from the Blanchards, she would be friendless in Paris and, although they had told Augereau and his A.D.C. that she was Dutch by birth, she might at any time run into someone who had known her on one of her earlier visits to Paris, when France and England were not at war.

  If that happened, things could go very badly indeed for her. After the brief Peace of Amiens in 1802, Napoleon had horrified the world by initiating an entirely new measure against nations with whom he was at war. Previously, hostilities had been confined to armies and navies; civilians living in enemy countries had been regarded as harmless and were never interfered with. But the ‘Corsican brigand’ held in contempt ancient customs
dictated by chivalry. He had decreed that all British citizens resident in France should be seized and thrown into concentration camps.

  For a while, as Roger lay in bed with Georgina curled up and sleeping peacefully beside him, he contemplated leaving Paris with her the following morning and going into hiding in some small village on the coast, until an opportunity came for him to attempt to smuggle her over to England.

  But it was certain that the swashbuckling Augereau would tell the Emperor that he had brought Roger to Paris and, if he failed to present himself at the Tuileries, he would be promptly sent for. When it was learned that he had disappeared, Napoleon would be furious, have him posted as a deserter, and half the police in France would be put on to hunt him down. With only a few hours’ start, his chance of getting away for good would be extremely slender. On his own, he might have managed it, but not with a strikingly beautiful companion like Georgina.

  Filled with miserable thoughts about what the morrow might bring, he at last dropped off to sleep.

  3

  The Forged Letter

  After a bad night Roger woke early and again wrestled with the problems of how he could protect Georgina and save himself. Eventually he decided that his best hope lay in consulting his old friend, the wily Talleyrand. So, at nine o’clock, clad in his brilliant uniform, he had himself carried in a sedan to the Prince de Benevento’s splendid mansion in the Rue du Bac.

  Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord came from one of the most ancient families in France. The neglect of an injury he had sustained when young had caused him to become permanently lame, and so unfitted to enter on a military career, with the result that his father had forced him, against his will, to go into the Church. Handsome, charming, witty, at the Court of Versailles he had seduced innumerable beautiful women, and became known as the Abbé de Cœur. When the Revolution erupted he was Bishop of Autun, but had strong liberal convictions, so he had abandoned the Church and played a leading part in opposing the continuance of an absolute Monarchy. The Terror had forced him to go into exile in America, but during the Directory he returned, and started his career as a great statesman by advising on foreign policy. He had been swift to recognise in young General Bonaparte a potential force for restoring France from the destitution and chaos into which she had fallen, and had planned the coup d’état that had raised Bonaparte to First Consul.

  For the eight years that followed, he had been using his great talents most successfully as Foreign Minister. He was venal, licentious and unscrupulous and had amassed a great fortune by taking bribes from foreign Ambassadors; but, above all, he was a patriot. As time went on he realised that Napoleon, having earlier restored France to order and prosperity, had begun to ruin her by his ceaseless wars; so, in 1807, he had resigned his portfolio in order to be free to work secretly for the Emperor’s downfall. But, such was the fascination that he held for Napoleon that the Emperor still continued to consult him, although rarely now taking his advice. On his retirement he had been made Vice Grand Elector, one of the great dignities of the Empire, shared only by Napoleon’s brothers, his brother-in-law Marshal Murat, now King of Naples, and Cambacérès, once Second Consul and now Arch-Chancellor.

  He had always held the belief that there could be no lasting peace and prosperity in Europe until the two great protagonists, France and Britain, buried the hatchet once and for all. He had learned as far back as 1787 that Roger was in fact an Englishman, but kept his secret because their minds were as one, and he believed a time might come when Roger could prove a valuable link between their two countries.

  Even way back in ’96, when he had returned from America and Paris was still seething with ex-sans-culottes sworn to maintain the doctrines of the Revolution, he had boldly reassumed his status as a great noble, dressed fastidiously in the finest silks and lace ruffles, and wore his hair powdered.

  Roger knew that it had long been Talleyrand’s custom to give frequent lavish breakfasts at which he entertained the great men of the Empire; so it was no surprise when he arrived in the Rue du Bac to find half a dozen men holding high office, all of whom were known to him, assembled there, Leaning slightly on his diamond-studded malacca, the elegant Talleyrand limped forward, welcomed Roger most amiably and insisted that he join them for breakfast.

  Among the guests were Gaudin, Napoleon’s brilliant Minister of Finance, who had miraculously lifted France out of her state of bankruptcy in 1800; Decres, the able Minister of Marine, who was engaged in a vast building programme to replace the French battle fleet, almost entirely destroyed at Trafalgar; and Marshal Bernadotte. To Roger the last was of most interest, as he knew him only slightly, although he had heard a lot about him.

  Charles Jean Bernadotte was the son of a lawyer, and a Gascon of Gascons. He was a fine, tall, handsome man and, to the Emperor’s annoyance, defied the prevailing fashion by continuing to wear his hair long. That was far from the only way in which he had annoyed Napoleon.

  In ’96, towards the end of Bonaparte’s first great campaign, Augereau had been sent off to command the Army of the Rhine, and his division was replaced by that of Bernadotte. The soldiers of the Army of Italy were ragged sans-culottes; those of the Rhine old regulars who were, by comparison, gentlemen. The latter regarded the Revolution as over and, instead of addressing one another as ‘citizen’ had reverted to the use of ‘monsieur’. This had resulted in much bad feeling and scores of duels, which had tended to hamper operations. Bonaparte had done his utmost to get Bernadotte recalled to Paris, but had failed.

  That, however, was not the worst result of the exchange. The Army of Italy had fought its way magnificently up through the Carnic Alps and was within a hundred miles of Vienna. It needed only a strong thrust south-east by the Army of the Rhine to join up with Bonaparte, and Vienna would have fallen like a ripe plum into his hands. But Augereau was no strategist and he bungled matters. Winter was fast coming on, Bonaparte was hundreds of miles from his base, so dared advance no further on his own. Thus he was robbed of the finest spoils of victory and deprived of entering the Austrian capital in triumph until many years later.

  When Napoleon was in Egypt and his Italian conquests had been overrun it was, after Masséna, Bernadotte who had played the major role in saving France from invasion; so he had become a popular hero.

  When peace with Austria was signed, he had been sent as Ambassador to Vienna, and there hung the Tricolour out from his Embassy. The sight of the Republican flag had so infuriated the pro-monarchist people that a riot had ensued; but Bernadotte had come out on to the steps of the Embassy, sword in hand, and later the Austrian Government had been forced to apologise.

  As Minister of War at the time of Napoleon’s unauthorised return from Egypt, sensing that the ambitious little Corsican might make trouble, Bernadotte had proposed that he should be arrested and court-martialled as a deserter. But Napoleon’s exploits had already made him such a national idol that the Government had feared to take so dangerous a step and that had led to its own downfall. As a staunch Revolutionary, Bernadotte alone of all the senior Generals, had refused to support Napoleon in the coup d’état of 18th Brumaire which, it could be foreseen, would lead to his becoming a Dictator.

  The Jacobin faction that stood for Government by the People, Atheism and Equality in its fullest sense, had then still been very powerful; so, for a time, Napoleon had had to proceed with caution. Moreau, Lannes, Jourdan, Augereau and Bernadotte were all Jacobins, and it would have been dangerous to quarrel with these paladins thrown up by the Revolution. It was largely for this reason that, in 1804, Napoleon included a number of them in his original creation of Marshals, and the cunning, inscrutable Bernadotte had been one of them.

  In order to minimise opposition to his autocratic rule, Napoleon sent the Marshals he disliked and distrusted away from Paris. Bernadotte was made Governor of the important state of Hanover, and later other German territories were added to his Viceroyalty. He proved as able an administrator as he was a soldier,
not only pacifying the considerable part of the new French Empire but bringing contentment and prosperity to its people.

  He had thus made himself one of Napoleon’s most valuable lieutenants. Moreover, he was almost one of the Imperial Family, because he had married Desirée, the younger daughter of a rich Marseilles silk merchant named Clary, and Julie, the elder daughter, had married Napoleon’s eldest brother, Joseph. The tie was rendered even closer by the fact that, when a penniless young officer, Napoleon had been in love with and engaged to Desirée, and still had a strong affection for her.

  Feeling, no doubt, that Desirée’s handsome, subtle-minded husband had become one of the main props of his Empire, Napoleon decided to elevate him still further. To the fury of the other Marshals, who remained Dukes, when Napoleon made his invaluable Chief of Staff Berthier, Prince of Neuchâtel, he made Bernadotte Prince of Ponte Corvo, with a revenue of a million francs a year.

  Despite his antipathy to the creation of a new upper class Bernadotte, unlike Lannes and Augereau, was a gentleman. His manners were faultless and he had great personal charm. He was greatly beloved by both his officers and men, and worked ceaselessly for their welfare. Prisoners who fell into his hands could also congratulate themselves, for he treated them with great courtesy and took care to see that they enjoyed every reasonable comfort.

  No-one could question the fact that he was among the most able of Napoleon’s Marshals, but he was far from popular with the others, and more than once he had been accused of failing to support his colleagues in the field. A particularly flagrant case of this had occurred during the Prussian campaign of 1806. The irresolute and cowardly King Frederick William had, that autumn, at last been pushed by his military advisers Scharnhorst and Gniesenau into declaring war on France. They had under their hand what they believed to be the finest military machine in Europe: no less than the army trained by Frederick the Great.