It was like a great gust of wind parting acres of grain: The air freshened, the hum of conversation changed pitch, then fell away. The First Consul and his lady came round a corner arm in arm, trailed by aides-de-camp; all generals in ropes of gold braid, silk sashes, and decorations from the field. Glittering spurs that had never bit into horseflesh jangled at their heels. The crowd opened a path, applauding from the sidelines.
Bonaparte surrounded himself with titans. The Grenadiers of the Consular Guard had been selected for their height; their heeled boots and great shaggy hats made them seem tall as trees. The First Consul was a man of average height, but the sight of him in that company had led to the popular misapprehension that he was short.
He was dressed elegantly but simply in contrast to the pomp around him, in a scarlet coat with gold embroidery, skin-tight breeches, and boots that glistened like mirrors to his knees. His celebrated wife was a wisp of pale vapor in silk and muslin, her only jewelry a gold pin on one shoulder and a matching chain round her throat. Her storied auburn ringlets, worn short, exposed well-shaped ears. Her habitual tight-lipped smile was painted in place.
The Strong Man of France slowed from time to time to show his excellent teeth and exchange a few words, his lady to extend a languid hand to the fortunate; but the party moved briskly down the broad corridor. Dubois uncovered as it passed. No one took notice of him.
Which was just as well. He couldn’t manufacture the saliva to return a greeting. He put on his hat. Where was Limodin with Dr. Eslée?
“Your water, monsieur.”
“Thank you so much.” He snatched a silver pitcher and a crystal goblet from the tray that was offered him, filled the goblet, emptied it greedily, filled it again and drank.
“A thousand thanks.” He put it back. “It wouldn’t look well for the head of the Paris Police to die of heatstroke.”
The servant seemed not to have heard him. He was watching after the grand receding party. “He’s a great man, isn’t he? A true immortal.”
“Yes. Let’s hope.”
The man dressed as a grenadier saluted as the Bonapartes passed, all but invisible inside their circle. He fell into step at the end of the last row of guardsmen. The others seemed to take no notice, intent on the couple in their charge.
The Tuileries was a rabbit-warren, riddled with groins, vaults, and side passages by order of the Medicis. Grenadiers were posted at entrances every few yards, with far less impressive men standing nearby, some in drab police uniforms, others in civilian dress.
If a trap had been set for him—for which he was constantly on guard—it was hardly airtight. The sentries ignored him as he passed, looking for suspicious activity among the grandly dressed guests drifting along in the party’s wake.
They had either too little imagination or too much: They sought the extraordinary at the expense of the ordinary.
His boots were a half-size too large, but he’d made them fit with socks too thick for July. He’d bought the boots for just the price of resoling. The customer who’d left them with the cobbler had failed to reclaim them. They were the least expensive items on his person, and better than too tight. There would be running involved.
The Viper remembered his military training. When a commotion took place at one of the entrances, he kept his eyes front. He overheard the exchange in passing.
“Soldier, I am Chief Inspector Limodin of the Paris Police, in command of these officers. I’m under orders to bring this man directly to Prefect Dubois. Here are my papers.”
“I have my orders as well, monsieur,” said the sentry. “I answer only to an officer of the grenadiers.”
“S’il vous plaît. It’s urgent.”
A third voice, this, vaguely familiar; the Viper had heard so many since. He turned his head a quarter-inch and locked eyes with Dr. Charles Eslée of Pontoise.
“From the cellars of the Vatican, your excellency. With the pontiff’s compliments.” Foreign Minister Talleyrand, once again in favor, tucked his stick under one arm and filled a heavy gold goblet from a tall black bottle with an escutcheon on the label.
Bonaparte said, “I wasn’t aware he’d been in contact.”
“A case arrived just yesterday, by special diplomatic courier. I thought it would be a pleasant surprise. Was I wrong?”
“On another day, perhaps.” He unlaced his arm from Josephine’s and took the goblet. “We’ll send him a good French vintage in return. My blood’s Italian, but I’m not prepared to admit France’s vines are inferior.”
“I’m told these barrels were put down under Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“Maybe he couldn’t bear to look at them. I’ll challenge the pope to a tasting next time I’m in Rome.”
“Madame?” Talleyrand produced an identical vessel and held the bottle ready.
Josephine shook her head, smiling still. She despised the club-footed Foreign Minister.
Bonaparte lifted his goblet. Talleyrand filled the other goblet and raised it. “To a permanent understanding with the Church.”
“An understanding, anyway.”
They drank. The First Consul made a wry face.
“As I suspected.”
“I find it full-bodied.”
“So is German beer; but I wouldn’t recommend it for an occasion of state.” Bonaparte set his goblet on a tray held by a convenient footman.
Fouché approached.
“The public is eager, excellency.”
“They generally are, when there’s an excuse to drink. Where is Dubois?”
“I can’t say. It’s not like him to be—”
“Here!” The Prefect appeared, breathless.
Fouché’s smile was bitter. He’d been interrupted in the middle of an obsequious insult to his colleague.
“How goes the snake hunt?” Bonaparte’s smile died short of his eyes. He’d been told the latest details.
“Nothing so far, Citizen First Consul. I’ve someone coming who can identify the party. He’s in the charge of my chief inspector.”
“He’s fashionably late.”
“The streets are a nightmare.”
“Let’s hope they’re the same for our friend,” put in Fouché.
“Wine, Dubois?” Bonaparte tilted his head toward Talleyrand’s bottle.
“Thank you, no. It disagrees with me in this heat.”
“I thought you pale. I myself am seldom hot since Egypt. If you’d served with me there, you’d have a fire laid every day. Ah, Delaborde. Your men look splendid.”
The general in command of the First Division of the Consular Guard had joined them. Splinters of silver glittered in his sidewhiskers. “Thank you, your excellency.” He saluted smartly. “A rough lot, some of them, fresh from the frontiers.”
“Good. A Paris post leads to sloth.” Noise swelled from the crowd outside. “Don’t overload the balcony, General. It’s old and rotted with Bourbon neglect.”
“I trust it will hold men enough to discourage a villain.” Delaborde raised his voice. “Grenadiers!”
The Viper couldn’t tell if Eslée had recognized him.
The chief inspector’s body came between them on the instant their gazes met, waving his arms in furious argument with the obstinate grenadier at the entrance; he hoped it was distraction enough.
They’d seen each other for a fraction of a second, and it was human nature to place the uniform before the face. He had to place faith in his sidewhiskers, the healthy tan he’d acquired since leaving the doctor’s care. Regardless, he must not risk a closer look.
Fate spared him that.
“Grenadiers!”
Delaborde’s parade-ground bellow set the escort moving toward the balcony. The Viper fell into step with it.
His position at right rear put him first in the march, the ranks routinely breaking position from back to front. He trotted in double-time, the others in his line falling in behind. Their boots struck the floor in unison, chug-chug-chug. He came within a meter of a slight figure in a scarlet coat, standing beside a woman in white.
Bonaparte was no longer the gaunt brigadier general of 13 Vendémiaire, with hollow cheeks and long lank hair, but his person was undeniable. He often employed doubles to stand for him in public; this was not one. As it was with all famous men, once in his presence there was no doubt. Here was the great brainy forehead, the stray lock falling upon it, the straight, prominent nose, the obstinate chin, and those gray eyes, which could burn like flame or chill like ice, depending on the humor of the individual who commanded them. There wasn’t a parlor in Paris that didn’t display that image in paint or marble, or a newspaper in London that didn’t feature it in insolent caricature.
The old hoodoo was still in effect: The power of his presence was like a blow to the solar plexus. The fact irritated the Viper; tempered further the steel of his resolve.
“Company—halt!”
The last line of soldiers slid into place and stopped with a crash of heels. Silence slammed down, louder than the shouts of the crowd outside, every eye on the balcony. The false soldier stood with his hands at his sides, thumbs in line with the seams of his breeches. The dagger was once again up his left sleeve; a precaution only, in case the pistol misfired or if he had to fight his way free in the aftermath. There’d be no time to reload in any event.
“You, there!”
He kept his gaze in the middle distance. Training alone had stayed him from flinching when Bonaparte barked.
He smelled peppermint. The First Consul approached.
Now he stood directly in front of him, half a head shorter, studying the decorations on his breast.
“Toulon. Italy. Egypt.” He pointed at each in turn, as if selecting chocolates from a box. “You’ve seen much of the world, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” He kept his eyes level.
Bonaparte touched the smallest medal, lifting it at the end of its ribbon.
“Thirteen Vendémiaire. I don’t often see these. You were in the square?”
“Yes, sir. I was on temporary detached duty to the artillery.”
“Name?”
“Débiteur, your excellency. My Christian name is Aleron.”
“At ease.”
He spread his feet and folded his hands behind his back. His right thumb touched the butt of the pistol under his tunic.
“A soldier’s name, Aleron.”
“My father’s, your excellency.”
“Josephine!”
That wraith approached, trailing silk and muslin like billows of white smoke.
“Allow me to present Captain Aleron Débiteur, a hero of the Republic. Capitaine Débiteur, Madame Bonaparte.”
The Viper turned her way, holding out a hand in a white glove. The woman, whiter yet, laid hers on it. It was weightless in his palm.
“We have so many heroes these days,” said she, “but it’s rare for my husband to single one out. I congratulate you, Captain.”
Her smile was mocking, he thought. Tiny fissures showed in the enamel at the corners of her eyes. He smelled her perfume, as light and airy as the woman who wore it; and like her, one of a kind. The cost of its manufacture would have outfitted a regiment.
“Thank you, Madame. It’s a great honor.” Kiss her hand? No. He let it lie where it was until she withdrew it. He refolded his behind his back.
“I don’t forget faces,” Bonaparte said. “We exchanged some words while we were waiting for the guns to arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forty Gribeauval twenty-four-pounders. Four hundred sixty-two enemy casualties, most of them slain.”
The Viper said nothing, seeing a dead woman with one leg, the other still twitching across the courtyard. She’d been clutching a bundle of straw for her hearth. The memory haunted his nightmares.
“You’re injured recently. I can always tell.”
“I was in a military hospital in Marseille until a few weeks ago. Sir. I caught a Mameluk lance in Egypt, took fever, and came back aboard a merchant vessel. This is my first assignment since returning.”
Few questioned a lie leavened with truth.
Bonaparte gave no sign that his Oriental disaster, the troops he’d abandoned in order to steal France at gunpoint, troubled him. He turned to Josephine.
“Vendémiaire was the Royalists’ last stand. The defeat drove them from military action to base butchery.”
She shuddered. “Don’t remind me, Bonaparte. I want to forget Christmas Eve.”
He turned back to the grenadier. “Quite a day, Captain. A whiff of grapeshot, like pepper in a drunk’s face.”
“Yes, sir. Quite a day.”
“Débiteur. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t ring a bell.”
Snap!
A brown sparrow of a man in a uniform too grand for him shut the lid on his watch; an impatient fellow with a moustache like a furry insect, wearing a hat that suggested a cake pan. He was preoccupied with something other than the conversation. Something or someone was late.
The First Consul laughed. He reached up and tweaked the Viper’s earlobe.
“A man indeed! A good augur for the day.”
Capitaine Débiteur flushed and reached for his pistol.