The emperor of France is receiving the Duke and Duchess of Richmond when Thibault arrives. Thibault waits at the back of the drawing room where Napoléon has set up his war office. Marshal Ney is seated to the left of an ornate desk.
“Again I must thank you for the use of your house,” Napoléon says. “And I assure you that my staff will leave it in pristine condition.”
“A kindness greatly appreciated,” the duke says. He bows his head graciously, but it is clear from the tension in the neck of his wife, the duchess, that she is far from pleased with the arrangement.
“I hear that you had a great ball here, just three nights ago,” Napoléon says. “Had I left France a little sooner, I could have attended myself.”
Ney laughs at his joke. The duke and duchess do not. Nor would Thibault, in their situation. Most of the officers who attended that ball are surely now wounded or dead, their elegant wives now nursemaids, or widows.
“My men will accompany you to the coast, and arrange passage for you to England,” Napoléon says. “They will ensure you are not harmed.”
“Thank you again, monsieur,” the duke says.
“I await your king’s reply with great eagerness,” he says.
“I expect that England will not surrender quite so easily,” the duke says. “After just one battle.”
“Then the next time I ask for her surrender will be on the steps of Buckingham Palace,” Napoléon says. “And my terms will not be as generous.”
The duke and duchess sweep past Thibault as they leave, the strain showing through the powder that cannot conceal the dark circles under her eyes, or the gray pallor of his face.
Ney waits until the door closes, then summons Thibault over.
Thibault bows in front of his emperor.
“Ah, the late Major Thibault,” Ney says.
“I must apologize for our untimely arrival at the battle,” Thibault says, still bowed. “The forest was crawling with British patrols and we had to proceed slowly lest we lost the advantage of surprise.”
“Your timing could have been a little better,” Napoléon says. “Many men were lost because of it. However”—a great smile breaks out on his face and he embraces Thibault warmly, kissing him on both cheeks—“victory is ours.”
“A victory that will resound through history,” Thibault says.
Napoléon gestures to an aide, who steps forward with a tray of crystal glasses. Thibault takes one and sips. It is fine champagne. Napoléon retrieves his own glass from the desk, next to an intricately patterned black oval snuff box. He tosses the champagne back as if it is water.
“The British run away with their tails between their legs, and we drink their champagne from their own crystal,” Napoléon says. “And the beauty is that from now on I will scarcely even have to fight! Fear now rides at the head of my army. The Netherlands have surrendered without so much as a skirmish, and the Prussians are already pressing for terms!”
Napoléon laughs and takes a pinch of snuff. “These battlesaurs of yours win actions without setting foot on the battlefield.”
“The Russians do not forget 1812, and England has its moat,” Thibault says.
“Ah, Major, even my generals do not dare to so insult me,” Napoléon says.
“Sire! I never—”
“Hush, hush,” Napoléon says. “You speak your mind, and your heart. Too many of my pampering squibs say only what they think I want to hear.”
“Sire,” Thibault says.
“You seek to remind me of my greatest defeat. You think perhaps I have forgotten the long retreat from Russia. Or the hundreds of thousands of men we left on those frozen fields. I have not, Thibault. Nor has Marshal Ney, the last man to leave Russian soil. But this is a new war and we have new weapons. As for the English?” Napoléon passes the snuff in front of his nose, smelling it, then discards it without inhaling. “John Bull thinks the channel makes him safe. That the water that surrounds his pathetic little island will stop me from crushing him. Not this time, Major!”
“The Royal Navy still commands the channel, sire,” Ney says.
“The English are foolish and unskilled in the art of war,” Napoléon says. “King George lies at death’s door. Liverpool’s puppet, no more. I will give the ships of his majesty something else to do, while we cross the water unmolested. And let me tell you this, Thibault. This time my plans are not so limited. After England and Russia we will take Austria, and the Ottomans. Then perhaps we will look toward Asia.”
“Yes, sire,” Thibault says.
“But I cannot have a mere major commanding my new army,” Napoléon says. “That would not do at all. I will need to put a general in charge.”
Thibault bows his head. “Sire, with the utmost respect, I have spent years with these creatures. I understand them, and how to use them in battle. To replace me, in the midst of a war, with a new officer might not produce the results you intend.”
“I agree, Major,” Napoléon says. “And yet it is only appropriate that a general should be in command.”
“I do not understand, sire,” Thibault says.
“You will, General Thibault,” Napoléon says. “Ney will see to the paperwork.”
“Of course, sire,” Ney says.
“Thank you, sire,” Thibault says, bowing again. “It is a great honor.”
It is a big promotion, from major to general. Almost unheard of.
Napoléon looks up at the sound of the door. A valet opens it and Count Cambronne approaches in long confident strides.
“Faithful Cambronne,” Napoléon says. “I did not expect to see you again tonight.”
“Sire, I bring serious news from Wallonia,” Cambronne says.
“What can be serious in Wallonia?” Napoléon laughs. “I have just conquered Wallonia.”
“There is talk of a boy, in a small village near Waterloo, who has command over saurs,” Cambronne says.
“Not over my saurs,” Thibault says. “They would devour a boy without noticing.”
“They say he charmed a saur, and then killed it while it was under his spell,” Cambronne says.
“A microsaurus, perhaps?” Napoléon asks. “Or a small raptor?”
Cambronne shakes his head. “My men say it was a dinosaur, one of Thibault’s.”
“Thibault?” Napoléon impales him with a glance.
“It is true that we lost a saur,” Thibault says cautiously.
“You lost one of my battlesaurs?” Napoléon flings his arms wide. The snuff box crashes to the ground but he does not notice. “An animal the size of a house?”
“It escaped, sire,” Thibault says. “The equipment failed and it threw off, then ate, its rider. It escaped into the forest. We hunted it for many days.”
“Which kind of saur was it?”
“The one we call the crocodylus, sire.”
“I warned you that that big one would be difficult to control,” Napoléon says. “Where is it now?”
“I do not know, sire. I assumed it was dead at the bottom of a gully or still roaming wild in the forest. We were preparing for battle and did not have time to worry over one lost beast.”
“One lost beast.” Napoléon repeats the words as if he cannot believe that he has heard them.
“There is more, sire,” Cambronne says. “This village, Gaillemarde—it was the site of a so-called miracle, a few weeks ago.”
“A miracle?”
“A boy was shot, by pistol, accidentally,” Cambronne says. “He was shot in the chest, but was unharmed, and produced the ball through his mouth.”
“That is nothing but a conjuring trick,” Thibault says. “An old trick.”
But Napoléon is now leaning forward, his relaxed pose giving way to a ramrod stiffness.
“A boy performed this trick?” he asks.
“Yes, sire.”
“And a boy charmed and killed one of my battlesaurs?”
“So they say, sire.”
“It is the son,” Napoléon says. “It must be.”
“They are just stories, sire,” Thibault says.
“We conquer Europe with an army of fear,” Napoléon says. “If word spreads that even a child can kill one of your terrible lizards, then who will fear them?”
“You speak wisely, sire,” Cambronne says.
“Bring me this boy,” Napoléon says.
“Of course, sire,” Cambronne says.
“Not you, Count,” Napoléon says. “This is Thibault’s pickle. He can clean it up.”
“As you wish, sire,” Thibault says.