The Rosetta Key

From experience, I knew he was right. “And you’ve been following me like one of Fouché’s secret policemen?”

“I spied you in the prison wagon, where you belonged, but I knew you’d be out somehow, and up to no good! Oui, I kept an eye on Temple Prison, let me assure you! When I saw you enter the palace with that corrupt jailer I ran for help. Count Silano himself said he would confront you! Yet by the time I get back here the whole place is in flames!” She turned to the soldiers. “This is typical of the American. He lives like a wilderness savage. Try getting him to pay you!” I sighed. “Madame Durrell, I’m afraid I’ve lost everything once again. I cannot pay you, no matter how many policemen you have.” She squinted. “What about that gun there? Isn’t that the one you stole from my apartment, the one you tried to shoot me with?”

“I did not steal it, it was mine, and I shot the lock, not at you. It’s not even the same . . .” But Astiza put her hand on my arm and I looked past my old landlady. Bonaparte was coming down the corridor with a cluster of generals and aides. His gray eyes were ice, his features stormy. The last time I’d seen him that angry was when he’d heard of Josephine’s infidelities and annihilated the Mamelukes at the Battle of the Pyramids.

I braced for the worst. Bonaparte’s command of the language of the drill field was legendary. But, after glowering, he shook his head 3 3 2

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in grudging wonder. “I should have guessed. Have you indeed discovered the secret of immortality, Monsieur Gage?”

“I’m just persistent.”

“So you follow me for two thousand miles, set fire to a royal palace, and leave my firemen to find two bodies in the ashes?”

“We were preventing worse things from happening, I assure you.”

“General, he owes me rent!” Madame Durrell piped up.

“I would prefer you refer to me as first consul, madame, a post to which I was elected at two o’clock this morning. And how much does he owe you?”

We could see her calculating, wondering how far she dared inflate the true total. “One hundred livres,” she finally tried. When no one erupted at this absurdity, she added, “With fifty, for interest.”

“Madame,” Napoleon said, “Were you the one who sounded the alarm?”

Durrell puffed herself up. “I was.”

“Then another fifty livres as a reward for that, as a gift from the government.” He turned. “Berthier, count out two hundred for this gallant woman.”

“Yes, General. I mean Consul.”

Madame Durrell beamed.

“But you must never breathe a word of this to anyone,” Bonaparte lectured her. “What has gone on here tonight involves the security of France, and our nation’s fortunes rely on your discretion and courage.

Can you handle such a burden, madame?”

“For two hundred livres I can.”

“Excellent. You are a true patriot.” His aide pulled her away to count out some money, and the new ruler of France turned back to me. “The bodies were burned beyond recognition. Can you identify them to me, Monsieur Gage?”

“One is Count Silano. It seems we could not renew our partnership.”

“I see.” He tapped his foot. “And the second?”

“An old Egyptian friend named Omar. He saved our lives, I think.” Bonaparte sighed. “And the book?”

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“A victim of the same conflagration, I’m afraid.”

“Was it? Search them.” And we were searched, roughly, but there was nothing to be found. A soldier confiscated my rifle yet again.

“So you betrayed me to the end.” He peered up at the smoke beginning to dissipate, frowning like a landlord at a leak. “Well, I have no need of the book any longer, given that I have France. You should watch what I do with her.”

“I’m sure you’ll not sit still.”

“Unfortunately, you are long overdue to be shot, and France will be safer when that happens. Having left it to others before this night, without success, I think I’ll tend to it myself. The Tuileries Gardens are as good a place as any.”

“Napoleon!” Astiza pleaded.

“You will not miss him, madame. I am going to shoot you too. And your jailer, if I can find him.”

“I think he’s looking for treasure in the crypts of Notre Dame,” I said. “Don’t blame him. He’s a simple man with imagination, the only jailer I ever liked.”

“That idiot lost Sidney Smith from Temple Prison too,” Napoleon grumbled. “Whom I then had to face at Acre.”

“Yes, General. But his tales encouraged all of us to keep looking for your book.”

“Then I’ll shoot you twice, to make up for him.” We were marched outside. Wisps of smoke were rising into a predawn gray sky. Once more I was much the worse for wear—exhausted, slashed by a rapier, scraped raw to make friction, and sleepless. If I truly have the devil’s luck, I pity the devil.

Bonaparte stood us up against a decorative wall, the season having taken most of the flowers. It is there in an ominous November dawn that my story should end: Napoleon master, the book gone, my love doomed. We were too exhausted to even beg. Muskets were raised and hammers drawn back.

Here we go again, I thought.

And then came a sharp command. “Wait.”