Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page A

suspicions. It was merely a misunderstanding.” Before Victoire could protest, he turned and muttered, “Not one word, Madame,” as he made her step back into the shadows.
    It took two good wrenches to break free of his grip and by then they were four tents away, Roustam-Raza trailing after them. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked indignantly. “You see a woman and you cannot contain yourself, is that it?”
    “No, you foolish woman, that’s most unfortunately not it,” he said, motioning for her to keep her voice down.
    “You didn’t ask them any questions!” she burst out, unwilling to be silenced.
    “Because I didn’t have to,” he said, and signalled Roustam-Raza to approach. “That woman is Pauline Foures.”
    “I know who she is,” said Victoire. “What has that to do with anything? You saw the way she came to Berthier’s tent. Her husband is an important officer—”
    “And that is the issue, her husband,” said Murat with less merriment. “He’s always at the front. He claims he likes to be there.” He looked down at his feet then back at Victoire. “You have to give me your word that what I tell you now you will keep in utter confidence.”
    “Of course,” she said, standing straighter. “Only my husband will be informed, if it’s—”
    “Not even your husband, Madame,” Murat said sternly, and looked over at the Mameluke. “You have sworn loyalty to Napoleon. Therefore you must remain silent about what I tell you.”
    “If it is necessary, then I will,” said Roustam-Raza purposefully.
    Victoire was tom between impatience and a growing sense of dismay. “Why can’t I tell Vernet?”
    “Because it would be unwise. There is enough against your husband, madame, without adding this to his burden of demerits.” Murat coughed delicately. “You see, we are very far from Paris. And the rumors about Josephine are quite specific, disturbingly consistent, and cruel. Madame Foures provides ... needed companionship for Napoleon.”
    Victoire cocked her head to the side. “You mean she is his mistress?”
    Her bluntness brought a single chuckle from Murat. “It is precisely what I am attempting to discreetly communicate,” he said to her. “One of the reasons Foures is always at the front—where he has had the ill grace to survive—is for the convenience of his wife.”
    “You mean he knows of this?” Roustam-Raza demanded, thoroughly scandalized.
    “Let us say that he does his best not to know of it. He does not want to show himself a cuckold; but the favor of Napoleon has its undoubted benefits.” Murat’s smile was cynical.
    “Not if it keeps Foures at the front,” said Victoire with asperity.
    “How is it that Napoleon disgraces his officer in this way? How can he bring such dishonor upon himself?” Roustam-Raza was more baffled than outraged now. “He’s the leader. If he must have bodies, there are young men enough here who would gladly accept his favor.”
    Murat stared at Roustam-Raza. “Muslims,” he said comprehensively. “It is not Napoleon’s way to bed men, I fear. His taste is for women. Frenchwomen.”
    “Then find the houses where women are,” said Roustam-Raza at his most reasonable. “They will accommodate him. Or find a village and rape the ones that please the eye.” He drew up his shoulders. “But to take a married woman ... The Prophet would not permit it.”
    “Napoleon is a married man,” Murat reminded him. Then he threw back his head. “When I was in the seminary, I would probably have agreed with you. But the army has taught me pragmatism. Napoleon likes the bodies of women and prefers devotion in those he beds. Thus Pauline Foures. If her husband is not killed, they both will profit from the alliance. Napoleon is not shabby.”
    Victoire regarded him with new interest. “You were in the seminary?”
    “I thought I had the vocation,” he answered. “But I suppose what I wanted was the education. When it came to living a