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

priest’s life, I hadn’t the aptitude.”
    “That appears obvious,” said Victoire. Then she sighed. “We have been chasing a chimera.”
    “Not a chimera,” said Murat gently, “but the wrong person, that’s certain.” He looked around the camp. “It’s late. And unless I miss my guess we’ll have an early summons from Berthier. He hasn’t done with us yet.” He glanced around the camp. “See her back to her quarters, Roustam-Raza, and keep watch over her. If she’s right, and the thief is at large, he may wish to put an end to her meddling.”
    The hope that had been fading in Victoire’s heart surged again. “You mean that you don’t doubt me? In spite of this?”
    “Well,” Murat said, his eyes fixed intently in the middle distance, “I know that I did not take the scepter. I have been told that all the others can account for their time except your husband. And you say that he did not take the scepter. Assuming that you are correct and your husband is not the culprit, it follows that there is a desperate thief who has already killed one man in order to take his prize. I have no reason to think that he is not prepared to silence you.”
    This somber assessment silenced all three of them. Then Victoire squared her shoulders. “I’m fortunate to have good friends to guard me,” she announced with more confidence than she felt.
    “Yes, Madame, you are,” said Murat. “For I fear that without us, you won’t live to see France again.”

BERTHIER’S FACE WAS pink and his frizzy hair in disarray, but the stem set of his mouth made his appearance sinister instead of ridiculous. For the last quarter hour he had catalogued Victoire’ s offenses to her and had at last run out of vitriol. He glowered at Victoire as he drummed his blunt fingers on his writing table. “I will say I expected a more convincing explanation than that, Madame Vernet. How can you claim that you are defending your husband by spying on me?”
    She had not turned a hair while he upbraided her; now she did not quail at his accusation, nor wilt under his scathing gaze. “I’ve a duty to my husband, and to Napoleon. My husband is no thief, and Napoleon has lost a marine and part of his treasure. Since no one else seems to be taking steps to find the guilty man or to recover the scepter, I’ve taken it as my task.”
    “Women!” Berthier exclaimed. “Fine words, Madame Vernet. But you have shamed me and Madame Foures and you have dragged Murat into a fruitless venture. I will have no more of it.”
    Victoire met his eyes directly. “I will not keep watch for Madame Foures again. She is not ... culpable.”
    “Generous of you to say so,” Berthier responded with heavy sarcasm. The slight jowls that had begun to form on the officer shook as his jaw clenched between words. “Will you permit me to inform her that she need not fear you?”
    “If you wish,” said Victoire, pretending she was not insulted. “But you cannot ask me to keep from trying to exonerate my husband. I’d be a poor excuse for a wife if I did.” She curtsied. “If that is all?”
    “Not quite,” said Berthier. “I have already spoken to Murat about you. He has given me his word that he will not be taken from his duties by your importunities again. Is that clear?”
    “Yes,” said Victoire quietly.
    “And Roustam-Raza has orders to report to me about all your activities. If you attempt anything unauthorized, I will know about it before midnight and I will take whatever steps are necessary to stop you. Do you understand me?”
    “I understand you very well.” Her sapphire-blue eyes were dry and her fair skin was paler than usual. “Now may I go?”
    Berthier shook his head. “All right,” he said. “But remember what I’ve said, and for God’s Nails, woman, use what little sense you’ve been given before you go off on another such start.”
    For once she quivered, stung. “If I had no good sense, General Berthier, I would never have