Where the Light Falls(131)
Murat turned toward the approaching figure and muttered, “None of your concern, Dumas.”
“Actually, I was looking for Major Valière. Major, a word, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not now,” Murat said dismissively, angling his large frame between the two men. “I am speaking to Valière at the moment.”
“I can see that,” Dumas said, unfazed. “Only I have orders from our high commander himself that concern the young officer. So I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt. Major, come with me, if you would.”
Murat fell quiet at this, his eyes darting back and forth from Dumas to André, apparently unsure how to react. If, in fact, Dumas did have business with André that came directly from Bonaparte, it would not be prudent to interfere with it—even Murat knew as much. And yet, he clearly had not decided whether he believed Dumas’s claim. Finally, with a low growl, Murat acquiesced, turning and skulking off into the dark camp without another word. André watched his retreating frame with relief, even though he knew that whatever business they had was far from over.
“Right this way.” Dumas led André in silence until they came to a small canvas tent on the southern edge of the camp. Dumas lifted the flap and entered, waving André to follow him.
Inside, the air was hot and still. Dumas lit a candle and gestured for André to take a seat in the lone wooden chair beside the camp bed. Dumas lowered himself onto the cot.
“Join me for a moment.” The general poured two small glasses of fresh water. Then, as if skimming the thoughts directly from André’s mind, he spoke: “I don’t actually have a message for you from General Bonaparte.” Dumas gulped his water and placed his empty glass on the table. “It just appeared that you might need assistance back there with General Murat. He can be…difficult.”
André nodded, eagerly finishing his own glass and lowering it to the table. His mind spun as he recalled the previous hour’s events, the vague and indecipherable remarks by Murat. “In that case…thank you, sir. And thank you for the drink of water. I should go and let you—”
“Stay, stay a moment,” Dumas said, raising his hand. “Was I correct?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you need saving? Back there with Nic…er, General Murat?”
André considered the question. “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure what General Murat wanted with me. I’ve never understood—”
“It should come as no surprise to you when I tell you that you are not one of General Murat’s favorites.”
André blinked, absorbing the declaration. Dumas continued, his face frank and expressionless. “You knew that already.”
André nodded. “I…I did.”
Dumas shrugged, waving his hands as if to swat a fly. “Foolish, all of it. Egypt cares very little for the grievances and grudges of a few feuding Frenchmen.”
“But, sir, that’s just it. I’m not certain what his grudge with me is,” André confessed. “I had the…poor luck to fall in love with his niece, yes. But his grievance with me predates my acquaintance with Sophie, of that I’m sure. I’ve had the feeling that General Murat has hated me since the moment he first set eyes on me at Valmy—perhaps even before. I know that sounds odd.”
“Not odd at all.” Dumas shook his head, pouring himself another glass of water. He refilled André’s glass as well. “In fact, you’re entirely correct.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Nicolai Murat has hated you your entire life. Perhaps even longer.”
André did not attempt to conceal his confusion at hearing it confirmed, this bald and unequivocal hatred that he had always suspected. And by a senior officer, no less. “But what have I done? Why does he hate me?”
Dumas took a long, slow sip and smacked his lips, weighing his words. Eventually, he answered: “Nicolai Murat hates you because you are the son of Alexandre, Marquis de Valière.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut, punching the air from André. When he did not answer, Dumas continued. “You might recall a bit of my story—that I am the son of a French nobleman and his Haitian mistress?”
“Yes,” André said, nodding, thinking back to the first evening he’d met General Dumas, in his prison cell onboard the ship in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Dumas’s mind was elsewhere now, his gaze falling on the far side of the tent as he explained: “My father’s title and wealth were enough to gain me entry into society. I made acquaintances and struck up friendships among many different circles. Many of the nobles are now gone, fled abroad or lost their heads. But some remain. Some of these individuals knew your father from the royal court, others from the academy at Brienne.”