“Why, Madame Grocque, what is the matter? I know that it must have been frightening, but you’ve done wonderfully well. Surely there’s no need for any tears, unless they be tears of joy.”
“You don’t understand, monsieur!”
“What don’t I understand, Madame Grocque?” Jean-Luc looked from the woman to the baby, then to his wife, where she lay sleeping in bed. And it was in that moment that he noticed the unnatural paleness of Marie’s cheeks. The eerie plum color of her lips—lips that had always shone red and warm. Her brown eyes shut, and remaining shut, even as her baby wailed and her son whimpered in the corner and her husband clamored about.
He noticed for the first time the pile of papers by her side, and he leaned over to inspect them. Political pamphlets. All of them signed by the same mystery writer, Persephone. Beneath them were the originals, all written in Marie’s familiar handwriting. And then on top, a note. Also in Marie’s handwriting.
Hands trembling, Jean-Luc read her words:
My darling Jean-Luc,
You know that I have always been your greatest admirer. Carry on with our noble work, for there is still so much more to be done. I shall stand beside you, always, in the two children you will raise, two children who could never have a more loving and devoted father. Do well for them, do well for our free nation, and you shall do well for me. I know you will.
Yours, with love for eternity—
Marie St. Clair
Postscript: You’ve always been worthy of me—though perhaps a little less wily.
“Marie?” Jean-Luc looked from the note to the motionless figure of his wife, his lungs collapsing, his chest squeezed tight by a noose. “Marie? No! This can’t be! Wake up!” He leaned over her, tears rushing to his eyes as his wife, his beloved, failed to respond to the crying out of her name.
“Maman!” Mathieu, too, joined in, but his mother’s eyelids remained shut, impervious to the supplications of her son, her husband, her new daughter. That was not something Marie would ever have done. Marie had never once ignored the cries of her son. She would never have been deaf to the pain of her husband. To the plaintive yelps of her newborn daughter. There was only one explanation: Marie was no longer there.
And when Jean-Luc took her hand in his own, he knew it to be true, for her soft flesh was cold.
July 22, 1798
André woke to a strong odor in his nostrils and a throbbing in his head. He sniffed the air and recognized the faint but familiar smell of sulfur. Stronger still was the smell of burning flesh. His neck ached as he lifted his head, and he saw that he was no longer in the desert but in the middle of a crowded tent with a dozen others. Cots lined the space and a pair of physicians tended to groaning men.
One of the camp doctors noticed André sitting up and walked over to his cot. Thin eyeglasses perched on the edge of his sunburned nose. He leaned over, pressing his hand to André’s forehead. “Your fever has passed. And some of your color has returned. I believe the worst is over for you. You’re luckier than some of the others.”
André parted his parched lips. “Is there…water?”
The man walked across the tent, returning with two skins. “General Bonaparte has ordered us to be generous with the last of the wine rations. No, take the water first.” André gulped greedily at the water, letting it run down his bare chest. “Slowly, sir. You’ve lost a good deal of blood and will be weak for some time.”
As André caught his breath, he held out his hand for the wineskin. The warm drink burned slightly as it dripped down his throat. He closed his eyes as he savored the taste. “Thank you.”
“Save your gratitude for that Egyptian fellow.” The doctor smiled faintly at André. “You would have bled out onto the sand if he had not brought you back.”
André thought back to the battle, recalling only confused flashes. He remembered the French squares shooting deadly fire into the enemy horsemen. He recalled the massive pyramids as the cavalry pursued the fleeing Mamelukes. A cold, shadowed doorway. A struggle for a gun. Murat. The madman had tried to kill him. But here he was, in spite of it all, alive and in one piece, for the most part. Had he killed Murat?
“You know, shirking duty is a crime punishable by death, Major Valière.”
André turned toward the familiar voice and saw the tall, dark figure of General Dumas standing in the open flap of the tent. His face was stern, his uniform weather-beaten. His boots were caked in mud and silt. André gawked for a moment, unsure of what his superior had meant by that remark. The general took several steps toward him and flashed a sudden smile, his broad face handsome and relaxed. “Don’t you know there is more work to be done, soldier?”