Napoleon's Pyramids Read Free Page B

the Revolution had been an economic disaster, as near as I could see. Few Frenchmen dared complain too boldly, because governments have a way of defending their mistakes. Bonaparte himself, then a little-known artillery officer, had spattered grapeshot on the last reactionary uprising, earning him promotion.
    We passed the site of the Bastille, now dismantled. Since the prison’s liberation, twenty-five thousand people had been executed in the Terror, ten times that had fled, and fifty-seven new prisons had been built to take its place. Without any sense of irony, the former site was nonetheless marked with a “fountain of regeneration”: an enthroned Isis who, when the contraption worked, streamed water from her breasts. In the distance I could see the spires of Notre Dame, renamed the Temple of Reason and reputedly built on the site of a Roman temple dedicated to the same Egyptian goddess. Should I have had a premonition? Alas, we seldom notice what we’re meant to see. When I paid off the lantern bearer I took little note that he lingered a moment too long after I stepped inside.
    I climbed the creaking, urine-scented wooden stairway to Minette’s abode. Her apartment was on the unfashionable third floor, right below the attic garrets occupied by servant girls and artists. The altitude gave me a clue to the middling success of her trade, no doubt hurt by the revolutionary economy almost as much as wig makers and gilt painters. Minette had lit a single candle, its light reflected by the copper bowl she’d used to wash her thighs, and was dressed in a simple white shift, its laces untied at the top to invite further exploration. She came to me with a kiss, her breath smelling of wine and licorice.
    “Have you brought my little present?”
    I pulled her tighter to my trousers. “You should be able to feel it.”
    “No.” She pouted and put her hand on my chest. “Here, by your heart.” She traced where the medallion should have lain against my skin, its disc, its dangling arms, all on a golden chain. “I wanted to wear it for you.”
    “And have us risk a stabbing?” I kissed her again. “Besides, it’s not safe to carry such prizes around in the dark.”
    Her hands were exploring my torso, to make sure. “I’d hoped for more courage.”
    “We’ll gamble for it. If you win, I’ll bring it next time.”
    “Gamble how?” She cooed, in a professionally practiced way.
    “The loser will be the one who gains the summit first.”
    She let her hair drift along my neck. “And the weapons?”
    “Any and all that you can imagine.” I bent her back a little, tripping her on the leg I had wrapped against her ankles, and laid her on the bed. “ En garde.”
     
     
     
    I won our little contest, and at her insistence for a rematch, won a second and then a third, making her squeal. At least I think I won; with women you can never truly tell. It was enough to keep her sleeping when I rose before dawn and left a silver coin on my pillow. I put a log on the fireplace to help warm the room for her rising.
    With the sky graying and the lantern bearers gone, common Paris was getting out of bed. Garbage carts trundled through the streets. Plankmen charged fees for temporary bridges laid over stagnant street water. Watermen carried pails to the finer houses. My own neighborhood of St. Antoine was neither fine nor disreputable, but rather a working-class place of artisans, cabinetmakers, hatters, and locksmiths. Rent was kept down by a confusion of smells from the breweries and dye works. Enfolding all was the enduring Parisian odor of smoke, bread, and manure.
    Feeling quite satisfied with my evening, I mounted the dark stairs intending to sleep until noon. So when I unlocked my door and pushed inside my dim quarters, I decided to feel my way to my mattress rather than bother with shutter or candle. I wondered idly if I could pawn the medallion—given Silano’s interest—for enough to afford better habitation.
    Then I