The Emerald Storm Read Free Page B

taffeta, eating his lunch from a portable campaign table. He’d already bathed—despite the skepticism of his doctors, Napoleon had embraced the modern French fashion of scrubbing every day, now that he had servants to heat the water—and was dressed in a simple blue military coat with red collar, white breeches, and silk stockings. I thought he might offer coffee and a roll, not to mention some soup or chicken, but he ignored my hunger and gestured me to an upholstered chair.
    I looked about. There was a large writing table Napoleon had designed in the shape of a kidney or viol so he could squeeze into its middle and have incoming and outgoing correspondence flank him. It was heaped with papers and had legs carved like griffins.
    A smaller table was assigned to his new secretary, Claude-François de Méneval, who had abruptly replaced Bourienne when the latter became embroiled in speculation over military supplies. Young and handsome, Méneval glanced at me now, reminding me that we’d met at Mortefontaine when celebrating the American treaty. I nodded, though I had no memory of him.
    Behind this scribe, clifflike bookcases covered the walls from floor to ceiling, helping insulate the cavernous office from winter’s chill. Bronze busts of the ancient antagonists Hannibal and Scipio eyed each other on the mantel as if wishing for more war elephants. The last time I’d discussed Hannibal with Napoleon I found myself guiding his army over the Alps, so this time I vowed to stay entirely away from military history.
    “Gage,” Bonaparte greeted me matter-of-factly, as if we’d just conferred yesterday instead of nearly a year ago, “I thought the pirates might have finally extinguished you, but here you are again, like a misfire you can’t pry loose from a muzzle. The naturalist Cuvier tells me you actually succeeded in accomplishing something.”
    “Not just destroying a dangerous ancient weapon, First Consul, but finding a wife and son.”
    “Remarkable that someone would have you.” He took a drink of his favorite Chambertin, a pinot wine with a rich, fruity flavor. It reminded me I was thirsty, too. There was, alas, only one goblet.
    “But then I spied merit in you as well,” he said with his usual bluntness. “The secret to rule is to find the natural talent of each man and woman. Yours, it seems, is to perform odd errands in peculiar places.”
    “But now I’m retiring,” I said, lest he get the wrong idea. “I had some luck in Tripoli and plan to settle down with my bride Astiza, whom you’ll remember from the Egyptian campaign.”
    “Yes, the one helping shoot at me.”
    He had a memory as long as a woman’s.
    “She’s more agreeable now,” I said.
    “Be wary of wives, Gage, and I say that as a man mad about the one I have. There’s no greater misfortune for a man than to be governed by his wife. In such a case he is a perfect nonentity.”
    Napoleon’s disdain for women beyond their sexual charms was well known. “We’re partners,” I said, a concept I wasn’t sure he could comprehend.
    “Bah. Be careful how much you love her.” He took another bite. “The guilt of many men can be traced to overaffection for their wives.”
    “Are you guilty because of your affection for Joséphine?”
    “She’s as guilty as me, as you know from Paris’s tiresome gossip. But all that trouble is in the past. As rulers, we’re models of rectitude now.”
    I knew better than to express my doubt of that claim.
    “Our difference is that I regulate my emotions, Gage. You cannot. I’m a man of reason, you of impulse. I like you, but let’s not pretend we’re equal.”
    That was obvious enough. “Each time I see you, First Consul, you seem to have done better for yourself.”
    “Yes, it surprises even me.” He glanced about. “My ambition doesn’t hurry, it simply keeps pace with circumstances. I feel as if I’m being driven to an unknown goal. All life is a stage set, playing out as the seers