Three Emperors (9780062194138) Read Free Page A

fighting of the past fifteen years finally stop. When radicals rise, it means chaos. Is that not so, Baron Richter?”
    â€œIt means opportunity, my lord, which is why I’m less certain than you that Bonaparte will lose. The Corsican has risen to become emperor of the French, so I see no reason why he cannot become emperor of us all, if we’re not careful.”
    â€œAbsurd. His marshals are tradesmen and smugglers. His foreign minister is a fallen bishop. His wife is a whore.”
    â€œAnte,” Nahir reminded.
    There was a steady clink of metal.
    Ramsey addressed me. “I suppose, Franklin, that you believe in mob democracy, given your American heritage.”
    â€œWe prefer to call them citizens,” I replied. “If wars were won by hereditary rank, we wouldn’t have won independence from England. Nor would Napoleon have won the 1797 and 1800 campaigns here in Italy.”
    â€œTouché,” said Nahir.
    â€œThose were skirmishes,” Ramsey countered, “and my point is the courage and character that comes from birth and training. You see it on the stud farm, and you see it on the battlefield. The Austrians and Russians have entire brigades of counts and princes.”
    â€œI have a female acquaintance that preaches much as you do,” I said, thinking of Catherine Marceau and her treacheries. “However, she prefers a winner and has joined Bonaparte.”
    â€œIf the Prussians join us, Bonaparte is finished.”
    â€œYou may pick up your hand,” Nahir said. Her masked eyes regarded me over the fan of her cards. Damnation, how she reminded me of Astiza! I hadn’t had wifely company for nearly a year, meaning my heart ached with loneliness and another organ stirred from temptation. I straightened instinctively, even while ordering my body to behave itself. “Prussia has not joined,” she added.
    â€œThey’re stalling to pick the winner,” Richter said. “They lust for Hanover, and can get it from either the French or British.”
    â€œAnd you’re stalling, too, Wolf?” the marchesa asked impatiently, gesturing to the pot in the middle of the table.
    â€œTen more sequins.”
    My hand was weak, so I folded. I matched the bets of the next hand and lost anyway, and folded again on a third. I was down to thirty-five sequins. Ruinous, as I’ve said.
    But I’d learned that Ramsey trusted capricious luck, Nahir was cautious, the marchesa pursed her lips slightly when she received high cards, and Richter was competitive to a fault. The deal passed to him.
    â€œIt’s not your night, American.”
    â€œThe game can turn on a card.”
    He dealt me three, of which the highest was a ten. I tried to catch him cheating. He tilted his mask as if to taunt, fingers hummingbird fast. His skill was the barrier between my wife and me, so I set up my bluff.
    I bet with deliberate abandon, the others viewed me warily, and they laughed when I took a modest pot with my ten.
    â€œWell played, Yankee Doodle!” Ramsey boomed.
    Now I had some breathing room.
    The baron’s voice was even. “Can we double the ante?” His mask fixed on me. “I like to play until I’m rich or bankrupt.”
    â€œI prefer to stop when I’m rich.”
    The laugh had an edge. Each hand was a battle in a greater game of war. I bluffed with a triplet.
    Even though my hand was strong, I allowed a blink when I viewed it, so quick that I couldn’t be certain anyone saw it. A finger trembled until I willed it still. I shifted, almost imperceptibly. The others kept their heads down, masks shielding, but we were all studying one another. They were hounds with a scent, gauging American impetuosity, and when I bet big, they followed to crush me.
    I was Alexander, I was Hannibal, I was Caesar. When the sequins were a shoal, I revealed my three of a kind, pounced on la retourne , raided for my suit of coins, and swept in my