works with women, not that I had anything to work, being married and all. “And you are . . .”
“A rare survivor in a conspiracy gone to ruin. I provide help for agents traveling between Paris and the coast, and socialize with the officers here. Sometimes men tell a woman things they’d withhold from a man.”
“I can see why.”
“I’ve taken the risk to tell you two things, Ethan Gage.”
“Would you share some wine first?”
She shook her head. “First, you may encounter an opportunity to affect history more than you think possible. Many people are watching you.”
Was this a trap or test? For all I knew, this woman was Réal’s agent, not Smith’s. “That’s rather vague.”
“Second, your mission may someday require you to escape from Paris and France in a hurry. If you do so, go to the Inn of the Three Boars in Argenteuil and ask for the cook. Without anyone seeing, present him with a rose. A dried one will do. I will come, and I will help.”
“But how do I know to trust you?”
“When desperate, you have no choice. Don’t worry, monsieur, I’ve helped many travelers before you. Play along with the Bonapartists, but strike for Louis.” She clicked her tongue to beckon her horse and swung back into the saddle.
“Wait, please. Have some cheese. Let’s start a friendship, at least.”
“Friends are dangerous, and lovers can be deadly. You’ll not see me again until you have great need. But I was told to tell you one more thing in case you doubted my sincerity.”
“What’s that?”
“The Chiswicks have filed suit against your money.” And with that, this “Rose” gave a little kick and trotted off.
Damnation. Which side was I on, again?
Napoleon understood that men are led by example and inspiration, and so the ceremony of August 16 was designed to restore the mantle of invincibility that had been dented by the drownings. The day picked was the anniversary of the repulsion of British Admiral Horatio Nelson from Boulogne three years before. The place was a natural amphitheater, a swale near the town that swooped down to low bluffs and the sea. At cliff’s edge, a stage was built to hold throne and banners, the emperor facing France but so near the precipice that British captains could watch from spyglasses offshore.
Streamers bearing the names of French victories fluttered, flags flapped, and new regimental standards topped by polished brass eagles shone like torches. A loose phalanx of several hundred opulently uniformed officers surrounded Napoleon. His Imperial Guard in imposing bearskin hats was drawn up around this assembly, the ranks taut as a bowstring and their bayonets a silver picket fence. To one side regimental bands combined to create blaring music, banging away at anthems such as “La Victoire Est à Nous,” and “Veillons au Salut de l’Empire.” On the other, two thousand drums provided a thunderous roll. How little Harry would have loved this show! From his perch Napoleon could turn right to see the neat avenues of his vast camps and Boulogne harbor. To his left he could look up the coast and across the Channel to England.
One hundred thousand infantry in full dress uniform jammed the amphitheater’s bowl, with tens of thousands of cavalry poised in the wings to clop by on cue. Field guns were parked hub to hub, barrels gleaming. Uphill of the soldiers were tens of thousands of civilian spectators like myself. The men smoked, drank, and played amateur general from camp chairs. Ladies sipped cider in shady white tents or strolled the perimeter with parasols.
I looked for flame-haired Rose but didn’t see her.
The ceremony began at midday with a thunderous salute from the coastal batteries. As the shots echoed away the Corsican was lent celestial help by the skies parting to let down beams of light, as if God were stage lighting the army. The Channel wind rose to make banners snap and whitecaps dance. “Napoleon weather,” men whispered, forgetting the storm of a few weeks before. A choreographed review of regiments began.
All of us gasped and murmured; even I, the jaded Ethan, understood again the dangerous allure of war. It gives men an excuse to dress up, to carouse as boys, and to make friends through shared hardship. The brilliant splendor gives pathos to the inevitable destruction and turns the plod of life to poignant tragedy. Men will kill and be killed to escape boredom. War is also a way to arrest the tendency of the rich getting richer and the poor poorer; the