“Even with so magnificent a steed,” agreed the soldier, slapping Mireille’s horse upon the flank, “and even in disguise. Had I not taken leave from the army when they closed the convent school to escort Maria-Anna home—”
“They have closed St.-Cyr?!” cried Mireille, clutching his arm. “Then indeed my last hope has deserted me!” Little Maria-Anna tried to comfort Mireille with a touch on her arm.
“Had you friends at St.-Cyr?” she asked with concern. “Or family? Perhaps it was someone I knew.…”
“I sought shelter there,” Mireille began, uncertain how much she should reveal to these strangers. But she had little choice. If the school were closed, her only plan was demolished, and she must form another. What matter whom she confided in, when her plight was desperate?
“Though I did not know the proctoress there,” she told them, “I’d hoped she might help me contact the abbess of my former convent. Her name was Madame de Roque.”
“Madame de Roque!” cried the young girl. Though small and frail, she’d grasped Mireille’s arm with great force. “The Abbess of Montglane!” She glanced once quickly at her brother, who set their bag upon the ground, his blue-gray eyes trained upon Mireille as he spoke.
“Then you’ve come from Montglane Abbey?” When Mireille nodded, cautious now, he added quickly, “Our mother knew the Abbess of Montglane—they’ve long been close friends. In fact, it was upon the advice of Madame de Roque that my sister was sent to St.-Cyr eight years ago.”
“Yes,” whispered the child. “And I myself know the abbess quite well. During her visit at St.-Cyr two years ago, she spoke with me in confidence on several occasions. But before I proceed … were you, mademoiselle, one of the last … remaining at Montglane Abbey? If so, you’ll understand why I’ve asked this question.” And she glanced again at her brother.
Mireille felt her heart pounding in her ears. Was it mere coincidence that she’d stumbled upon those who were familiar with the abbess? Could she dare hope that they were privy to the abbess’s confidence? No, it was too dangerous to leap to this conclusion. But the child seemed to sense Mireille’s concerns.
“I see from your face,” she said, “you prefer not to discuss this matter here in the open. And of course, you are quite right. But further discussion may benefit us both. You see, before she left St.-Cyr, your abbess entrusted me with a special mission. Perhaps you understand to what I refer. I offer that you accompany us to the nearby inn, where my brother has secured us lodgings for the night. We can speak in more confidence there.…”
The blood was still throbbing in Mireille’s temples as a thousand thoughts passed through her mind. Even if she trusted these strangers enough to go with them, she’d be trapped in Paris, when Marat might be turning the city upside down in quest of her. On the other hand, she had no assurance that she could escape from Paris unaided. And where could she turn for shelter if the convent was closed?
“My sister is right,” said the soldier, still watching Mireille. “We cannot remain here. Mademoiselle, I offer you our protection.”
Mireille thought again how remarkably handsome he was, with his abundant chestnut hair hanging free and his large sad eyes. Though slender, and of nearly the same height as she, he gave the impression of great strength and assurance. At last, Mireille decided that she trusted him.
“Very well,” she said with a smile, “I shall come with you to your inn, where we will talk.”
At these words, the child smiled brightly and pressed her brother’s arm. They looked into each other’s eyes with great love. Then the soldier lifted their bag again and took the horse’s reins as his sister locked her arm in Mireille’s.
“You will not be sorry, mademoiselle,” said the child. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Maria-Anna, but my family call me Elisa. And this is my brother Napoleone—of the family Buonaparte.”
At the inn, the three young people sat around a table of splintered wood on stiff wooden chairs. On the table a single candle burned, and beside it a loaf of hard black bread and a pitcher of ale provided their meager repast.
“We come from Corsica,” Napoleone was telling Mireille, “an island that does not easily adapt itself to the yoke of tyranny. As Livy said nearly two thousand years ago, we Corsicans are as rugged as our land, being ungovernable as wild beasts. Not forty years ago, our leader Pasquale di Paoli drove the Genoese from our shores, liberated Corsica, and hired the famous philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau to draft us a constitution. This freedom was short-lived, however. For in 1768 France bought the isle of Corsica from Genoa, landed thirty thousand troops on the rock the following spring, and drowned our throne of liberty in a sea of blood. I tell you these things, for it was this history—and our family’s role in it—that brought us into contact with the Abbess of Montglane.”
Mireille, who was about to question the purpose of this historical saga, now sat attentively silent. She broke off a piece of the tough black bread to chew as she listened.
“Our parents fought bravely beside Paoli to repel the French,” Napoleone went on. “My mother was a great heroine of the revolution. She rode bareback by night through the wild Corsican hills, French bullets whizzing about her ears, to bring munitions and supplies to my father, and the soldiers fighting at Il Corte—the Eagle’s Nest. She was seven months pregnant with me at the time! As she’s always said, I was born to be a soldier. But when I was born, my country was dying.”
“Your mother was a brave woman indeed,” said Mireille, trying to visualize this wild revolutionary on horseback as an intimate friend of the abbess.
“You remind me of her.” Napoleone smiled. “But I neglect my tale. When the revolution proved unsuccessful and Paoli was exiled to England, the old Corsican nobility selected my father to represent our island in the States-General at Versailles. This was in 1782—the year and the place that our mother Letizia met the Abbess of Montglane. I shall never forget how elegant our mother looked, how all the boys commented upon her beauty when, returning from Versailles, she visited us at Autun.…”
“Autun!” cried Mireille, nearly upsetting her goblet of ale. “Were you at Autun when Monseigneur Talleyrand was there? When he was bishop?”
“No, that was after my time, for I soon went on to the military school at Brienne,” he replied. “But he is a great statesman whom I should like one day to meet. I’ve read many times the work he prepared with Thomas Paine: the Declaration of the Rights of Man—one of the finest documents of the French Revolution.…”
“Continue with your story,” hissed Elisa, jabbing her brother in the ribs, “for the mademoiselle and I do not wish to discuss politics all night.”
“I am trying to,” Napoleone said, glancing at his sister. “We don’t know the exact circumstances of Letizia’s meeting with the abbess, only that it took place at St.-Cyr. But we know it must have left an impression upon the abbess—for she’s never failed our family since that time.”
“Ours is a poor family, mademoiselle,” Elisa explained. “Even when my father was alive, money ran through his fingers like water. The Abbess of Montglane has paid for my education since that day, eight years ago, when I entered St.-Cyr.”
“The abbess must have felt a great bond with your mother,” said Mireille.
“More than a bond,” Elisa agreed, “for until the abbess left France, never a week passed that she and my mother were not in communication. You’ll understand when I tell you of the mission with which the abbess entrusted me.”
It had been ten years, Mireille thought. Ten years since these two women had met, women so different in background and outlook. One raised on a wild and primitive island, fighting beside her husband in the mountains, bearing him eight children—the other a cloistered woman of God, high born and well educated. What could be the nature of their relationship that inspired the abbess to confide a secret to the child now sitting before Mireille—who, when the abbess last saw her, could not have been older than twelve or thirteen
?
But already, Elisa was explaining.…
“The message the abbess gave me for my mother was so secret that she herself did not wish to communicate it in writing. I was to repeat it only face to face when next I saw her. At the time, neither the abbess nor I suspected this would be two long years—that the Revolution would so disrupt our lives and all hope of travel. I fear for not having delivered this message earlier—perhaps it was critical. For the abbess told me there were those who conspired to relieve her of a secret treasure, a treasure known only to a few—which was hidden at Montglane!”
Elisa’s voice had dropped to a whisper, though the three were completely alone in the room. Mireille tried to show no reaction, but her heart beat so loudly, she felt certain the others must hear it.
“She’d come to St.-Cyr, so close to Paris,” Elisa continued, “in order to learn the identity of those who’d tried to steal it. In order to protect the treasure, she told me, she’d had it removed by the nuns of the abbey.”
“And what was the nature of this treasure?” asked Mireille with faint voice. “Did the abbess tell you?”
“No,” Napoleone replied for his sister, watching Mireille closely now. His long oval face was pale in the dim light, which glimmered against his dark chestnut hair. “But you know the legends surrounding those monasteries in the Basque mountains. There’s always a sacred relic supposed to be hidden there. According to Chrêtien de Troyes, the holy grail is cached away at Monsalvat, also in the Pyrenees—”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Elisa, “that is precisely why I wished to speak with you. When you told us you came from Montglane, I thought perhaps you could shed some light upon the mystery.”
“What was the message the abbess gave you?”
“On the last day of her stay at St.-Cyr,” replied Elisa, leaning over the table so the golden light caught the outline of her face, “the abbess called me into a private chamber. She said: ‘Elisa, I entrust you with a secret mission, for I know you are the eighth child born to Carlo Buonaparte and Letizia Ramolino. Four of your siblings died in infancy; you are the first girl to survive. This makes you very special to me. You were named after a great ruler, Elissa, whom some called “the Red.” She founded a great city named Q’ar that later gained world fame. You must go to your mother and tell her the Abbess of Montglane says: “Elissa the Red has risen—the Eight return.” That is my only message, but Letizia Ramolino will know what it signifies—and what she must do!’”
Elisa paused and looked at Mireille. Napoleone also tried to gauge her reaction—but Mireille could glean no sense from the message. What secret could the abbess be communicating that was related to the fabled chess pieces? Something flickered in her mind, but she could not yet make it out. Napoleone reached over to refill her ale tankard, though she’d been unaware of having drunk any.
“Who was this Elissa of Q’ar?” she asked in confusion. “I know neither the name nor the city she founded.”
“But I do,” said Napoleone. Leaning back, his face in shadow, he extracted a well-worn book from his pocket. “Our mother’s favorite admonition has always been, ‘Page through your Plutarch, leaf through your Livy,’” he said with a smile. “I’ve done better than that, for I’ve found our Elissa here in Vergil’s Aeneid—though the Romans and Greeks preferred to call her Dido. She came from the city of Tyre in ancient Phoenicia. But she fled that city when her brother, king of Tyre, murdered her husband. Landing on the shores of North Africa, she founded the city of Q’ar, named after the great goddess Car who’d protected her. This city we now know as Carthage.”
“Carthage!” cried Mireille. Her mind racing, she began to put the pieces together. The city of Carthage, now called Tunis, lay not five hundred miles from Algiers! All lands known as the Barbary States—Tripoli, Tunis, Algeria, and Morocco—had one thing in common. They’d been ruled by the Berbers, ancient ancestors of the Moors, for five thousand years. It could not be an accident that the abbess’s message pointed directly to the very land for which she was bound.
“I can see this means something to you,” Napoleone said, interrupting her thoughts. “Perhaps you could tell us.”
Mireille bit her lip and looked into the candle flame. They’d confided in her, while she had thus far revealed nothing. Yet to win a game like the one she was playing, she knew she needed allies. What harm would it do to reveal a portion of what she knew, to get closer to the truth?
“There was a treasure at Montglane,” Mireille said at last. “I know, because I helped to remove it with my own hands.” The two Buonapartes exchanged glances, then looked back at Mireille.
“This treasure was a thing of great value, and also great danger,” she went on. “It was brought to Montglane nearly a thousand years ago—by eight Moors whose ancestry rose from those same shores of North Africa you describe. I myself am headed there, to discover what secret lies behind this treasure.…”
“Then you must accompany us to Corsica!” cried Elisa, leaning forward in excitement. “Our island is halfway to your destination! We offer you my brother’s protection en route, and the shelter of our family once we arrive.”
What she said was true, thought Mireille—and there was something else to consider. In Corsica, while still technically on French soil, she’d be far from the clutches of Marat, who even now might be hunting her through the streets of Paris.
But there was something more. As she watched the candle sputter down into a pool of hot wax, she felt the dark flame rekindle in her mind. And she heard Talleyrand’s whispered words as they sat in the rumpled bedsheets—as he held the thrashing stallion from the Montglane Service in his hand: “And there went out another horse that was red … and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another … and there was given unto him a great sword …”
“And the name of the sword is Revenge,” said Mireille aloud.
“The sword?” said Napoleone. “What sword is that?”
“The red sword of retribution,” she replied.
As the light slowly faded from the room, Mireille saw again the letters she’d seen, day after day, for all the years of her childhood—carved over the portal of Montglane Abbey:
Cursed be He who bring these Walls to Earth
The King is checked by the Hand of God alone.
“Perhaps we have released more than an ancient treasure from the walls of Montglane Abbey,” she said softly. Despite the heat of the night, she felt the cold creep into her heart as if touched by icy fingers. “Perhaps,” she said, “we have also raised an ancient curse.”
CORSICA
OCTOBER 1792
The isle of Corsica, like the isle of Crete, is set like a jewel, as the poet sang, “in the midst of the wine-dark sea.” From twenty miles off the coast, though it was now near winter, Mireille could smell the strong scent of the macchia, that underbrush of sage, broom, rosemary, fennel, lavender, and thorn that covered the island in thick abundance.
As she stood on the deck of the small boat plying its way over the choppy sea, she could see thick mists shrouding the high and craggy mountains, partly obscuring the treacherous winding roads, the fan-shaped waterfalls that spread like lace over the surface of the rock. So thick was the veil of heavy fog, she could barely make out where the water ended and the isle began.
Mireille was wrapped in heavy woolen robes, taking the bracing air as she watched the island loom before her. She was ill, seriously ill, and it was not the roughness of the tossing sea that caused it. She’d been violently nauseated ever since they’d left Lyons.
Elisa stood beside her on the deck, holding her hand as the boatmen scurried about bringing in the sails. Napoleone had gone below to collect their few belongings before they touched the docks.
Perhaps it had been the water in Lyons, thought Mireille. Or perhaps the roughness of their journey through the Rhone valley, where warring armies had raged in battle all around them, trying to
carve up Savoy—part of the kingdom of Sardinia. Near Givors, Napoleone had sold her horse, which they’d brought along hitched to their post chaise, to the Fifth Army Regiment. The officers had lost more horses than men in the heat of battle, and Mireille’s had brought a tidy sum—enough to pay for her journey and more.
During all this, Mireille’s sickness had gone from bad to worse. Little Elisa’s face grew graver each day as she spoon-fed soup to “the mademoiselle” and applied cold compresses to her head at every stop. But the soup never stayed down long, and the mademoiselle had begun to be seriously worried herself, long before their ship cut free of the port of Toulon and headed across the rough and angry sea toward Corsica. When she’d glimpsed herself in a convex glass on board ship, she’d looked pale, wan, and ten pounds underweight, instead of fat and expanded in the glass’s round shape. She’d stayed on deck as much as possible, but even the cold salt air had not restored the feeling of healthy vigor that Mireille had always taken for granted.
Now, as Elisa squeezed her hand, the two of them huddled on the small ship’s deck, Mireille shook her head to clear her thoughts and swallowed to keep down the wave of nausea. She couldn’t afford to be weak now.
And as if the heavens themselves had heard, the dark mist lifted slightly and the sun broke through, forming pools of light that licked the broken surface of the water like stepping-stones of gold, preceding her a hundred yards into the port of Ajaccio.
Napoleone was on deck, leaping to shore and helping lash their ship to the stone pier the minute they’d struck down. The port of Ajaccio was bustling with motion. Many warships hovered just outside the harbor. French soldiers were crawling over the hawsers and racing upon the decks as Mireille and Elisa looked about them in wonderment.
The French government had ordered Corsica to attack Sardinia, her neighbor. Even as they moved supplies from the ship, Mireille heard the French soldiers and the Corsican National Guard bickering among themselves about the propriety of this attack—which appeared to be imminent.