William Dietrich: Napoleon’s Pyramids

The city, glorious though it remained in size and splendour, was, like women of a certain age, best not examined too closely. Grand old houses were boarded up. The Tuileries Palace was gated and empty, its dark windows like sightless sockets. Monasteries were in ruins, churches locked, and no one seemed to have applied a coat of paint since the storming of the Bastille. Except for filling the pockets of generals and politicians, 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 liquorice.

‘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 greying 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 neighbourhood 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 odour 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 sensed a presence. I turned to confront a shadow among the shadows.

‘Who’s there?’

There was a rush of wind and I instinctively twisted sideways, feeling something whistle by my ear and collide with my shoulder. It was blunt, but no less painful for that. I buckled to my knees. ‘What the devil?’ The club had made my arm go numb.

Then someone butted me and I fell sideways, clumsy from agony. I was not prepared for this! I kicked out in desperation, connecting with an ankle and drawing a yowl that gave some satisfaction. Then I skidded on my side, grabbing blindly. My hand fastened around a calf and I pulled. The intruder fell on the floor with me.

‘ Merde, ’ he growled.

A fist hit my face as I grappled with my assailant, trying to get my own scabbard clear of my legs so I could draw my sword. I was awaiting a thrust from my opponent, but none came. Instead, a hand groped for my throat.

‘Does he have it?’ another voice asked.

How many were there?

Now I had an arm and a collar and managed to land a blow on an ear. My opponent swore again. I yanked and his head bounced off the floor. My thrashing legs flipped a chair over with a bang.

‘Monsieur Gage!’ a cry came from down below. ‘What are you doing to my house?’ It was my landlady, Madame Durrell.

‘Help me!’ I cried, or rather gasped, given the pain. I rolled aside, got my scabbard out from under me, and started to draw my rapier. ‘Thieves!’

‘For Christ’s sake, will you help?’ my assailant said to his companion.

‘I’m trying to find his head. We can’t kill him until we have it.’

And then something struck and all went black.

I came to with a mind of mutton, my nose on the floor. Madame Durrell was crouched over me as if inspecting a corpse. When she rolled me over and I blinked, she jerked.

‘You!’

‘ Oui, it is I,’ I groaned, remembering nothing for a moment.

‘Look at the mess of you! What are you doing alive?’

What was she doing leaning over me? Her flame-red hair always alarmed me, erupting in a wiry cloud like escaping watch springs. Was it time for rent already? The warring calendars kept me in constant confusion.

Then I remembered the assault.

‘They said they were reluctant to kill me.’

‘How dare you entertain such ruffians! You think you can create a wilderness here in Paris as in America? You will pay for every sou in repairs!’

I groggily sat up. ‘Is there damage?’

‘An apartment in shambles, a good bed ruined! Do you know what my kind of quality costs these days?’

Now I began to make sense of the muddle, scraps pulsing through the gong that was my head. ‘Madame, I am a victim more than you.’ My sword had disappeared with my assailants. Just as well, since it was more for show than utility: I’d never been trained to use the thing and it banged annoyingly on the thigh. Given a choice, I’d rely on my longrifle or Algonquin tomahawk. I’d adopted the hatchet during my fur-trading days, learning from the Indians and voyageurs its utility as weapon, scalper, hammer, chopper, shaver, trimmer, and rope cutter. I couldn’t understand how Europeans did without one.

‘When I pounded on the door, your companions said you were drunk after whoring! That you were out of control!’

‘Madame Durrell, those were thieves, not companions.’ I looked about. The shutters were now open, admitting full morning light, and my apartment looked like it had been struck by a cannon ball. Cabinets were open, their contents spilt like an avalanche. An armoire was on its side. My fine feather mattress was flipped and torn, bits of down floating in the air. A bookcase was toppled, my small library splayed. My gambling winnings were gone from my hollowed copy of Newton’s treatise on optics that Franklin had bestowed as a gift – surely he hadn’t expected me to read the thing – and my shirt was ripped open to my belly button. I knew it hadn’t been torn to admire my chest. ‘I’ve been invaded.’