The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware by Dennis Wheatley Page A

always relied for his victories on skilful combinations with each unit reaching its appointed place on time before the opening of a battle. To do so in Spain is an impossibility. That clever little devil, Berthier, can pore over his maps and get out schedules of march till his great head bursts like a pricked balloon; but it will be all to no purpose, because Spain is cut up by a dozen ranges of high mountains, and there are no roads by which guns and baggage trains can cross them.’
    Having been in Spain himself on several occasions, Roger knew that the tall, gloomy Marshal was right, and that even Napoleon would have to surpass himself to subdue all resistance in the Peninsula. They talked on for a while about the state of Europe generally, until Brune was summoned to the presence. Roger sat on for another hour; then, at last, he in turn was called on to face the unpredictable Corsican.
    A corporal of the Old Guard stood rigidly on either side of the tall, gilded, double doors. The Chamberlain-in-Waiting tapped sharply on the parquet with his white wand of office; two footmen in liveries bespangled with golden bees and eagles threw the doors open and, as Roger was announced, he advanced into the great room, his head held high, his befeathered hat under his arm.
    At the far end, the Emperor was pacing slowly to and fro, his hands clasped behind his back, his big head thrust a little forward. He was dressed, as usual, in the white and green uniform of the Guides, and presented a very different figure from that when Roger had first met him at thesiege of Toulon. Then, he had been a lean-faced scraggy fellow, with long, untidy hair, wearing a shabby uniform, who appeared hardly more than a youth and was remarkable only for his aggressive jaw and dark, flashing eyes. Now he looked much older than his age. He was scrupulously clean, and his hair was cut short. Both his unnaturally pallid face and his body had filled out. He had become corpulent and stooped a little when he was not consciously holding himself erect in public. His powerful jaw remained his most prominent feature, and his fine eyes held their old intensity, as he suddenly turned his head and snapped at Roger:
    â€˜Well, Monsieur Casanova Breuc! What have you to say for yourself?’
    Roger had already bowed three times as he crossed the room. Smiling, he bowed again. ‘Nothing, Your Imperial Majesty, except that I am happy to have been received again into your august presence.’
    â€˜Ha! As smooth-tongued as ever, eh! But this time your honeyed words will not save you. You have indulged in your eternal pursuit of women once too often.’
    For years past Napoleon’s constant infidelities to Josephine had been notorious; so Roger said amiably, ‘It is a pleasure, Sire, in which I have endeavoured to emulate you.’
    Napoleon’s broad forehead creased in a frown. ‘You impudent rascal! How dare you compare your licentiousness with my occasional peccadilloes? I am a man apart, and carrying the burden of Empire, have every right to seek such relaxation.’
    â€˜By “endeavour”, Sire, I meant only to pay you a compliment. I have to exert myself mightily to succeed with women; where it needs only a glance from Your Majesty for them to swoon with delight and fall into your arms.’
    â€˜Enough of this! To obtain your ends by murder places you beyond the pale.’
    â€˜Murder!’ Roger exclaimed in feigned surprise. ‘What mean you, Sire? I have done no murder.’
    â€˜Liar! Augereau was here this forenoon and told me all. In order that you could make off with the Baron von Haugwitz’s wife, you killed him; and your own wife into the bargain.’
    â€˜They met their deaths by accident, Sire, although I’ll admit that I was responsible for bringing that about. As for the Baron’s wife, she is an old friend of mine, and the least I could do was to escort her away from the scene of the