Mireille and Elisa and the Island Adventure
NOTE: This is the second story in the series "The Adventures of Mireille and Elisa. " The first is "Mireille and Elisa and the Corsican Bandits." Each story can be read on its own.
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Encounter
Marseille, France, July 20, 1793
Mireille stepped off the ship at Marseille and quickly found the nearest inn. She had not wanted to leave the ship, which was going to Tripoli, for this brief stop in Marseille, but the captain convinced her she needed the fresh air. She was utterly exhausted from a week of sleepless nights, and thin as a rail because she'd hardly eaten during that time: nothing but bread and water in her prison cell, and then, on the ship, she'd been too ill to eat. Her red hair, once lustrous and beautiful, hung in strings down her back, and her green eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, and had dark circles around them from lack of sleep. No one who met her would guess she was only eighteen.
When she walked into the inn, she approached the innkeeper, a friendly-looking, heavy-set man in his fifties with thinning gray hair. "A glass of your strongest wine, please," she said, and then added, taking a deep breath and trying her best to keep her voice from breaking, "and may I see all the newspapers that have arrived since Marat's assassination?"
"Certainly, Citoyenne," said the innkeeper, as if this were not an unusual request. Mireille looked long and hard into his face, but saw nothing that would give her a clue as to his opinion. She was sure he knew it was safest to give nothing away. "Nothing to eat?" he added.
"No, Citoyen, I'm not hungry. Just thirsty after my voyage."
The innkeeper nodded and went to get the newspapers. Mireille sat down at the table in the corner farthest from the door. Her heart pounded in her chest and she hid her hands under the table when she noticed they were shaking. She must not betray her worst fear: that it had somehow been discovered that it was she, and not Charlotte Corday, who had killed Marat.
Mireille thought back on that horrific night-was it only a week ago?-and wondered how she had been capable of such a thing. She had never thought she could kill anyone. Every day she hoped it had been a nightmare, but she knew it was all too real. She had blood on her hands, and it would stay there for the rest of her life. Not only Marat's blood, but her friend Charlotte Corday's as well. She had allowed Charlotte to go to the guillotine in her place. She hadn't wanted her to make such a sacrifice. In fact, Mireille wanted to die, because she didn't know how she could live with herself after what she'd done. But Charlotte had convinced her that she, Mireille, was the one who had to live, because Mireille was the Black Queen in the deadly Game being played for control of the Montglane Service, the legendary chess set that had once belonged to Charlemagne and which contained a secret of enormous power.
Less than a year ago, Mireille's beloved cousin Valentine, whom she had loved like a sister, had been murdered-beheaded in front of Mireille's own eyes-on Marat's orders, for the pieces of the Montglane Service that the two girls had buried in their uncle Jacques-Louis David's garden. Ever since then, Mireille had been determined to take revenge on Marat, but she hadn't known, until the moment she killed him, what form her revenge would take. She had thought she would try to get the pieces he had in his possession, so she could collect enough of the pieces to win the Game, keeping the secret out of his power forever. But matters had escalated, and she had killed him before she'd even thought about what she was doing. And then came Charlotte's revelation in the prison cell: that Mireille was, in fact, the Black Queen, the most powerful piece of all. Until then, Mireille's beloved Abbess of Montglane, who had brought her and Valentine up as if they'd been her own daughters, had been the Black Queen, but she had resigned from the Game, leaving her place to Mireille. Like the Abbess, Mireille had been born on the fourth of April, and she had the same birthmark that looked like a figure 8 on the palm of her right hand. Except the Abbess' hand hadn't been a murderer's hand, thought Mireille with bitterness. She felt totally unworthy of such an important role.
"Here you are, Citoyenne," said the innkeeper, placing the wine glass and newspapers in front of Mireille. "If there's anything else you need, just ask."
Mireille nodded, and as soon as the innkeeper's back was turned, she grabbed at the newspapers, searching through every word in their accounts of Marat's assassination. To her great relief, none of them mentioned her. So at least her secret was safe. In the latest newspaper to arrive, she read the account of Charlotte Corday's execution. Charlotte had gone to the guillotine very bravely, keeping Mireille's secret to the end. She was glad for Charlotte's sake, but fought back tears, thinking of her friend's terrible sacrifice. How she wished it had never had to be!
She spent longer than she had meant to, looking at all the newspapers, and the innkeeper kept stopping by to refill her wine glass. The strong wine tasted bitter, and she had made a face when she first swallowed it, but after a while she got used to it, and hoped she'd get so drunk she'd forget about what she'd done. But it didn't happen. The wine did nothing but make her feel sleepy, and she didn't want to sleep because she knew she'd have nightmares. The innkeeper shook her gently by the shoulder as she started to nod off. "Citoyenne, I can see you're very tired," he said. "Do you require a bed for the night?"
"No, thank you," said Mireille. Her words came out slightly slurred. "I have to get back to my ship. I really must be going. Thank you for everything." She paid him, and left the inn.
She was going to board the ship, but near the dock she saw a bookseller's stand. Mireille could never resist a bookseller. All her life, she'd found solace in books, even though, during her voyage, she'd read through the ones she carried with her in her bag and found no comfort in them. She hoped, if she bought new ones, she'd find much-needed consolation. She started looking through all the books, trying to decide what to buy, when she heard a familiar voice call, "Mireille!" and before she knew it, her good friend Elisa Bonaparte was at her side.
"Elisa!" exclaimed Mireille, and the two girls threw their arms around each other. Elisa was sixteen, small for her age and fragile, with dark chestnut hair and dark blue-gray eyes. "How long have you been in Marseille?"
"I might ask the same of you," said Elisa, her eyes lit up like lanterns. "But I think you have something to tell me that can't be said in front of all these people, isn't that true?"
Mireille nodded, her face falling as she grasped the enormity of her situation. She'd have to tell her secret to Elisa. What would her friend think of her? She remembered, just before she'd left Corsica in January, after the two girls had had an adventure where they'd fought bandits and rescued the White King of the Montglane Service, that Elisa had told her she had to kill Marat. It was the only way to avenge Valentine's death and make sure her spirit was at rest. But what Elisa had said about spirits not being able to rest until their death was avenged-it was all an old legend, wasn't it? Surely Elisa hadn't really meant that Mireille should kill Marat? Mireille was afraid Elisa would be horrified if she knew, but she could hardly avoid telling her now. She felt a lump in her throat. After all she'd been through, with Valentine's death, her killing of Marat, Charlotte Corday's sacrifice-she couldn't bear the thought of losing Elisa's friendship.
All she could manage to say was, "Let's look through the books first. Then I'll tell you. But how do you happen to be in Marseille?"
"My family's been exiled from Corsica."
"When I left Corsica after our adventure, you thought that would happen. So have you been here since January?"
"No, we went to Toulon first. But the climate was too royalist for us to be comfortable there, since my brothers support the Revolution. So we came here instead. We've been here for a month now."
"And how do you like it here?"
"Very much, even though I miss Corsica. But I'm very happy because Felix Baciocchi is here, too! He's a distant relative of ours, so he was exiled with us. Now you'll get to meet him at last! Won't that be wonderful?"
Felix Baciocchi, an officer in Elisa's brother Napoleon's regiment, was the man Elisa had loved ever since she returned to Corsica after the revolutionaries had closed her boarding school at St.-Cyr. Napoleon had not approved of their love, because he wanted to make a grander marriage for her. At the time she had stayed with the Bonapartes on Corsica, Mireille had wanted to meet him, but he and Napoleon had been called back to their regiment.
"Yes, I would love to meet him," said Mireille. "And I wish you could meet Talleyrand, too. But he's in England." As Elisa knew, Talleyrand was Mireille's lover, and, as she didn't yet know, the father of her three-month-old son, Charlot, who was now living in the desert in Algeria with Mireille's friend Shahin. Mireille had been on her way back there to join them, before they were to go to England to meet with Talleyrand.
"So you're on your way to England, then?" asked Elisa.
"Eventually, yes, but first I have to go to Tripoli, then to Algeria. Your grandmother's friend Shahin is there. He's become a good friend of mine. And," she whispered, "I have a son! His name is Charlot, and he has red hair like me, but his eyes are blue and his face looks like Talleyrand's. I never want to leave him again. But Shahin won't leave him, either, so we're all going to England together."
Elisa's face glowed. "A son! Why, that's wonderful, Mireille! So you were with child the whole time we were on Corsica, having our adventure. Not that I didn't suspect, of course." She smiled. "I would love to meet him someday. But I'm sure that's not the only secret you have to tell me, and I think what you have to say will take a long time to tell. How soon do you have to be back on your ship?"
"As soon as possible, I'm afraid."
"Is there any way you can stay here until the next ship to Tripoli arrives? That way you can live with us for a while. We'd all love to hear about your adventures. Especially Lucien." Elisa smiled. Both girls knew that Lucien, who was exactly Mireille's age, had feelings for Mireille that she could never return, even though that did not keep them from being close friends.
"Oh, I couldn't! I must get back to my son."
"He's in good hands. I've never met Shahin, but my mother and, especially, my grandmother, speak very highly of him. Please come and stay with us!"
Mireille hesitated. Under normal circumstances, she'd like nothing better. The Bonapartes had been the closest thing she'd ever had to a family of her own, and she'd always longed to have one. But what would they think of her after what she'd done? Especially the brothers, who supported the Revolution? She didn't quite know what they thought of Marat. But then she remembered Lucien calling him a monster once. He's said he supported the Revolution, but not in the hands of a monster like Marat. But his general feelings about Marat were one thing. What would he think if he knew Mireille had killed Marat? Wouldn't he be horrified? "Elisa, I would love to stay with you," Mireille began, but her voiced cracked, and she couldn't keep the tears from pouring down her cheeks. "But..." she muttered, "I cannot."
Elisa put an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. "I think I know why you hesitate," she said. Looking around to make sure no one could hear, she added, "You killed Marat, didn't you?"
Mireille nodded, and swallowed back her tears. Her whole body shook as Elisa held her in her arms. "I knew it all along!" Elisa whispered. "You'll tell me how it was that the newspapers got it wrong, of course, but I always knew it was you. Mireille, you're my hero!"
Mireille pulled away from her embrace in astonishment. Remembering to keep her voice down, she said, "I'm not a hero."
"Yes, you are! I'm very proud of you. And now Valentine's spirit can rest."
"I hope so. But my spirit will never rest. I'll always have blood on my hands," Mireille whispered. "And what will your family think? Especially your brothers?"
"They'll be proud of you, too, you'll see. My brothers support the Revolution, but they never wanted to see it in that monster's hands. They were glad to hear he was dead. But we tried to guess whether it was you or Charlotte Corday. Maman, Lucien, and I all thought it was you, and the others thought it was she. I'm very glad we were right."
Mireille shook her head. "So you're not horrified that your friend is a murderer?"
"How could you say such a thing? I told you, you're a hero. But we can't say any more here, even though we're whispering. Let's buy our books and then go to a private room in an inn, and you can tell me everything."
After looking around at the books for a while, Mireille decided to buy a volume of Herodotus in Greek, which contained a description of the Atlas Mountains, which she had explored with Shahin only a few months before. The Abbess had taught her Greek when she was twelve years old, and she had learned it extraordinarily quickly, as she always did with languages. "Herodotus in Greek?" asked Elisa when she saw it. "That's ambitious, isn't it?"
"Not for me," said Mireille. "I can read it quite easily. Don't you read Greek?"
"I learned a little at St.-Cyr, and I have to say I liked it, but I haven't kept up with it, and I'm afraid I've forgotten all I learned. But don't you want to get something more enjoyable than that?"
"I find Herodotus quite enjoyable. But you mean a novel, I suppose? Let me see..." Mireille picked up a popular romance called Paul et Virginie and leafed through the pages. "I will buy this as well."
"A perfect choice," said Elisa. "I've read it myself and found it very pleasant reading." Lowering her voice, she added, "And just the thing to distract your mind at this time." Then, speaking in a normal voice, she said, "Of course, Napoleon thinks that this is the only sort of thing women should read." She wrinkled her nose. "I love Napoleon, and he is the best of brothers, but his attitude toward women disgusts me! I'm hoping his new sweetheart will help to change his mind."
"Napoleon has a sweetheart?" asked Mireille.
"Oh, he's had many, but so far they haven't lasted long. I hope this one will last, though. He seems more serious about her than the others. She's a merchant's daughter. Napoleon met her almost as soon as we arrived in Marseille. Her name is Désirée Clary. And, wouldn't you know it, Joseph fell in love with her sister Julie. They're always with us now. I'm hoping Napoleon will marry Désirée, but I seem to be the only one in the family besides Joseph who hopes so. None of the others like her."
"Why not?"
"They all think he can do better than her. But what does that matter, if he loves her? Even though her father isn't noble, he certainly has money, which is what we don't have. And she's been very good to Napoleon. So I'd be happy to see them get married. If only she'd help him change his mind about Felix and me! I don't understand why he thinks Felix isn't good enough for me, when he wants to marry a girl his family thinks isn't good enough for him! Oh, well, I will never understand men!" Elisa shook her head. "Now, let me see which books I'd like to buy." Eventually, she chose a new edition of the plays of Corneille, and one of the plays of Racine.
Mireille wasn't surprised by her choice. Elisa had always loved the theater, going back to her days at St.-Cyr, when the girls put on theatricals. Now she and her family often performed plays, among themselves. "For your theatricals, I suppose," said Mireille when she saw the books Elisa was buying.
"That's right. We'll put one on while you stay with us."
Mireille shuddered. "No! I cannot. It was hard for me even when I was staying on Corsica, but now..." She lowered her voice, "After what I've done, I just cannot."
"You don't have to act. You can just watch."
"But those plays are full of murders. I can't even watch."
"Not all of them. They wrote comedies as well, you know. We'll put one of them on. But I should let you know that Lucien is writing a play about Charlemagne, and he's dedicating it to you!" Elisa grinned.
"To me? That's very nice of him, even though I'm sure he will change his mind. I didn't know Lucien wrote plays."
"He does, and it's quite good, if I say so myself. Perhaps we can put that one on as well. It depends how long you stay."
"That reminds me, I've got to go back to the ship and tell the captain I won't be continuing on this voyage, and get my things."
Elisa nodded, and waited while Mireille went back to the ship. It didn't take her long to return, carrying her portmanteau. As soon as Mireille came back, Elisa said, "And now we can go to an inn and talk. You look like you could use something to eat. But I don't know if you can drink any more. I smelled the wine on your breath, you know. Mireille, it's not like you to overindulge in wine."
"I was just trying to forget. It didn't work."
Elisa put an arm around her shoulders as they walked together in search of an inn. Mireille told her she wanted to avoid the one closest to the docks, because that's where she'd had the wine. "And I asked to see the newspapers about Marat," she whispered. "The innkeeper will remember me." So they found an inn a few streets away.
This inn was more respectable-looking than the first one Mireille had visited, and they were able to find a private room. Elisa ordered a plate of oysters, a glass of wine for herself, but only water for Mireille. "We'll be eating a large meal at home, so we'll just have oysters now," she said. "Now, Mireille, you've got to tell me everything. But let's speak in Italian. Even in a private room, we might be overheard. At least if we spoke Italian, they won't understand us."
Mireille agreed to speak Italian. The Bonapartes had grown up speaking Italian at home in Corsica, and hadn't learned French until they went to school. Mireille had learned Italian on the ship on the way to Corsica, and, even after such a short time, she spoke it as well as Elisa, who'd been speaking it all her life. She told Elisa all about her adventures with Shahin in Algeria, and the birth of her son. But she waited to talk about her killing of Marat until after the waiter had brought the oysters and left. Then she told Elisa every detail of what happened. When she was finished, Elisa came around to her side of the table, threw her arms around her, and held her for a long time. "Poor Mireille, it must have been horrible for you," she said. "But remember, you rid the world of a monster and saved thousands of innocent lives. You're a hero!"
"I don't feel like one."
"You might not now, but you should. I am very proud of you."
Mireille shook her head. "But poor Charlotte! She went to the guillotine for me. She was certainly innocent, and I let her die!" She burst into tears.
Elisa held her close. "You had no choice. You're the one who had to live, for the sake of the Game. Charlotte knew that. And if what Marat told you before you killed him is true, you have a new enemy in England, a woman named Catherine Grand, the White Queen. She might not be as much of as monster as Marat, but she sounds evil enough. You're the only one who can defeat her, and prevent her from discovering the secret of the Montglane Service."
"I know that, but I have so much blood on my hands already."
"Find all the pieces and end the Game! Then you can use the formula for good, and no more blood will have to be shed."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"And you will, I'm sure of it. You're the only one who can. That's why Charlotte sacrificed her life for you."
Mireille nodded, and they finished the oysters in silence. It felt good to have some food in her stomach again, Mireille realized.
More time had passed than the girls had thought at first, and when they left the inn, the sun was setting. "Oh, look how late it is!" said Elisa. "We missed dinner, and now we might be late to supper. Maman will be so worried about me. But we'll make up for it, as soon as she sees you! Everyone will be so glad you're here, and staying with us for a while."
"You're not going to tell them what I did, are you?"
"Why not? We've been speculating about it ever since we got the newspapers, as I said. Everyone was glad that monster was dead, no matter who killed him. And they will be very glad to know it was you. They'll all be just as proud of you as I am, you'll see."
"What about Napoleon's sweetheart? She doesn't know me."
"Oh, we talk to her about you all the time. She knows exactly who you are, and she'll be very happy to meet you at last."
"I hope you're right."
"I know so."