The hallway and the library were a mess, where the intruders had torn through the books and smashed lamps in an effort to intimidate the D’Campions.
Nicole D’Campion was doing her best to clean up until her husband stopped her. “Leave it, my dear. We need the police and the insurance people to see it before we tidy up.”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s just not in my nature to leave a mess.” She sat down and stared at Kurt, Joe and Renata. “My deepest appreciation for the rescue.”
“And mine,” her husband said.
“Somehow, I think we owed you,” Kurt replied. “It may have been our coming here that put you in danger.”
“No,” Etienne said, picking a crystal decanter off of a sterling silver tray. “These men arrived two days before you did. Cognac?”
Kurt passed.
Joe perked up. “I could use something to warm the bones.”
Etienne poured the golden liquid into a tulip-shaped glass. Joe thanked him and then sipped and savored it, enjoying the aroma as much as the taste. “Incredible.”
“It should be,” Kurt said, glancing at the decanter and then his unpretentious friend. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Delamain Le Voyage. Eight thousand dollars a bottle.”
Joe’s face flushed with embarrassment, but Etienne would have none of it. “The least I could do for the man who saved my life.”
“Quite right,” Nicole said.
Quite right indeed. Kurt was proud of his friend who gave so much, often with such little recognition.
Etienne returned the Baccarat crystal decanter to the serving tray and sat down, sipping his own glass and contemplating the fire.
“Leave it to me to ruin the moment,” Kurt said, “but what exactly did those men want from you? What is it about these Egyptian artifacts that makes people so willing to kill?”
The D’Campions exchanged glances. “They turned my study upside-down,” Etienne said. “Tore through our library.”
Kurt got the feeling the D’Campions didn’t want to talk about it. “Forgive me, but that’s not an answer,” he said. “Rather than point out that you’re in our debt, I’ll appeal to your sense of humanity. Thousands of lives hang in the balance. They may well depend on what you know. So I need you to be honest.”
Etienne seemed wounded by the statement. He sat as still as stone. Nicole fidgeted, playing with the hem of her dress.
Kurt stood and moved to a spot beside the fireplace, giving them time to consider what he’d said. Above the fire was a large painting. It depicted a fleet of British ships pummeling a French armada at anchor in a bay.
Kurt studied the painting quietly. Considering history and the current situation, he realized quickly what he was looking at: the Battle of the Nile.
Kurt whispered the verse, but Renata overheard him.
“What was that?”
“‘Casabianca,’” he said. “The famous poem by the English poet Felicia Hemans. It’s about a twelve-year-old boy, who was the son of L’Orient’s commander. He stood at his post all through the battle right up until the end, when the ship exploded after fires reached the powder magazine.”
Kurt turned to Etienne. “This is Aboukir Bay, isn’t it?”
“Quite right,” Etienne said. “You know your history. And your verse.”
“Odd painting to be hanging in the home of a French expatriate,” Kurt added. “Most of us don’t commemorate our nation’s defeats.”
“I have my reasons,” he said.
In the lower corner the artist had signed his name: Emile D’Campion. “Ancestor of yours?”
“Yes,” Etienne replied. “He was one of Napoleon’s savants. Brought along on the ill-fated expedition to decipher the riddles of Egypt.”
“If he painted this, it means he survived the battle,” Kurt noted. “I’m guessing he brought home some souvenirs.”
The D’Campions exchanged glances once again. Finally, Nicole spoke. “Tell them, Etienne. We have nothing to hide.”
Etienne nodded, drank the last swallow of his cognac and set the glass back down. “Emile did indeed survive the battle and commemorate it with that painting. If you look to the corner opposite his name, you’ll see a small rowboat with a group of men in it. That’s him and several of Napoleon’s finest. They were on their way back to the flagship L’Orient when the fighting began.”
“I’m guessing they didn’t reach L’Orient,” Kurt said.
“No,” Etienne said. “They were forced to take shelter aboard a different vessel. You would know it as the William Tell—or, in French, Guillaume Tell.”
Kurt had spent half his life studying naval warfare, he knew the name. “The Guillaume Tell was Admiral Villeneuve’s ship.”
“Rear Admiral Pierre-Charles Villeneuve was second in command of the fleet. He was in charge of four ships that day. But even as the battle turned badly against his comrades, he refused to engage.”
Etienne walked over and pointed to a vessel set off from the rest. “This is Villeneuve’s ship,” he said. “Waiting and watching. Interminably, it must have seemed to the others. By morning, the tide of battle was still against them, but the tide in the bay had changed. Villeneuve weighed anchor, set his sails and rode the tide out to sea, escaping with his four ships and my great-great-grandfather.”
He turned from the painting to face Kurt. “Not surprisingly, Villeneuve’s act is one I’ve always been deeply conflicted about. While it shines a poor light on French courage and esprit de corps, I might not be here today had Villeneuve not cut and run.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Renata noted, joining the conversation. “Though I’m sure the rest of the fleet didn’t see it that way.”
“No,” Etienne said, “they didn’t.”
Kurt put the pieces together in his mind, thinking aloud as he went. “After the battle, Villeneuve came here to Malta and was eventually captured by the British when they took the island.”
“Correct,” Etienne said.
“I don’t normally interrupt epic sea stories,” Joe said, “but can we get back to your ancestor and what he found in Egypt?”
“Of course,” Etienne said. “From his diary, I’ve gathered that he excavated several tombs and monuments. All in places where the early Egyptians buried their pharaohs. And by excavated, I mean Napoleon’s men grabbed everything they could carry: artwork, markers, obelisks and carvings. They chiseled entire panels from the walls, hauled off countless jars and pots, sending a steady train of material back to the fleet. Unfortunately, most of the haul was aboard L’Orient when it blew itself to pieces.”
“Most but not all,” Kurt said.
“Precisely,” Etienne said. “The last batch of treasure — if you want to call it that — was right there with him in that rowboat with the sailors when an argument broke out. Emile was under strict orders to deliver all he found to the care of Admiral Brueys on L’Orient, but the English had already broken through the line and three of their vessels were surrounding the French flagship.”
Etienne glanced at Renata. “Discretion came into play again,” he said, repeating her word. “They turned toward the only ships that were unengaged, and the last few trunks of Egyptian art ended up in Villeneuve’s hands, escaping destruction when he sailed for Malta and arrived there two weeks after the battle.”