“‘My esteemed friend Emile,’” Etienne said, translating for the group. “‘It was with great pleasure that I received your latest correspondence. After the disgrace at Trafalgar and my time in the care of the British, I never dreamed to have another chance at reclaiming my honor.’”
“Trafalgar?” Renata asked.
Kurt explained. “In addition to being at Aboukir Bay, Villeneuve was in charge of the French fleet during the Battle of Trafalgar, where Nelson defeated the combined French and Spanish armadas, effectively showing the world that England would never be taken and ending any hope Napoleon had of invading.”
Renata looked suitably impressed. “If I was Villeneuve, I might have stopped picking fights with the British in general and with Nelson in particular.”
Joe laughed. “He must have hated Nelson by that time.”
“Actually, he attended Nelson’s funeral while being held captive in England,” Etienne said.
“Probably just to make sure he was dead,” Renata suggested.
Etienne went back to the letter, running his finger beneath the text and continuing the translation. “‘You often mentioned that I saved your life by taking you aboard my ship and escaping from the mouth of the Nile. I do not overstate the truth when I say that you’ve returned the favor. With this breakthrough, I can go to Napoleon once more. I’ve been warned by friends that he wishes me dead, but when I bring him this weapon of weapons — this Mist of Death — he will kiss me on both cheeks and reward me, as I shall you. It is of utmost importance that this secret remain ours alone, but I promise on my honor that you shall gain your due as savant and as a hero of both the Revolution and the Empire. I have in my possession the rendering and partial conversion you’ve made. Please finish up and send me what you have on the Angel’s Breath that we may be safe as our enemies fall. I hope to meet the Emperor on favorable terms in the spring. Debt for debt. Twenty-nine Thermidor, Year XIII. Pierre-Charles Villeneuve.’”
“Conversion is another word for translation,” Renata noted.
“When did this all take place?” Kurt asked.
Renata took a stab at it, struggling to recall the strange arrangement of Napoleon’s Calendar of the Republic, which replaced the Gregorian calendar for a decade of his rule. “Twenty-nine Thermidor in year nine of the Republic was…”
Etienne beat her to it. “August seventeenth,” he said. “The year was 1805.”
“That’s a full decade before the groundbreaking work on the Rosetta stone,” Kurt said.
“It’s incredible,” Joe added. “And by that I mean some people might presume it’s not credible.”
“If we still had Emile’s diary, it could be proved,” Etienne said. “There were drawings of hieroglyphs inside, along with suggested translations. Even a short dictionary, of sorts. The time frame never dawned on me.”
Kurt considered it a good possibility. History was constantly being written and rewritten. Once upon a time, it was gospel that Columbus had discovered the Americas. Now even schoolchildren were taught that the Vikings, and possibly others, had beat him to it.
“So how come he never got credit for it?” Renata asked.
“Sounds like Villeneuve was insisting it remain a state secret,” Kurt said. “If it was connected to finding some weapon, the last thing any of them would want was the truth leaking out.”
“Especially considering that the British were in control of Egypt then and were already suspicious of Emile’s friendship with a French admiral,” Etienne added. “In fact…” He began leafing through other letters and bits of correspondence. “It’s here somewhere,” he said.
“What’s here?”
“This…” he said, pulling out another preserved sheet of paper. “This is a denial of travel presented to Emile by the British. In early 1805, he requested permission to return to Egypt and resume his studies. The territorial governor of Malta approved it, but it was rejected by the British Admiralty and he was denied passage to Egypt.”
Kurt took a look at the letter, written on official letterhead. “‘We cannot guarantee your safety to the interior of Egypt at this time,’” he read. “Where was he asking to go?”
“I don’t know,” Etienne said.
Renata sighed. “Too bad. That might have helped.”
“Did he ever try again?” Kurt asked.
“No. Sadly, he never got the chance. Both he and Villeneuve died a short time later.”
“Both of them?” Joe asked, suspiciously. “How?”
“Emile of natural causes,” Etienne said. “It happened here on Malta. He passed away in his sleep. It’s believed he had a heart condition. Rear Admiral Villeneuve died in France a month later, though his death was not nearly as peaceful. He was stabbed in the chest seven times. It was ruled a suicide.”
“Suicide? With seven chest wounds?” Renata said. “I’ve heard of suspicious reports before, but that’s ridiculous.”
“Extremely hard to believe,” Etienne agreed. “Even back then it was mocked in the press. Especially in England.”
“Wasn’t Villeneuve going to meet Napoleon in the spring?” Kurt asked.
Etienne nodded. “Yes,” he said. “And most historians think Napoleon had something to do with the admiral’s death. Either because he distrusted Villeneuve or because he simply couldn’t forgive him for all his failures.”
Kurt could see either motive being the cause. But his primary concern was the translation of the Egyptian glyphs. “If Villeneuve had the translations at that point, what would have happened to them after he died? Do you know what happened to his effects?”
Etienne shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’m afraid there’s no Museum of Disgraced Admirals of the French Navy. And Villeneuve was basically penniless at the end. He was living in a boardinghouse in Rennes. Perhaps the landlord took whatever possessions he may have had left.”
“Maybe Villeneuve gave Napoleon the translation and was then killed anyway,” Renata suggested.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Kurt said. “Villeneuve was nothing if not a survivor. At every turn, he showed himself to be shrewd and cautious.”
“Except when he sailed out to fight Nelson at Trafalgar,” Joe pointed out.
“Actually,” Kurt insisted, “even there his moves were calculated. As I recall, he’d received word that Napoleon was about to replace him and possibly have him arrested, jailed or even sent to the guillotine. Facing that reality, Villeneuve made the only play left to him: he went out to fight, knowing that if he gained the victory, he’d be a hero and become untouchable. And if he lost, he’d probably die or be captured by the British, in which case he’d be taken safely to England. Which he was.”
“One last swing for the fences,” Joe said. “All or nothing.”
“A brilliant gambit,” Renata said with a smile. “Too bad for him that the British ruined it by sending him back to France.”
“Can’t win them all,” Kurt said. “But considering how he thought things through, how cunning Villeneuve was at each step along the way, I doubt he’d meet up with Napoleon and simply hand over his one and only bargaining chip. More likely, he’d give them a taste and keep the details stashed somewhere else, since that was the only thing keeping him safe.”
“Then why did Napoleon kill him?” Renata asked.
“Who knows?” Kurt said. “Maybe he didn’t believe what Villeneuve was telling him. Maybe he was tired of the admiral’s act. Villeneuve had burned him so many times already, maybe the Emperor had simply had enough.”
Joe recapped. “So in his haste to get rid of Villeneuve, Napoleon killed him, never realizing — or believing — what Villeneuve was offering. The translation and all mention of the Mist of Death and the Mist of Life vanished from the world, until now. Until this group we’re dealing with rediscovered the secret.”