In The Face Of Death (48 page)

“But this is not hurtful, or harmful. It will not give me any pain, only joy. You will know the rapture I know when we lie together,” she said, her attention wholly on him. Her next words were gentle. “Let it be my farewell gift to you, so that we will never be wholly parted.”

“Farewell?” he asked blankly.

She shook her head once. “Don’t do this, please.”

It took him a short while to answer. “I. . . Madelaine . . .”

Had she been able to weep she would have done it now; as it was, her throat tightened, making it difficult for her to speak. “That is why we are here, isn’t it? You asked me to meet you one last time. So that we can say good-bye?” She had felt this since she had read his letter, but speaking it gave her a sense of finality that was new to her, and hurtful. “Tecumseh?”

His breathing was becoming labored; he reached into his pocket and took out the vial she had given him at Lake Como. “I’m sorry to ask, but may I have some water?”

She rose at once and went to her bedroom to fetch the ewer and glass. “Here,” she said, putting them on a side-table. “Take what you need.”

Without saying anything he put several drops of the liquid in the glass, then filled it with water and drank it down. As he set the glass aside, he remarked, “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that tincture of yours. It has saved me as many times as my infantry has.” He tried to make light of this, but he could not conceal the pain in his eyes as he turned to her.

Madelaine rose and went into his arms, treasuring the strength in him, and the yearning; they clung together in silence for more than three minutes, each second passing too quickly, the whole seeming more than a day. With an effort of will she released him at last. “Ambassador Byers will wonder what has become of you,” she said.

“So he will.” He nodded, and tried again to make it right between them before he left. “If I could endure the blood, if I were certain it would not give you any hurt to take it, I would like to have the bond completed, but—” As he moved back from her, to make their separating bearable, he said, “So. More than twenty years of love wasted.”

She watched him pick up his hat and duster. “Was it wasted, Tecumseh?” she asked.

“Well, it is surely incomplete, according to you. What else can you call it?” There was a shine in his steel-colored eyes that he strove to hide.

“But do you think it was wasted?” she persisted, the hurt of his leaving holding her to the spot.

He paused in the door, one hand on the latch, and he met her eyes, knowing she would see the tears, and the love. “No, Madelaine. It wasn’t.”

Montalia, 29 September, 1872

Word has come at last in regard to the Syrian ruins, a two-day journey from Aleppo. I will be given permission to excavate them beginning in March. After that unpromising beginning we have been given all the access I requested at the first. . . . I must make my preparations at once so that as soon as the worst of winter is over, I and those in my party can begin our work, before the Syrians can change their minds. I will send out inquiries first thing tomorrow, to see who among the antiquarians wishes to join me. . . . If we arrive in Athens in December we will be able to have our supplies ready for our trek to the site . . . And regarding preparations, I must also begin preparations for creating another identity for myself since, when I return, I must be my own cousin or niece or some such relation. . . .

Tecumseh should have arrived home by now, back in Saint Louis, I must assume. In spite of the distance, I can still sense his anguish from time to time, as I will do no matter where he goes, and I wish I had some means to solace him . . . but he refused the bond, and so there is nothing I can do that will end the recriminations he visits upon himself. If he had taken the bond for his own, he would not have to castigate himself for leaving me, because he would know in his blood that he has not left me, nor ever could. . . .

Mercurio has agreed to remain at Montalia, in charge of the household until I return. I have provided a generous payment for this service. . . . If I must return to my native earth, as surely I must, it will be the more enjoyable for having a beautiful young man here, who is willing to banish the world in his dreams, although, sadly, only in his dreams. . . .

Why it is that knowing love is so terrifying to so many? I have asked Saint-Germain and he has little to tell me beyond what I know—that it is. And those who can accept it may not accept it for long. . . .

Athens, 14 January, 1873

I have six antiquarians who have agreed to join me on this expedition. Two are German, one is a Scot, two are Dutch, and one is Belgian. Three of them are already experienced in such explorations; the other three are novices, and that will mean taking time to be certain they are properly instructed in cataloguing. . . . I have also hired a guide named Mustapha, who has done such work before, and seems to have some understanding of its importance. He has offered to supply me with the necessary crews I will need for the work. We will depart in a month, if all goes well.

Aleppo, Syria, 18 June, 1873

We have come to this city for more supplies, and to send back our findings. I think Professor van der Groot will be returning to Holland shortly; the heat of this place has proven to be more than he can endure, and so he has, quite sensibly, elected to leave while he has a semblance of health left. It will be a loss to the expedition, for he has proven to be the most apt and careful member of the expedition, meticulous to a fault and determined to preserve the integrity of the work we do. . . . He has agreed to carry some papers to Amsterdam for me: more of my recollections of the American Civil War, at least part of them. They will be published to accompany my volumes on the Indians, and will, I hope, impart some understanding of the American character in all its forms. . . .

Why this desolate place should cause me to recall those terrible years, I cannot say, but since I have been on this expedition, I have found my thoughts casting back to the Choctaw Nation, and my trek through the Confederate States. And of course, I have been filled with memories of Tecumseh. I cannot think of any part of my journey there that he does not intrude. For me, he and America are completely interwoven. I cannot banish him from my thoughts; I do not wish to. . . .

If only I could discover someone who would receive me knowingly, as he did, and not be limited by dreams. . . .

Cairo, Egypt, 28 October, 1873

A new antiquarian has approached me to join our expedition. The fellow is called Paul Danner, and is one of those endlessly curious Englishmen, hardly more than twenty-two or -three. He has some education, at Exeter College at Oxford, and has done a little work in Egypt. His enthusiasm is tempered with a kind of prudence that makes for good work. . . . As we need someone to take the place of Professor van der Groot, I have given my provisional approval. . . .

It is alarming to hear the news from France. I fear for my poor country.

Damascus, Syria, 4 July, 1874

Today I have sent off another packet of manuscript pages on the American War to Amsterdam. The date of this may be fortuitous. . . . I think these will be the last of what I write on the subject, at least as myself. I may research my “ancestress” at some later time for more work on the subject, when I have gained more perspective on it. . . .

The expedition is going fairly well, and our work should conclude in another eighteen months. I have insisted on an accurate catalogue of everything we discover at the site, from bits of pots to the metal of spear-tips. . . . Of our discoveries thus far, the most interesting is a small statue of a goddess dedicated, it would appear, to horses, for she has a foal at each of her breasts. The piece is about ten inches high and of silver. At first it was so tarnished that it seemed little more than a lump of blackened metal . . . I wish Saint-Germain were here, to give me some notion of its age and origin, for it is clearly not like the rest of the pieces we have found so far. . . .

I have made the attempt of visiting Paul Danner in his sleep and found him most receptive to the delights they provide. I am pleased that one of these men on the expedition is willing to have such dreams. Only Bethune, the Scot, has shown any interest in his night-time fancies until now, and he is worried about his soul if he has such nocturnal visions, certain that he is being tempted as the desert fathers were tempted, fifteen centuries ago. . . . If only Paul were willing to know me and my love for what it is. . . . That may be too much to wish for, and certainly the joy he takes in his sleep is better than no contact at all . . . And more than we have could prove dangerous, for the Syrians have strong views on vampires. . . .

I will return to the site next week, Mustapha acting as my guide again. He has proven quite reliable, and in spite of the fact that I am a foreigner, which is bad, and a woman, which is much worse, he has developed a grudging respect for me. He admitted not long ago that he did not suppose I was a serious scholar, but he is beginning to think that I might actually have some—albeit limited—capacity for learning.

Expedition site, two days from Aleppo, Syria, 30 November, 1874

It seems we will not be allowed to remain here much longer. There have been objections raised by local officials, and I cannot find a way to persuade them that we do no harm. . . . I have no wish to put any of us in danger. . . .

It is unfortunate that I will have to give up Paul Danner along with this site. I was beginning to hope that he might come to a point where he could know my secret and not despise me for it. He has warmed to me in ways that were beginning to give me hope. . . . But I doubt I will have the opportunity for that now. . . . He is bound for studies in Spain, or so he says. . . .

In an ironic way, this will prove useful in my establishing my new identity back in France. . . . As I must leave Syria before I planned, I will be able to “disappear” and reemerge later, in my new identity. I have decided I will use one of my second names for this identity, as I have done before. . . . Much as I dislike the name Bertrande, I had better use it, as I used Roxanne the last time, and a few may remain who recall me from then . . . So Bertrande it is, and I will make my way to Tunis slowly, so that I may emerge as my own cousin. I think cousin will do this time. . . .

Alexandria, Egypt, 11 August, 1875

. . . For the first time I have seen a copy of my work on the American Civil War just arrived from Amsterdam. I am a bit apprehensive about reading it, for fear of what it may stir in my memories. . . . In time, I suppose I must, but for now, I will carry it with me, and look at it when my circumstances are more certain than they are now. I doubt I could read Tecumseh‘s name, even made distant by calling him General Sherman, without feeling his absence as keenly as a thrust from a knife.

. . . I have had word from Montalia that Mercurio has married and is willing to remain as caretaker of the estate. . . . I wonder if he is still the handsome young man I remember? And being a married man, what use would he have for the dreams I can give? Tecumseh, knowing my love for what it is, never stopped loving his wife. . . .

Tunis, Tunisia, 9 April, 1876

Bertrande is becoming established here, as the orphaned niece of Robert de Montalia, and daughter of Etienne—I might as well use another family name—who has been left a large estate by her cousin, Madelaine. Like her “late” cousin, Bertrande has a bent for antiquarian scholarship, which is regarded as an odd turn for a wealthy young woman. . . .

Luckily, there are Roman ruins I can explore in this area, and though I am thought eccentric, no one has forbade me to do the work. Assuming I encounter no opposition, I can fill my time quite pleasantly while I establish my new identity, as well as a few academic credentials. . . . I begin to hope that this transition will go well, and I will be able to return to Montalia before too many years go by. . . .

Malta, 24 December, 1881

A year-old letter has caught up with me, sent to “Madeleine’s” publisher in Amsterdam, from Tecumseh. It was sent on to me as her heir. . . . He has read my war monographs, and wanted me to know how he views my account. . . . I saw his name and it was a jolt to me. I suppose some of the trouble is that I have not yet found a lover willing to have me as anything more than dreams. . . . Or do I miss him for more than that? There are times I miss the talk we shared as much as I miss the weight of his body and the life of his blood. I can feel his presence through my bond with him, and that may account for it, though I doubt it. He has a niche in my soul, and will always have it, no matter what the True Death may do. Or perhaps Saint-Germain is right in telling me again that I have a weakness for Americans?

He informs me, with a tone of tremendous disappointment, that his son Thomas is training to be a Jesuit. Given his intense dislike of religion, and all the hopes he had pinned on his son, this blow must strike him deeply. He mentions only that is wife is very pleased, and hopes that he—Tecumseh—will convert at last. . . . Tecumseh did his best to joke, that he is going to be sixty-two in February, and I, he is certain, still look like a girl just out of school. That he should be troubled by this appearance with me, of all women. . . .

I have decided that this time next year I will return to Monbussy-sur-Marne, and make Bertrande mistress there. I am beginning to miss France once more. . . .

Monbussy-sur-Marne, 6 August, 1883

This place is in excellent repair, and the fields are doing well. I have every hope that I can remain here for a decade or so, and catch up on my reading, if nothing else: Maupassant and France and Flaubert to start, then Henry James, and a few of the other Americans, such as Mark Twain and Ambrose Bierce. And the new discoveries in science, especially this light bulb. . . .