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“Oh, no, it’s still there. Arnaud wouldn’t have approved of being taken off Elba. No, we found another graveyard with an empty crypt and moved him there. He’s safe and sound. I assume you’d like my permission to peek inside his sarcophagus? That’s why you’ve come, yes?”
Sam smiled. “I’m glad you said it. I wasn’t sure of the etiquette when asking a relative if they’d mind us poking around their ancestor’s remains.”
Yvette waved her hand dismissively. “Not to worry. You’ll be respectful, I’m certain. Anything you take, you’ll return, yes?”
“Of course,” Remi replied. “Though none of it might be necessary. We’ve been told Arnaud was buried with some personal effects. Do you happen to know what they were?”
“No, I don’t, I’m sorry. I’m sure the only person who knew the answer to that was his wife, Marie. And I can assure you, the sarcophagus hasn’t been opened since his death. So now I’ll gladly tell you where to find the crypt, but on one condition.”
“Name it,” Sam said.
“You’ll both stay for dinner.”
Remi smiled. “We’d love to.”
“Wonderful! When you reach Elba, you’ll be in Rio Marina. From there you’ll drive west on the SP26 into the mountains. . . .”
CHAPTER 23
ELBA, ITALY
He let the beetle crawl up his finger and over the back of his hand before he nudged it with his other finger into his palm. Sam rose from his crouch alongside the dirt road and turned to Remi, who was taking pictures of the ocean far below.
“History’s a funny thing,” he said.
“How so?”
“This beetle. For all we know it could be related to one Napoleon himself used to make the ink.”
“Has it spit on you?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“Selma said the ink came from a spitting beetle.”
“You’re missing my point. Where’s your sense of whimsy?”
Remi lowered her camera and looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said with a smile, “forgot who I was talking to.”
“I understand your point.” She checked her watch then said, “We’d better get moving. It’s almost three. Daylight’s burning.”
Their dinner the night before with Yvette Fournier-Desmarais had gone late into the evening and well into three bottles of wine, by which time she had convinced them to cancel their hotel reservations and stay the night. They awoke the next morning and shared a veranda breakfast of coffee, croissants, fresh pineapple, and French scrambled eggs with leeks, fresh pepper, and mint before heading to the airport.
For reasons neither Sam nor Remi had been able to deduce, daily flights to and from Elba were restricted to one airline, Inter-Sky, which serviced only three cities, Friedrichshafen, Munich, and Zurich. The other two carriers, SkyWork and Elbafly, offered more departure points, but only flew three days a week, so from Nice they’d boarded an Air France flight to Florence, then a train to Piombino, then finally a ferry across the ten-mile stretch of sea to Rio Marina on Elba’s east coast.
Their rental car—a compact 1991 Lancia Delta—paled in comparison to the Porsche Cayenne, but the air conditioner worked and the engine, small though it was, ran smoothly.
Per Yvette’s instructions, they’d driven inland from Rio Marina, passing through one quaint Tuscan village after another—Togliatti, Sivera, San Lorenzo—winding their way through lush rolling hills and vineyards, higher and higher into the mountains, until stopping at this promontory overlooking the eastern side of the island.
If not for Napoleon’s exile, Elba would not be the household name it was, which, as far as Sam and Remi were concerned, was a shame as it had its own unique story.
Over its long history Elba had seen its share of invaders and occupiers, from the Etruscans to the Romans to the Saracens, until the eleventh century, when the island fell under the aegis of the Republic of Pisa. From there it changed hands a half dozen times through sale or annexation, starting with the Visconti of Milan and ending in 1860 when it became a protectorate of the Kingdom of Italy.
Remi snapped a few more pictures then they got back in the car and continued on.
“So where exactly did Napoleon spend his exile?” Sam asked.
