The Trouts met with the D’Campions at their estate. Nicole led them into the main parlor.
“Excuse the mess,” she said. “We’re still cleaning up.”
Etienne met them beside the now-darkened hearth. “I welcome you,” he said. “Any friends of Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala are friends of ours. And while I understand that he sent you, I’m not sure I understand why.”
“He wanted you to show us a painting,” Gamay said. “One, apparently, he admired very much.”
“The one Emile painted,” Etienne replied.
“Aboukir Bay,” Gamay said.
Etienne stepped aside. Behind him, above the hearth, was the painting.
“Do you mind if we take it down?” Paul asked.
A look of concern came over Etienne’s face. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we have reason to believe Emile hid the translation behind it with the intention of sending it to Villeneuve. It was the one thing no French overlord would take. And that made it safe to possess.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Etienne said.
“Only one way to find out.”
With deliberate care, the painting was taken down. A razor blade was used to separate the liner behind the canvas. Gamay slid her hand carefully up and under the backing and with the tips of her fingers touched a folded piece of paper. She pulled out stiff yellowed parchment. It was placed on the glass of the dining room table and opened with extraordinary care.
The hieroglyphics were obvious. The translation was written beneath them. Black Mist. Angel’s Breath. Mist of Life. A date was scribbled in the corner.
“Frimaire XIV,” Etienne said. “December 1805.” He looked up. “All this time…” he said. “It was right here all this time.”
“It may have taken a few hundred years,” Gamay said, “but Emile’s contribution to the knowledge of antiquity will be recorded now. The date of the painting and the correspondence with Villeneuve will prove he was the first to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. And this particular find will go down in history as unique. He will be remembered as the most important of Napoleon’s savants.”