MV02 Death Wears a Crown (10 page)

“There are callers,” said Odette with a gesture of discomfort. “They have asked to speak to you.”

“Who are they?” asked Victoire, aware that Odette was not comfortable about the visitors.

“General Bernadotte and his wife,” said Odette. “They say they have been remiss in not coming before now.” She gestured to show how helpless she felt. “I’ve put them in the parlor, but what am I to do?”

Victoire rose and placed a blotter over her unfinished letter. “I suppose then that I must do the proper thing.” She had never felt the shabbiness of her house as intensely as she did at this moment. “What do we have in the house to offer them?”

“There is wine, and I have some rolls we did not eat at breakfast. I could serve them with a comfit—there is some left.” She was close to blithering.

“That would be very acceptable,” said Victoire, knowing it was not truly what either Bernadotte or his wife Desirée would expect. Still, it was polite enough that it would not insult the unexpected guests. “Serve some of that new honey, as well.”

Odette waved her hands in protest. “But Madame Vernet, that was supposed to be for the dessert when your husband returns.”

“I know.” Victoire sighed. “Still, it can’t be helped. We will buy more honey when he comes home.”

“Very well,” said Odette, and went to inform the guests that Madame Vernet would be with them directly.

General du Corps Jean Baptiste Jules Bernadotte was a handsome man, with regular features and a large, straight nose that constantly made him appear to be leaning into a wind. His wife, the former Desirée Clary, was a pretty, petulant woman with large eyes, flawless skin, and a languorous manner that could become ferociously energetic in an instant. Her hair was fashionably cropped, curling tendrils falling artlessly around her face. She was dressed at the height of courtly style in acres of tissue-fine rose-hued fabric that clung suggestively to her body whenever she moved. A wrap of India silk was draped over her shoulders. Her reticule was covered with splendid beadwork that matched the beadwork on the corsage of her dress.

“What a pleasure to have you once again in Paris, Madame Vernet,” said Bernadotte as he bowed over her hand. He wore the white uniform of a Cuirassier, even to the heavy leather boots and pants designed to deflect a sword stroke or bayonet. Across his chest was the most colorful of the many decorations Napoleon had awarded him; the effect was both martial and impressive. “You must not think us remiss for waiting until now to call upon you.”

“Not at all,” said Victoire, wondering what Bernadotte and Desirée were doing calling on her at all.

Bernadotte kissed her hand and then waited for Victoire to touch cheeks with his wife. “We had intended to be here two days ago, shortly after you returned, but the press of my work, you know—”

Desirée brushed her cheeks against Victoire’s and murmured a greeting. She was still very young, having been sixteen during her brief but notorious affair with Napoleon; she was almost twenty years younger than the handsome, round-faced Gascon, who had already been a hero of the Republic while she was still a child.

“I’m sorry I was not waiting to greet you when you arrived,” said Victoire as she indicated to Desirée a place on her threadbare sofa. “I have not been much in the way of receiving afternoon callers.”

“No, I gather not,” Bernadotte remarked. “You have given yourself other tasks. You are always active on your husband’s behalf; we are all aware of it. I have heard that you have already passed on dispatches to Fouche and Berthier.”

“How devoted you are,” said Desirée.

“I hope I am a dutiful wife,” said Victoire, more puzzled than ever. She took her place in her favorite chair and left Bernadotte to stand or sit as he wished.

“Oh, it is very well-known that you are. Inspector-General Vernet is the envy of half the officers I know.” He chuckled with an affectionate glance toward Desirée. “What man does not take pride in a wife who has his interests at heart?”

Desirée’s expression did not alter as she said, “And for a man like Vernet, a wife who will aid him is very important.”

Victoire looked at Desirée and wondered if her comment had been spiteful or merely ill-considered. “He and I both come from families who have made their way in the world. Fortunately there was money enough for training and education by the time we came along. Neither he nor I ever had to face the world without something in our pockets.”

“Not so much as once,” said Desirée with a charming smile.

So it is spite, thought Victoire, wishing she knew why General Bernadotte’s wife would have such a harsh opinion of her. “Very true,” she said as if she were unaware of the unkindness in the remark. “Which is why Vernet and I must apply ourselves.”

“Such a shame when officers are driven to the limit in these ways, don’t you think?” Desirée inquired. “I have thought many times myself that I have been fortunate that I was not left without support or a husband. I am not one who could apply herself as I am certain you would, Madame Vernet.”

This oblique reference to Desirée’s youthful affair with Napoleon took Victoire aback. “I should think that many women feel as you do,” she said, trying to discern what it was that these two wanted of her. “Each of us must be aware of at least one woman who has not been as fortunate as you and I, Madame Bernadotte.”

Desirée leaned back, sulking, while her husband took up the conversation. “Yes, it is most regrettable that France has seen so many difficult years. But now that is coming to an end, and you must take pride in knowing that your husband has been one of those who has made this possible.”

“I am very proud of Inspector-General Vernet,” said Victoire. “I make no secret of that.”

“Very true,” said Bernadotte. “The vigor with which you have pursued his goals is most admirable.” He smiled. “I have heard that it is the contention of Inspector-General Vernet that there are English spies newly come to France. Is this so?”

“It is possible,” said Victoire carefully.

“And we were informed that there was an attempt to rob you while you were traveling from the coast to Paris. The story is that you took a shot at the man.” He regarded her with a mixture of courteous attention and patent disbelief.

“I believe I wounded him,” said Victoire with a tranquility that she did not truly possess, still feeling a twinge as she remembered the incident. Victoire smiled gratefully when Desirée made light of the incident.

“It’s what comes of staying at a common posting inn,” remarked Desirée.

Victoire was determined to show no offense at this observation. “I would like to think so, but I cannot forget that no one is safe from the action of spies.”

“Ah,” said Bernadotte. “Then this is the reason you have been so much at pains to persuade Fouche and Berthier to be on guard.”

“It is one of them,” said Victoire and looked up as Odette came in bearing a tray with refreshments on it. “Pray let my housekeeper offer you something.”

Desirée lifted her arched brows. “Isn’t it difficult to run a household with only one servant? No footman, no butler—how do you manage, Madame Vernet? I should be lost without my staff of servants.”

“It requires effort, as you say,” Victoire answered stiffly, and motioned to Odette to carry the tray to Desirée first. “Had I known you would visit, I would have had cheese and fruit to offer you, as well.”

Desirée took a small plate and broke one of the rolls in half, putting compote on one and honey on the other. “And a glass of wine; that will suffice. This house is not like some, where you are constantly offered unwanted luxuries and treats that serve no purpose but to make the host appear grand.” She paid little attention to Odette.

“I will have the same as my wife,” said Bernadotte as Odette curtsied to him.

“For what reason have you given me the pleasure of your company, General?” asked Victoire as courteously as she was able. Her curiosity was getting the better of her now and she did not want to take the better part of twenty minutes in senseless social frivolities.

General du Corps Bernadotte was taken aback at her direct question, but he rallied himself and did his best to respond. “The stories of your enterprise and tenacity have only recently reached my ears, and what I have heard is most impressive. To shoot a robber with your own pistol, to protect your husband’s dispatches! And the tales Murat has told of you in Egypt and Italy. Astounding. It appears there is a dark secret in those events, for he is silent afterwards.” He paused for a moment to see if Victoire would clarify the mystery. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I must tell you, Madame Vernet, that I am astonished at how intrepid you are.”

“I am hardly that,” said Victoire, who knew that the word described her precisely. “I am prudent and sensible, which is often mistaken for intrepidity.”

“And so modest,” said Desirée.

For once Bernadotte appeared embarrassed at his wife’s comment. “Desirée, my dear, think of how this must seem to our hostess. It is not our purpose to make it appear we do not value her as we ought. Not everyone understands your playfulness.” He looked at Victoire with an attitude of eager inquiry. “Are you still convinced that there are English spies coming to Paris?”

“I see no reason to change my mind,” said Victoire as Odette poured her a glass of wine.

Bernadotte chuckled again. “But Madame Vernet, even suppose this were true, what would be their purpose in coming here? It is very dangerous, isn’t it? For what reason would they risk so much?”

“I don’t know, not beyond a few assumptions,” Victoire confessed. “And that is what bothers me.”

* * *

After the couple had left, Victoire wondered at their motives. Bernadotte was an old companion of Napoleon from Italy and was rumored to be in line for further honors after the coronation. He was said to be ambitious and the situation in France was far from settled. One general had taken over command of the country: did Bernadotte hope to do the same? There had been that trouble in 1802 when several members of Bernadotte’s staff had plotted to take over the government. Nothing had been found that implicated Bernadotte but the conspirators had included his aide-de-camp. Since then he had refused all posts that took him away from the city. Had Bessieres sent him? Had Desirée, Napoleon’s spurned mistress, convinced him to come? Had General Bernadotte been politely offering his assistance or checking to see how much Vernet knew? The questions continued endlessly, unanswered.

CLAUDE MONTRACHET
stood in the entrance to the empty house that had been provided for them. “We can’t take the chance of staying here, not all twenty of us; in fact, none of us at all should live here,” he told the two men with him. “We’ll have to have a guard here all the time, but otherwise, we cannot afford to put all of our group under one roof. It’s too great a risk if anyone should suspect us.” He opened the door, wincing a little as he turned his wrist, where the impressions of teeth were fading at last.

“It is adequate,” said one of his companions who had been with the private coach at the Vigne et Tonneau. “The other end backs onto the churchyard of Saint Rafael the Archangel. It is a very old building and there are only two priests there. They will not pay much attention if we cut through their—”

“But we will not do that unless it is utterly necessary,” said Montrachet. “We have to be circumspect, and that means that we do as little as possible to draw attention to ourselves.” His other arm was in a sling and as he turned, he brushed that arm against the wall. He swore with vigor and variety.

“The bullet wound has not yet healed?” asked the second companion, who had also been at the Vigne et Tonneau.

“It is improving,” said Montrachet between clenched teeth. “If I ever get my hands on that woman, she will regret having that pistol.”

“An amazing thing, the way she shot you,” said the first man unwisely.

“You’re an idiot, Bouelac,” said Montrachet in his most conversational tone. “It was luck, only my ill-luck, that kept her from putting the ball through her own flesh.”

Bouelac and the other man exchanged glances and wisely kept silent.

Montrachet made his way down the hall, looking critically at the wet patches as he went past them. “It smells of mold,” he remarked as he looked into one small room.

“The house is old and so near the river it is damp,” said Bouelac.

“True enough,” said Montrachet. “But I will want someone— carpenter, I suppose—to inspect these rooms for rot, and do any truly necessary repairs. It won’t do to have the place collapse around us while we’re here, and I don’t want to burn it to the ground if the chimneys aren’t safe.”

Bouelac sighed and said, “Have you talked to Sackett-Hartley about this?”

“It isn’t his decision. This is my part of the operation, not his. I know Paris. He’s English,” said Montrachet. “He thinks he is avenging the Terror.”

“And we are not?” asked the second companion.

“No, Toutdroit, we are not.” Montrachet stopped and turned back to regard the two steadily. “We are here to establish ourselves in our rightful places, not to demand recompense. If we do that, we will fail, for that would admit that there is recompense for what was done to our families, and none can be possible. Therefore, we have no reason to seek it. If we act for our own advancement, and to restore our positions in the rightful order, we will succeed.” He indicated the house. “See that a carpenter inspects it and that it is put right.”

“And if Sackett-Hartley questions this?” asked Bouelac.

“Send him to me,” said Montrachet. “He is not so blind that he will not understand me.” He resumed his inspection, saying little to Toutdroit and Bouelac, who trailed behind him.

At last they were done, and as they made their way back to the front door, there was the sound of someone coming into the house.

Montrachet motioned to the other two to hide behind him in the alcove as he drew a pistol from his belt.

Footsteps echoed along the narrow hallway, and then a voice called out, “Claude, it is Jean-Armand.” D’Estissac did not raise his voice but the sound of it carried easily.

Montrachet sighed. “Here, my friend,” he called out and came out of the alcove where he had hidden. “A good thing you identified yourself,” he went on, cocking his head toward the pistol in his hand.

“I should think so,” said d’Estissac, pretending to be frightened. “We’ve been keeping watch over the house from the church,” he went on by way of explanation. “When Les Aix saw you enter, he sent for me. He didn’t know it was you.”

“Very sensible,” said Montrachet, shoving the pistol back into his belt. “I trust that you are well. There was nothing in your note that said anything untoward had occurred.”

“No, nothing after that innkeeper and that was to his misfortune, not ours,” said d’Estissac. “You have not been so fortunate, it seems.” He gestured toward the sling.

Montrachet hissed with exasperation. “Yes. It is true.” He did not want to go into details. “But the wound was a minor one, hardly more than the dog-bite I sustained the same night. I will be recovered shortly.”

“Very good,” said d’Estissac. “We had better arrange a meeting for all of us very soon, now that we’re all here. Sackett-Hartley suggested tonight.”

“Tomorrow,” said Montrachet, and added vaguely. “We need time to prepare.”

“All the more reason to meet tonight,” said d’Estissac.

“I don’t think so,” said Montrachet. “I leave it to you to explain this to Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley.” He said the name as if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Are you certain that is what you want?” asked d’Estissac. “The longer we delay, the greater the chance that we will be found out.”

“One day is not going to make a difference,” assured Montrachet with such finality that the other three men made no effort to counter it.

“Very well, tomorrow,” said d’Estissac after a short hesitation. “If that is what you think we must do.”

“It is,” said Montrachet, and looked around the narrow hall in satisfaction. “Toutdroit will watch here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll work out the appropriate schedule for all the rest.”

This time d’Estissac did not question the order: if Sackett-Hartley did not like Montrachet taking over in this way, he would have to settle the question with Montrachet himself.

* * *

The sergeant who waited in the door looked ready to fall asleep. His horse, waiting at the curb, appeared more exhausted than his rider. He saluted Odette and asked for Madame Vernet. “I know it’s early,” he said. “But the letter I bring is from her husband. I have been in the saddle since three in the morning, and I am ready to find my bed. Pray accept my apologies for coming at this hour.”

“Oh, yes,” said Odette, and stepped back into the house, calling up the stairs to Victoire. “A letter from Inspector-General Vernet. The sergeant is worn out.”

Victoire, who was still abed, looked up from the file she was reading—Berthier had supplied it to her the night before—and called out, “Take the letter and give the poor man something hot to drink before he goes on his way.” She was already reaching out for her peignoir, wrapping it around her before she slipped out of bed, taking care to put the file beneath her pillows.

Odette had opened the door to the sergeant, saying, “If you will follow me, my mistress instructs me to give you something to drink, something hot.”

“Thanks,” the man muttered as he went along to the kitchen with Odette.

Victoire donned her very sensible slippers and tied the sash of her peignoir. It was not at all proper that she greet the messenger en déshabille, but she was not about to take the twenty minutes it would require to make herself presentable. This man was a soldier, she told herself, and she was a soldier’s wife and neither of them need stand on ceremony. Thus reassured she hurried down to the kitchen, coming through the door just as the kettle on the stove began to thrill.

The sergeant looked around, blushed, and got to his feet in the same moment. He half-saluted. “The dispatch is—”

“In my servant’s care, yes, I know that,” said Victoire quickly as she reached out to take the sealed packet of papers Odette offered her as she looked for the India tea.

“I’m afraid that it must be tea,” she said to the sergeant as she prepared the pot. “We have no beer and—”

“Tea is welcome, the stronger the better,” said the sergeant. He smiled wearily and sat down again, apologizing as he did. “I am about to fall over, and that is the truth before God.”

Victoire regarded him for a short while. “Yes, you must be exhausted. All the more reason to have the tea before you go, and to take with you a note for your commanding officer to express my gratitude for your dedication to duty.” She had already broken the seals on the dispatch and was now fumbling with the pages, her hands suddenly clumsy as she tried to read the crossed lines in her husband’s angular scrawl.

“You’re most gracious, Madame Vernet,” the sergeant said to her.

“Odette, I am going to write a note for the sergeant to take with him. I leave you to look after him.” Victoire started out of the kitchen door, then paused. “I will need no more than ten minutes.”

The withdrawing room was chilly and subtly damp, but Victoire ignored these discomforts as she closed the doors and hurried to her writing table. She sat down and spread out the sheets, reading them as quickly as she dared, promising herself to peruse them at length as soon as the sergeant was gone.

The trail leading to spies in Antwerp, if there ever was such a thing, has long gone cold, and I am forced to accept the possibility that the spies are making their way to Paris, as you suspected from the first. Yet I feel that my time here has not been entirely wasted, for I have learned a great deal more about the danger in which France now stands. It will take a few more days for my work here to be completed, but when it is done, I will not delay an instant returning to you, my dearest. You have put me on the alert and for that reason I am going to take extra care to settle my work here before I come again to Paris. I do not want the ghosts of neglect to rise to haunt me. I will elaborate on that when we can speak together privately, for these reflections do not belong in missives such as this. But to alleviate any concerns you may have, I will tell you that your deductions have proven yet again to be most perceptive.

“Well, at least they were once we discovered that we were entertaining the wrong assumptions,” Victoire murmured as she read. “But we had to be sure, Lucien.”

Your account of the events at the Vigne et Tonneau very much shocks me, my treasure, and I am filled with misgiving in regard to your safety. That you should have been subjected to such a dreadful occurrence shames me deeply, for I cannot but believe it would not have happened had you been with me, or had you been accorded proper escort, which you did not have. It may be as you say was decided, that the man was only a thief; others have suggested this to you. But in the event that he was something more, and therefore worse, I implore you to be more cautious than is your wont, to guard yourself at every instant. I am disgusted that French soldiers were so foolish as those corporals you described to me, and I will see that they are reprimanded for their conduct. Do not think to protect them from the consequences of their stupidity, my dear, for they are dragoons and must learn to bear the responsibility that goes with such work.

In regard to the circumstances regarding the foreign musician, I must ask you, my treasured wife, not to attempt to find the man. I know your character, and it would not astonish me to learn that you had already determined to see if the miscreant had actually come to Paris. I am not certain that such a desperate man would stop at threats. And if you wounded him as you say you think you did, he will have no charity to offer you but what comes with lead balls. You must not expose yourself to such danger again. It is appalling enough that you were at risk once; it must not happen a second time.

The rest of the letter was filled with details of what he had investigated, and Victoire knew she would need time to reflect upon what he had told her. She folded the dispatch and placed it in the concealed drawer of the writing table. Then she drew a sheet of paper from the central drawer—the one that was supposed to be seen—and took out her standish and pens. It required no more than a few seconds to compose the note in her head, and she wrote it quickly, sanding the ink carefully. As soon as she was satisfied it was dry, she rose and folded the sheet in half once, then returned to the kitchen.

The sergeant had finished about half a mug of tea and was listening to Odette fill him in on the gossip about Napoleon’s brother’s marriage. He rose as Victoire came into the room, and said at once, “The tea has revived me, Madame Vernet.”

“Then thank my housekeeper, for she is the one who made it for you,” said Victoire, and held out her note. “Give this to your commanding officer with my thanks, if you will. You may read it if you like.”

The sergeant shrugged as he took the paper. “I cannot read, Madame Vernet. That is one of the reasons I have been put on messenger duty.”

Victoire’s tone was dry. “How sensible of the army.” She glanced over at Odette, then looked back at the sergeant. “I fear that I must excuse myself once more. My husband has requested certain things of me that I must tend to at once, and therefore I will have to dress at once and prepare to depart within the hour.” She did not pause to give any further instructions to Odette but hurried away to dress, planning already to speak first to Berthier before she called upon Ministre Fouche.