MV02 Death Wears a Crown (26 page)

The Guards and the servants had been formed into a protective escort for the Swedes, and now, with Bernadotte leading them, they hastened toward the nearest of the open French windows. As they made their way through the ballroom, Victoire overhead Vernet call out their destination to her: Sacre Famille, the small twelfth-century church half a block away.

Hearing this, Victoire felt a rush of relief. At least there would not be a pitched battle in the ballroom, and if the Swedes were taken to safety, there was an excellent chance that Napoleon could be warned in time.

The ballroom was in complete disarray. Only Desirée and her Aunt Hortense remained at the door. Those waiting in line were now confused and distressed, and several of the men had called for arms, their dress swords being good for little more than slicing cake. Pichegru was surrounded by the men who had accompanied him, and most of them had drawn their pistols.

Suddenly there was a running surge of servants from the rear of the hotel, all of them men and all armed with cudgels. They rushed at the men gathered with Pichegru, a few crying aloud.

Desirée stood where she had been left, her pretty face completely unreadable.

In the ballroom a woman screamed, and at that half the company broke for the French windows at a run. The rest were either too upset to act or too confused to know what was best to do. Three of the tall, standing candelabrae in the entryhall were overset, and their light extinguished almost at once, giving Pichegru and his company the advantage of darkness as the servants closed with them.

Desirée tugged her Aunt by the sleeve and drew her into the ballroom, where more of the women had gathered near the musicians.

After a moment’s pause, Victoire started toward the hallway, trying to make out what was happening in the uncertain light. For the most part all she could see was a flailing jumble of bodies. Fright warred with curiosity and determination within her. She cursed her elaborate ballgown and long white gloves, wishing now she were dressed for a hard ride or work in the kitchen.

Then there was a shot.

Now several of the women screamed, and Desirée raised her voice. “Pray be calm. The soldiers will protect us,” she said confidently, and addressed the master of the consort. “Play that new march that Paisiello composed, the dignified one you were to play for the First Consul’s arrival,” she ordered.

The violinist stared at her as if she were insane.

“It will quiet these women and keep them from panicking,” said Desirée, and indicated her Aunt Hortense, who was breathing in long, shuddering gasps. “Do it now, churl, or—”

The violinist gave a few hasty orders and struck a downbeat with his bow.

As a second shot was fired, the consort made a tremulous beginning to Paisiello’s “March Triumphant.”

“Good,” Desirée approved as the first clarion call of the trumpet sounded over the blows, oaths, and clattering in the hall.

Victoire was now at the doorway; she hesitated going further, for in the darkness she knew that she could come to grief. She heard the music grow louder and grudgingly admitted that Desirée had hit on the way to keep some order.

Another shot erupted, and this time there was the unmistakable cry of a gravely wounded man.

This spurred Victoire to action, and she plunged into the hallway toward the mass of struggling men. She still did not know what she would do when she reached the fight, but she felt driven to act.

A figure materialized from the shadows. “Madame Vernet, is this wise?” asked Talleyrand.

“They have to be stopped,” said Victoire, as eager to break away from him as to end the battle. “Someone is badly hurt. You can hear him.”

“With music to accompany him,” approved Talleyrand, and held out a sabre to her. “It is one of the Cuirassiers’,” he explained. “Not for dress. You may need it.”

Much as she hated taking anything from Talleyrand, Victoire accepted the long, curved sword. “Thank you.”

“Use it well,” said Talleyrand. “And do not fear. I have weapons with me.” He slid away into the shadows on the far side of the hall.

Victoire stood still for the better part of a minute, wondering who else was skulking about in the darkness. She tried to peer into the niches and alcoves that lined the hall, but could determine nothing; with a stern inner warning not to succumb to an attack of nerves, she closed her hand more firmly about the hilt of the saber. Then she heard two more shots in quick succession, and she caught up her train over her arm and hurried toward the fighting men.

She had almost reached the chaotic battle when Pichegru’s men broke free of the servants, retreating toward the coach entrance of the hotel amid shouts and the ring of steel on steel.

Behind them the sound of the march was growing in volume.

One of the combatants—a servant—was flung back from the rest; he careened into Victoire, all but knocking her off her feet. He muttered an apology and staggered away, one hand pressed to the side of his face where blood seeped through his fingers.

Victoire advanced again, and this time she was able to seize one of the servants by his shoulder and pull him back from the fray. “You’ll be shot if—”

She was interrupted by more explosions as Pichegru and his men reached the entrance. There coachmen joined with the servants to attempt to thwart Pichegru’s escape, many of them bringing their long whips into play.

There were more discharges of pistols, and one of the coachmen fell dead, while a servant collapsed with a shattered leg.

Two of Pichegru’s men were lying on the floor in the hallway, unconscious, bruises already forming on their heads and hands. One of them had a broken leg, the bones piercing his skin and matting his inexpressibles with blood.

Victoire took just enough time to determine that they were still alive, then followed after the retreating men, holding the sabre at the ready.

More of the servants were breaking away as Pichegru’s men moved him beyond their reach. Several of them had been hurt in the fight, and now they began to realize the extent of their injuries.

From the ballroom the refrain of the march began again.

At last Pichegru was almost into a waiting carriage; Victoire saw this with dismay, and started to run forward.

Then a foppish, limping man broke from the shadows, a sword upraised. He rushed directly at Pichegru, shouting something that was lost in the chaos around them. Pichegru’s men turned on Talleyrand as Pichegru himself fled in the carriage.

Victoire saw one of Pichegru’s men take aim at Talleyrand, and she charged him, bringing her sabre down on his arm. The impact of the blow, followed by the tension in the blade as it bit into cloth and flesh sickened her a little, and she stepped back as the soldier tottered, clutching his arm to his chest.

Most of Pichegru’s men were breaking away now, some running for the streets, some of them climbing aboard waiting coaches of the Bernadottes’ guests, and whipping up the horses to escape.

Ahead on the paving stones Talleyrand sat with his head in his hands, his finery torn and smirched. He winced as Victoire approached him. “I couldn’t stop him. Thought I might, but—”

Victoire could only nod. She no longer heard Paisiello’s march.

VERNET WAS PALE
and his visage grim as he returned home. He removed his greatcoat and called harshly for Odette. The day was bright and brittle, with a cold wind to make mockery of the sun, which precisely echoed his state of mind. “Odette!” he yelled again over the hammering from the floor above.

Victoire appeared in the hallway, coming from the withdrawing room. “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said calmly, noticing how rigidly Vernet was standing.

“It’s done,” said Vernet heavily.

“All of them?” asked Victoire. “Did none of them speak?”

“Oh, they spoke. Montrachet delivered quite an oration, but none of it was useful to us, except that it confirmed their conspiracy. He was proud of it.” He went toward the living room. “There is still no sign of Pichegru.”

“That should not surprise you,” said Victoire, turning toward the kitchens and calling to Odette to bring cognac before following Vernet into the parlor. “If he has any intelligence, he will be out of this country as soon as he can.”

“There are men dispatched to the borders and the coast, searching for him.” He sat down on the new divan. “The conspirators are gone, dead or left the country. Or so Fouche declares. Most of them were very young, hardly more than boys, and they died bravely, but so uselessly.” He glanced toward the ceiling, where the sound of carpenters continued. “Would you ask them not to hammer for a while? The sound, after the executions—”

“If you wish,” said Victoire, and went to relay his request to the workers. By the time she returned Odette had come from the kitchen with the cognac and two balloon glasses on the tray she carried. “Let me pour for us,” she offered, and motioned to Odette to leave them alone.

“It’s a bad business, but it was managed as well as possible, under the circumstances. Dangerous men like that, we dare not risk a trial now.” He frowned. “Fouche is persuaded that spies like those must be dealt with summarily, as you would in war because they are committing an act of war. But still.” He looked over at Victoire and then away again. “We were not wholly unfeeling for their plight. They had Mass and Communion, those who wanted it.” He held out his hand for the glass she offered him. “It was very cold, and the wind cut like a sword. They were shot in groups of four; there were six of the groups, between the spies and Pichegru’s men who were captured. Most of them—Pichegru’s men—were injured. We rounded them up after the debacle at Bernadotte’s reception. They were shot first, because they disgraced the uniform of France.” He drank half the contents of the glass.

“They revealed nothing,” said Victoire, certain they had not.

“No, no, they told us nothing,” said Vernet, and drank again, less deeply than before. “The Coronation is slightly more than two weeks away, and—”

“There is still the possibility of treason and assassination,” said Victoire bluntly. “Fouche has finally admitted that, has he?”

“Not quite,” said Vernet. “But he has redoubled the force assigned to protect the First Consul.”

“But you are afraid it may not be enough?” Victoire suggested.

“I don’t know,” said Vernet, rising and beginning to pace. “I know you’ve said all along that there are still conspirators at large—”

“And their undiscovered allies close to Napoleon as well,” Victoire interjected.

“Yes, yes. Fouche hasn’t come to accept that theory of yours, not wholly. He believes that it is Pichegru who was their master, and that once he is apprehended the rest will be caught, assuming there are any of them left, whoever they are.” He stopped to stare, unseeing, out the window.

“And you do not believe this,” said Victoire.

“Not anymore, no,” he admitted slowly. “I want to believe it. I have tried to persuade myself. I’m afraid there are more of the spies or followers of Pichegru’s at large, and I am not convinced that they will not make another attempt on Napoleon’s life.” Now that he had actually said this, he smiled sheepishly. “You’ve thought this all along, haven’t you?”

In spite of herself, Victoire nodded. “It has troubled me.”

“I should have listened to you before.” He finished the cognac. “Those men, this morning, they were mad with purpose.”

“Zealots,” said Victoire.

“Zealots,” Vernet confirmed. “And they did not seem defeated. That’s what has weighed on me since ... since they were executed this morning. I’ve been thinking over the way they died, and it was the death of martyrs, not those with a lost cause. It has rankled with me, that ... that
confidence
they displayed.”

“I see,” said Victoire, refilling his glass with cognac.

“If Pichegru has fled, it’s only because there are others to do his work for him,” said Vernet with conviction. “You were right about that. I should have seen it from the first, but Fouche was so determined to ... Little as I wish to believe this, I know it for the truth.” He took another sip, this one quite modest. “I had better not finish this second glass. There is a meeting this afternoon I must attend, and it would not do for me to arrive less than alert.”

“This is the preparation for the Coronation?” Victoire inquired. “For Fouche and the rest of you?”

“Yes, and there is another tomorrow. From now until the event, there is something every day relating to it. I must have another fitting of my Coronation uniform tomorrow, though where I’ll find the time I haven’t decided.” He set the glass aside. “Have Odette use the rest in a sauce or something,” he recommended.

“I will,” said Victoire. “My gown ought to be ready at the end of this week, or so the dressmaker tells me. She has a strict schedule to keep, and I am sure to have the gown by Friday.” She looked away, recalling once again how expensive these two articles of clothing were. “A pity we will have only the single occasion to wear them,” she said before she could stop herself. “Like wedding clothes, it seems.”

“Yes, it is,” said Vernet in a practical tone. “But there may be other foreign events that will demand such finery again, and so—”

“And so we will put them in clothes-presses and trust that we can use them again before they are hopelessly old-fashioned,” she said. “Such is the favor of advancement, my love. And the time may come when we will be pleased to have spent so much.”

“Do you think so?” Vernet wondered aloud. “I am appalled at how much we must spend.”

“As I am,” said Victoire. “However, it is necessary if the others are not to dismiss you.” She stepped to the hearth and stared down at the low fire burning there. “Fortunately there will not be another Coronation for a time. We will not have such expenditures next year.”

“Let us pray so,” said Vernet, and then stood very still, watching her. “You aren’t planning to do any more investigating, are you?”

“Not unless something new occurs to me,” she promised him, which did not provide the reassurance he sought.

“Promise me you are not going to strike off on your own again. Tell me that you will speak to me before you do anything more to find these spies.” His eyes were somber and his expression grave. “If you are right, the men we seek are more desperate than you can imagine, my love, and they would not hesitate to murder you. Since we have not identified their associates, you could be courting destruction if you attempt to find them.” He came toward her. “If you’ll not protect yourself for yourself, do it for me.”

“All right,” she said, realizing how deep his apprehension was. “I won’t do anything without informing you. Is that acceptable?”

“Not entirely,” he said, “but if it’s the best concession you offer—”

She shrugged. “It is the best I can do without falsehood.”

He bent and kissed her lightly, “Then I accept it with gratitude.”

* * *

“How intrepid you were, Madam Vernet,” exclaimed Desirée as she and Victoire faced each other across the long dining table. Gone was the sensibility and good-will of their conversations of a week ago. Now there was combat in Desirée’s splendid eyes. “And how fortunate that your bravery brought you such flattering attention.” Around them the high-ranking officials and their wives sat, enjoying the lavish meal offered by Napoleon’s sister Pauline. “I would never have the courage to face a company of armed men.”

“Hardly a company, Madame Bernadotte, and I was far from alone. Your servants had already moved to capture the traitor; I merely observed as closely as I could,” said Victoire with a gesture to indicate her lack of need for acclaim. “I find myself admiring your conduct during the trouble. It was a lucky thing that you are not easily distressed. You served to calm many of your guests, and with such presence of mind that your Swedish company were wholly protected at all times. Surely your husband and the delegation must be grateful for your presence of mind.”

“You are kind to say so,” said Desirée, though her eyes held another message entirely.

“Oh, no. I could never have been so clever as to order the musicians to play. That was a brilliant stroke,” said Victoire sincerely. “I suspect that we’re more in your debt than we know. A panic at that reception would surely have been catastrophic.”

“It may have been what Pichegru sought,” said Desirée. “If there had been complete disorder, he might have been able to make an attempt on the First Consul.” Her eyes flashed.

Victoire regarded her with interest. “Do you think it would have been possible? There were so many officers in attendance, surely one of them would have warned Napoleon before he arrived.”

“It would please me to think so,” said Desirée with a wide, false smile. “You would have been at the door to warn him, in any case, wouldn’t you, Madame Vernet?”

“Perhaps,” said Victoire, wondering what Desirée intended by that observation. “That would have depended more on your servants than on me.”

“And Murat as well,” Desirée added with a deliberate sting in the words. “Doubtless you would seek to warn Joachim Murat, wouldn’t you?”

The use of Murat’s first name startled Victoire and she knew that her response would be noted by guests other than Desirée. “I would hope that had it not fallen out so unfortunately that I might have been able to give the warning to everyone accompanying the First Consul,” she answered.

“Noble sentiments,” said Desirée, and changed the subject to jewels.

* * *

The innkeeper at Le Chevre Chantier favored Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley with a wide, encouraging smile. “Your ally has sent you word at last.”

Sackett-Hartley put down the load of wood he had carried in from the shed behind the inn, and he regarded her with suspicion. The small lobby was deserted, and the door to the taproom was closed, leaving them isolated. “What are you talking about?”

“Very fussy handwriting has your ally, dainty as a woman’s,” she said, holding out the folded missive with a provocative air. “D’Estissac said there would be a message, and here it is.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. “If you want to read it, you’ll have to thank me for it properly.”

“Properly?” he repeated, not certain of her intention, for he had seen her taunt men and then upbraid them for their forwardness. “I’ll bow and kiss your hand, if you require it. You have had generous payment already.”

“That is not what I meant,” she said, and her smile changed, becoming more eager and inviting. “There are many ways to be thanked, aren’t there? A man like you, well-set-up and handsome, you must know these ways. I am a widow, and there are times my bed is too empty and cold.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “It would be a welcome gesture to have a little of your time, my fine English gentleman.”

Sackett-Hartley stared at her, wondering if he had suddenly forgotten all his French. “You cannot ... surely you do not intend ...” He stopped, too flustered to continue. What if he had misunderstood her? he asked himself, and this was another one of her flirtatious ploys?

“I mean that I expect you to give me a great deal of pleasure before I give you this message,” she said plainly. “And if you do it well enough and I am satisfied, then I’ll continue to serve your purpose here, as long as you serve mine.” Her eyes were bright, anticipatory. “If you disappoint me, I’ll no doubt have to find a way to ... to achieve other satisfaction and pleasure. There are rewards for those who bring the enemies of the First Consul to light. A poor widow like me, who could blame me for fearing for my life in the company of desperate men?”

Sackett-Hartley regarded her steadily for a short while, then said, “And what is to keep you from informing against us whether you are pleasured or not?”

Her laughter was short and sarcastic. “You are taking quite a gamble, my pretty Englishman.”

“And coming to your bed is not a gamble?” he asked, his expression self-effacing. “Madame, consider: neither you nor I have time for courtship. You have danger enough having us here. Why bring more—”

“That is my thought,” she interrupted him. “As long as I’ve taken so great a chance, I wish to be richly rewarded.”

“But Madame—” Sackett-Hartley protested.

“Do you not think me fair?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted at once. “That’s never the issue. You are a beautiful woman.” He looked directly at her. “It’s not a question of your beauty, Madame.”