MV02 Death Wears a Crown (29 page)

“My uncle endured worse, so I’m told,” he said nonchalantly. “Still, two or three days in a barrel ...” He did not continue.

“You will arrive in Dunkerque without discovery,” said Isabeau, her fervor revealing how much she hoped that he would be safe.

“There will be such chaos in France when we succeed that I have no worry of that.” He squared his shoulders. “It is getting to that happy moment that worries me.”

Isabeau bit her lip to keep from revealing her fear for him. “There is some time yet,” she said hopefully. “We can occupy ourselves in better ways than consumed in worry.”

He turned to her, his eyes lingering on her breasts and the drape of her high-waisted skirt against her hip. “Truly.”

The innkeeper smiled, her large eyes hungry. “There isn’t much time left for us, Magnus, and I’ve not had my fill of you.” She indicated the note. “Put that away for an hour and give thought to rile. Let me soothe you and turn your thoughts from fruitless worry. Whatever may befall you, there’s nothing you can do about it just now.”

It was pleasant to be persuaded, thought Sackett-Hartley as he drew the woman into his arms.

* * *

All along the newly widened boulevards leading to Notre Dame the traffic was so heavy and so grand that it could hardly move at all. Napoleon’s escorts alone had taken up almost half a mile on either side of his coach. They began with a squadron of Cuirassiers, mounted on the largest saddle horses that could be bought in France. They wore silver helmets and bright green, heavy leather coats. When they arrived at the cathedral, the Cuirassiers formed a line on the side of the large plaza across from the cathedral’s entrance. They were followed by Pauline in a gilded carriage and her own escort of Dragoons. She was followed by Hussars, looking both noble and rakish with their turned-back yellow pelisses and drooping mustaches.

By the time Napoleon had arrived in the oversized coach surrounded by the Consular Guard, the spectators were forced to one side of the plaza by the mass of cavalry waiting to honor their future Emperor. After the Emperor had entered the cathedral, dignitaries and their honor guards continued to arrive.

Bernadotte arrived with the Swedes. His white-and-gold uniform glittered with the Order of Saint John, presented to him the night before by the Ambassador. He bowed each member of the delegation to his assigned position, then offered his hand to his wife to escort her to her place.

“I think I am going to faint,” whispered Desirée. “This crowd ... it is so oppressive.”

Bernadotte looked down at her. “Aren’t you well?”

“It is the crowd, it makes me frightened ... the press inside and the cold outside—” She shuddered, making this commonplace movement seductive. “I may have to get some air,” she warned her husband as they reached her place. “I’ll try not to call attention to myself if I have to step out-of-doors. I’ll not disgrace you, my husband.”

“My dear ...” There was nothing more Bernadotte could say. He bowed over her hand. “Do not tire yourself too much. This will not last forever, and we’ll depart as soon as it’s appropriate. I hate to leave you, feeling as you do, but I must take my place in the procession.”

She motioned him away with an impatient gesture and one hand holding her silken handkerchief to her mouth, her manner distracted, as if she had something pressing on her mind. Bernadotte looked back, concerned, but Desirée was already moving away from him.

Some distance back in the cathedral, Victoire watched the elegant pandemonium and wondered if it would resolve itself to order as it was supposed to. She admired the staggering elegance of the gathering even as she felt herself flinch at the tremendous cost of such an ostentatious display. She could not entirely excuse herself from participation. She had spent more than half again as much as she had intended to, and her clothes were restrained compared to many others: her gown, a magnificent creation in ecru silk with an edging of bronze-green velvet and embroidered on the corsage and train in golden thread; it had cost more than Vernet earned in three months. Her hair was dressed in a knot of curls and fronted with her tiara. Her pearl-and-diamond drops hung from her ears, and a neat collier of pearls-and-tourmalines was around her throat. She was not nearly warm enough for the bitterly cold day. Victoire longed for a sensible woolen shawl to wrap around her shoulders, though such a breach of fashion was unthinkable.

But now that the cathedral was filling, it was growing stuffy without becoming hot. Victoire wished for the opportunity to pace, but at so magnificent a ceremony as this, pacing was unthinkable, not that there was sufficient room to do it. She tried to concentrate on the gorgeous stream of arriving dignitaries, and found her attention wandering. She was still upset at the recollection of the useless talk with the elderly Jesuit who now ran the inn at Vincennes: yes, there had been another man staying there calling himself Gambais, a tall man with an eyepatch; no, he had not come with armed men; no, he had not spoken against the First Consul. He had barely spoken at all. No, Gambais had sent no letters, nor received any. Yes, except for the eyepatch he had looked much like a sketch of Pichegru that Murat had the forethought to bring. No, he had no idea where he had gone.

Murat had searched the room, but Pichegru had removed all his possessions.

A jostling of her elbow recalled Victoire to her present situation. She shook herself mentally, glanced behind her to make sure no one was standing on her train, then moved a little nearer the wall, the better to watch the tremendous crowd crushed into the back half of the cathedral.

The Coronation began with a flourish of trumpets. Then, as was fitting for a military leader, standard bearers, each carrying the flags of their regiments, marched in a double row down the center aisle to exit through small doors at the sides of the High Altar. These were followed by almost a hundred clergy, beginning with the major abbots in the dark brown and gray habits of their Orders. These were followed by priests in white, bishops in white and red, Cardinals in their scarlet capes, and finally the Pope in his purple-and-gold vestments.

During it all a youthful choir and organ filled the cathedral with joyous anthems.

Behind the clergy came dignitaries from all over Europe. Even England’s ambassador and several English nobles marched in the procession to take their seats toward the front of the cathedral. Following the foreign delegations were those members of the government that had been honored with a place. Victoire could see Fouche in that company. She wondered if the man, most content when operating in the world of shadows and deceit, was uncomfortable parading before so many important spectators; there was no way to tell from his carefully neutral expression.

The Generals of the Army, resplendent in their fanciest uniforms, came next, Murat, as always, outdoing them all with a colorful ensemble that was topped by a spray of large feathers imported from Africa. Behind them came the Inspector-Generals of the Army, gold braid over the severe blue-and-white dress uniforms of the Gendarme; Victoire was proud and pleased at the way in which Vernet carried himself. As he passed by the pew where Victoire stood, their eyes met. After this the procession continued with the members of the Bonaparte family. From her conversation with Murat, Victoire knew that nearly two hundred more were scheduled to march before Josephine and then Napoleon himself entered.

* * *

Desirée slipped out of her place, her handkerchief still held to her lips. No one attempted to detain her and she reached the side door before Pope Pius VII and Cardinal Fesche intoned the first Latin phrases of the celebration.

An armed soldier from the Grenadier Company of the Consular Guard stood next to the old statue of Saint Anthony, his fancy uniform out of place with the firm purpose in his eyes.

“I must get some air,” whispered Desirée, and turned her pleading eyes on him.

“Madame—”

“I fear I am going to be sick,” she said faintly. “I can’t do it here. I would not want to ... to disgrace the celebration.”

From her position farther down the nave, Victoire saw Desirée, and her attention was fixed on Bernadotte’s wife.

“Madame!” the soldier exclaimed.

“Just let me have a few breaths of cold, fresh air. I won’t bother anyone if I step outside for a short while.” Her plaintive tone and her bejeweled loveliness had the effect she intended: the soldier nodded.

“All right,” he said, and opened the door just enough to allow her to slip out through it. “Knock twice when you want back in.”

“Thank you, thank you,” she said as she left the cathedral.

Victoire noticed Desirée’s exit, left her place toward the back, and hurried toward the soldier. She was no longer listening to the ceremony, and paying no attention to the curious glances shot in her direction. As she came up to the guard, she said, “Excuse me, Corporal, but is something the matter with Madame Bernadotte?”

The guard looked at her in mild surprise. “Who?”

“Madame Bernadotte. You just let her out ...” Victoire gestured to the door as the choir swelled in fulsome praise of God and Napoleon.

“Ah, the beautiful lady,” said the guard. “She said she was unwell.”

“Did she,” said Victoire. “That’s very unfortunate. If there is any difficulty, send her to me. I’m Madame Vernet, and I will watch after her. I’m eleven rows back in this section.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the soldier, and moved a little nearer the door.

Realizing that there was not much more she could do without obviously waiting for Desirée to return, Victoire retreated to her place in the ranks, and once again took to scanning the crowd.

Murat and Caroline were easily recognized, being among the favored in Napoleon’s company. There was Berthier, managing to look rumpled in his silken finery, and there Talleyrand, his elaborate coat trimmed with profusions of gold lace. Her eyes sought out Vernet, now standing between Fouche and the delegation from the king of Spain; she watched her husband with affection and pride.

When Victoire glanced toward the Saint Anthony door again, no more than five minutes later, she could not see the guard.

Disquieted, Victoire once again made her way toward the Saint Anthony door. As she approached the old statue, she saw that the door was ajar. Puzzled, she stepped through it into the cold wind. The massed formations had left as soon as the procession began, anxious to return to warm barracks and their own celebrations. She saw no one but a gathering of coachmen and postilions huddled some distance away, waiting for the ceremony to be over before they had more work to do. Desirée was nowhere in sight, and neither was the soldier set to guard the door.

Now her bafflement became anxiety. Victoire raised her hand and called out to the nearest of the coachmen. “Have you seen a woman here, or a soldier?”

Two of the coachmen swung around, one of them shaking his head, the other saying, “There was a woman. She helped the general inside, I think. He arrived late.”

“The general,” said Victoire, certain she knew which general that was. “A man in the uniform of a general officer? Tall and thin?”

The coachman shrugged. “I suppose so,” he answered, and looked at the others. “Any of you see him?”

Most denied it, but a young postilion from the Perignon household agreed with the description. “He wasn’t in very grand dress, not like the Emperor’s group. He was probably embarrassed to show himself in such a poor uniform. The Emperor won’t like it.”

“Thank you,” said Victoire, and started back toward the door, pausing to glance around the foot of the cathedral’s buttresses as she went, not truly expecting to discover anything terrible.

She was more shocked than she wished to admit when she found the young guard in a heap at the foot of one of the massive supports, his face calm, the front of his uniform soaked in blood from the gaping wound in his neck. The blood was not yet clotted—the soldier had not been dead for much more than ten minutes.

The choir soared into another anthem, making the whole of the stone building ring as with bells.

Victoire stood still for several seconds, then forced herself to take action. She glanced back in the direction of the coachmen, and decided at once to say nothing to them. To raise that alarm now would contribute nothing but turmoil, and that would be more apt to serve Pichegru’s purpose than her own. She wished more than ever that she had a shawl or a coat with her; she was becoming cold. She must do something at once, to keep from taking a chill, to prevent a tragedy. She could not linger here staring at the dead corporal. Her jumbled thoughts finally sorted themselves out and she started around the massive flank of the cathedral to the wide square at the front, her keen blue eyes already searching for the familiar sight of Roustam-Raza’s turban.

He was standing not far from the enormous doors, his arms crossed and his head lowered. His Mameluke uniform was more elaborate than usual, with swags and tassels and extensive amounts of gold braid augmenting his Egyptian finery. Not far away from him Napoleon’s state carriage waited.

“Roustam-Raza,” Victoire cried as she hurried up to him. “Thank God I’ve found you.”

“Madame Vernet!” he exclaimed as he scowled at her. “You ought to be inside.”

“No, no,” she said impatiently. “I need your help. At once.”

He regarded her narrowly, too familiar with her skills to disregard her demands. “Why?”

“The Emperor is in danger,” she said, and rushed on, “I’ve found a guard, killed. A door is open, and I fear that Napoleon’s enemies—”

“Have entered the cathedral?” he finished for her, one hand going to the scimitar thrust through his sash.

“That is what I fear,” she said, and quickly summed up what she had witnessed without distracting blather, “I cannot find Madame Bernadotte, and I cannot tell for sure that she is aiding the traitors, but I fear they entered where she stepped out and if she is not helping the traitors she is in the gravest dan—”

“Take me there,” said Roustam-Raza, and strode off more quickly than Victoire could easily follow in her thin kid slippers and fine clothing. She hitched her skirt and train over one arm and hastened after him, ignoring the stares of the coachmen and postilions as they neared the Saint Anthony door.