MV02 Death Wears a Crown (9 page)

Such a request from most officers’ wives would have been met with a firm but polite dismissal from Fouche, but coming as it did from Victoire Vernet, he nodded in agreement, fussing with the folds of his neck cloth; calm in the most difficult of diplomatic circumstances, he was often uncomfortable in social conversations. “Of course. I will have it brought at once. You understand that you will have to examine it here? Nor can you make any copies.”

“Certainly,” said Victoire at once. “You do not want such sensitive information to leave the building.” Her manner was brisk without being unfriendly. “If I notice anything that might lead to discovering this latest English mission, I will inform you at once.”

“Excellent,” said Fouche, rising in order to summon one of his assistants. “I would like you to bring the file on English spies operating in France,” he said, adding, “I would like to have it at once. We will wait for you to bring it.”

“At once,” said the angular young man who had answered his summons. “Of course.”

Fouche returned to his chair, plucking at the ruffles of his cuffs. “May I offer you a glass of wine while we wait for the file to be brought?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Victoire, who knew that Fouche served very good wine. “I’d like that.”

“Very well,” said Fouche, and opened a cabinet near the foot of his desk. “I think that you will find this satisfactory, for you are not one of those women forever drinking tisanes and champagne. I enjoy it myself, but it is not to everyone’s taste.”

The wine was a Côtes Sauvages, very dark and rich, with a flavor so dense that it seemed chewable. Fouche smiled with understandable pride as Victoire took a second sip.

“This is wonderful,” she said sincerely, thinking how much she wished she could afford to offer such a vintage to her visitors. Now that she was back in Paris, she was reminded how important such matters were among the new aristocracy of the Republic.

“Yes, it is. And you have the knowledge to value it,” he complimented her, putting his glass down. “I wonder if you would tell whether or not you share your husband’s worry in regard to these English.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, putting her glass aside as well. “If anything, I am more troubled than he, because try as I will, I can think of no reason for the spies to leave the coast if they do not intend to act either directly against Napoleon himself or indirectly, by causing disruption to the negotiations in Antwerp.”

Fouche listened attentively. “Perhaps they are waiting to make some more mischief against the fleet. Already we have enough ships to threaten the Channel. I do understand that is one of your husband’s assumptions.”

“It was, but is less so now: if that were the case there would be rumors of it, and there are none. Those fishermen along the coast are a greater source of gossip than the most successful hairdresser here in Paris,” she said bluntly. “Let the English appear, and they would know of it even if the army did not. And those men guarding the fleet know the ships and fishermen of their area. They would know if there were foreign sailors about.” She folded her hands in her lap, her demeanor as modest as she could make it. “My husband has gone to Antwerp, as you are aware, and I am here to serve as his lieutenant, so that if Paris is the destination of the spies, you will not have to wait for word from him to begin a search for them. And we are in agreement that there are spies, and that they must be bound for one destination or the other.”

“Your husband is a very sensible fellow,” said Fouche.

“He is, isn’t he?” Victoire agreed candidly.

“And he is thrice-blessed in you,” added Fouche, now fussing with the top button of his swallow-tail coat. “If I were not certain of that, you would not be permitted to examine the file you have requested.” He took another sip of wine. “It is a pity that so many of our officers have playthings for wives, or ambitious cats, ready to claw their way to prominence.”

Victoire was surprised at the vehemence of his words. “Ministre Fouche, you cannot think that all women are—”

He waved her protest aside. “No, I do not mean that, and you are well-aware of it. I merely observe that most wives are valued for qualities other than the ones you possess, good sense and clear-headedness. And steadiness of temperament.” He added this last wryly, for he was known to like the company of volatile women. “Truly, there are officers whose wives are saints, and others who have capable managers and allies in their wives, just as there are some with sluts and slatterns and brood mares. But Vernet has found more than any of the usual admirable qualities of women in you.” He finished the last of the wine in his glass. “And you are fortunate that he does not mind your intelligence. There is many another who would.”

“I am thankful for his kindness to me,” said Victoire, uncertain what other answer to give.

Fouche shrugged. “If he were not kind, he would be truly a fool. I, for one, Madame Vernet, would not like to have you for an enemy.”

Her laughter was disbelieving. “I am no one’s enemy, Ministre Fouche.”

“You think not?” Fouche said, and before Victoire could answer, looked up as the door opened. “Well, let us see this file.”

The angular young man stood hesitantly in the door. “The file is ... is with General Moreau. There is a memorandum left, signed by him.” Moreau was a most honored hero who had commanded the Armée du Rhin to victory at Hochstadt not long ago.

“He has taken it with him?” Fouche asked, as if he had not understood. “Did you check the aide’s credentials? Confirm his name with Moreau’s staff?”

“Apparently they did not. There is no mention of any checks. He took the file. That is all the memorandum says.” The assistant looked ashamed. “It was not supposed to be removed, but the aide to General Moreau claimed the general had urgent need of the information.”

Fouche’s eyes narrowed. “The general said nothing to me.”

“The aide said you were not here. That is what he told the clerks, in any case. I wasn’t there or this would not have happened.” Now the assistant seemed ready to flee. “Should I call upon the general? To request its return?”

“Not on the instant,” said Fouche, glancing at Victoire and then back at his assistant. “But perhaps tomorrow, if he has not yet returned it. I will send a note ’round to him, asking that he bring it back.”

Fouche said nothing, letting the young assistant blather on. He caught Victoire’s eye and shared the hint of a smile.

“He was told the file was not supposed to leave the building,” lamented the assistant as if he had been personally responsible for the loss of the information.

“No doubt,” said Fouche. “The general is aware of how these things are done.” He scowled, then went on smoothly. “The press of events must have demanded he make an exception.”

The assistant was pathetically glad to have this excuse to cling to. “That must surely have been the case,” he said, his face turning pale with relief.

Fouche waved him away with murmured thanks, then looked back at Victoire, who was listening with close attention. “I know I may rely on your discretion, Madame Vernet,” he said pointedly.

“Most certainly,” said Victoire at once. “And yet, I must observe that this development is most worrisome to me.”

“As it is to me,” Fouche admitted, his lips pursing with disapproval and anxiety. “I am surprised that Moreau would behave in this manner. If the man was Moreau’s aide, acting at his behest, then it is most unlike him. He is generally a reliable man, and this is not what I have come to expect of him. I will forward what you request once he returns the file.” He offered her a second glass of wine, but the gesture was merely a courtesy, and Victoire knew well enough not to accept it.

“You are very gracious, Ministre Fouche, but I have other errands to run for my husband, and they will not wait.” She rose and offered her hand to Fouche. “I am grateful for your time and attention. I hope you will review the dispatch I have brought you and will let me know at your earliest convenience any message you would like me to send to my husband.”

“It will be my duty and pleasure,” said Fouche, kissing her hand. As he rose from his bow, he fussed with his neck cloth, unsatisfied that it was as fashionably tied as he wanted it to be.

“How very kind,” said Victoire as she left his office.

* * *

Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley stood in front of Le Chat Gris and tried not to turn up his nose too much. The tavern was four hundred years old and looked every hour of it: small, dark windows sagged over the narrow street where apprentice weavers trudged home from long hours at the looms.

“The owner knows we’re coming,” said Cholet, coming up beside him.

“The rest are supposed to be at La Plume et Bougie, near the Université. They should have arrived four days ago, if all has gone according to plan.” Sackett-Hartley was used to speaking French now, and no longer feared detection when strangers passed him in the street.

“In the morning, my friend,” said Cholet, and signalled to the others. “We have arrived.”

Brezolles was the first to object. “But you c-can’t mean—This is a-an appalling place,” he declared. “Surely we can find b-better lodging than this.”

“Possibly,” said Sackett-Hartley, “but none safer. The landlord here is in the debt of our ally.”

The other six looked dismayed. “What man of high rank would have anything to do with a place like this?” asked La Clouette for all of them.

“That’s a foolish question,” said Sackett-Hartley. “Men of high rank always keep a bolt-hole or two, if they are wise. My uncle led many to safety from such places as these.” He gestured to them to follow him. “We need to hide, and what better place than this?”

Brezolles turned his eyes upward. “We would h-have to be desperate.”

“We
are
desperate,” said Les Aix.

Sackett-Hartley interrupted this useless conversation. “Remember, we are cousins come here to look for work. We are skilled butchers, all of us.”

“So we are,” said d’Estissac with a nasty smile.

“None of that,” warned Sackett-Hartley as he started toward the door, doing his best to ignore the stench of rotting vegetables that pervaded the narrow inn yard.

The interior of the inn was dark and oppressive. Even the taproom had an air of decay about it, from the dark-stained barrels to the worn and ill-used tables to the hearth where two pigs turned on spits and an ancient crone basted them with a mixture that stank of dill.

“Welcome to Le Chat Gris,” said a scrawny youth who appeared in the hallway. “Are you looking for lodgings?”

D’Estissac answered for all of them. “Yes, we are. We were told that Jacques at Le Chat Gris would have room for us.”

“Who told you that?” the youngster asked, his eyes widening with shock. “A friend who wears blue, who told us that there is room here,” said Sackett-Hartley, using the recognition code. “Tell the landlord.”

The boy hurried away, shouting as he went that there were patrons arriving and that the landlord was needed.

A door opened at the end of the hallway and that worthy presented himself. “I am Jacques Panne. And you are the cousins?”

“The butchers from the north,” said La Clouette, completing the code. “Our friend in blue sent us here, because you have room.”

Panne came toward them, a slab of a man with unruly shoulder-length gray hair and an air of perpetual disgust in his manner. “You have the money?”

Sackett-Hartley pulled out the purse and handed it over. “Our friend in blue said that this is the price. One month for all of us. If we must remain longer, you will have the same again.”

“If you have to stay longer, the price will be higher,” said Panne. “I have my skin to think about.” Nevertheless he took the purse and gave the eight strangers a rictus smile of fallacious welcome. “The boy will show you where you are to sleep. Supper is at sunset. Wine will cost you extra.”

“I wonder if he is as generous with his high-ranking ally?” speculated Lieutenant Constable in a tone just loud enough to be heard.

“Enough of that,” Sackett-Hartley ordered, and said to Panne, “Very well. I’ll give you money toward wine, and then we need not haggle about it.” Panne accepted the half-dozen silver coins without any visible reaction. “The house at the end of the next street is empty. It has been secured by the friend in blue, paid for a month. Your friends have the key, or so I was to tell you.”

“You’re very good,” said Sackett-Hartley automatically. “Let us put our things away and then we will have some of that pork you are cooking.” He did not like the aroma coming from the hearth, but he was hungry enough to ignore the overpowering dill.

With an insultingly low bow, Panne led them toward the rear of the building.

I did want to confide my fears to Ministre Fouche, my dear husband, but I will confess to you that I cannot like it that the file was missing. It might be that there is no reason for my worry; General Moreau may well have an excellent reason for removing the file, and it could be that the precautions Fouche has instituted are too stringent. I do not know for a fact that there was much danger in Moreau’s removing the file. However, I am left with the sense that the information in the file would be better protected within the ministry than in the care of Moreau. If the file has not been returned by the end of the week, I will regard that as a very troubling indication.

Victoire sat at her writing table and stared down at her letter to Lucien. Had she told him enough to alert him without creating unnecessary anxiety? She frowned and went on.

I have also spoken with Berthier, and he is willing to consider my warnings. He has assured me that he will present me with any news that comes to hand that might resolve the questions I have put to him regarding the activities of English spies in France. I am satisfied with such an arrangement, for then neither his men nor I will waste time duplicating one another’s efforts.

That was appropriately straight-forward and she felt better for having stated it so clearly.

Odette appeared at the door of her withdrawing room. “Madame Vernet?”

Victoire looked up. “What is it?”